Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (39 page)

Shakily, Roxy exhaled.

And then suddenly, her hand was in his, and it was warm and wet and in a bucket. And, before she could even realise what was happening, she felt his fingers gently close her fingers around a sponge and guide them on to the pane. She felt tiny rivers of water course down her arm as, Woody’s hand over hers, they rubbed circles across her glass. Roxy’s breath left
her body and her bedroom disappeared behind a wall of soapy bubbles.

‘And rinse,’ Woody said softly, returning his hand to the ladder.

Numbly, Roxy plunged the sponge back into the bucket and then obediently wiped the suds away. The window was clean. But she could no longer see the messy bedroom; she could only see Woody’s reflection. And his reflection was making her shake. What she really wanted was to stand there forever, to tell him how she’d fancied him from the moment they’d met, how his very presence made her warm up from inside like Ready Brek, how every time she saw him she was rendered almost limp with longing, just for the touch of his skin. But she couldn’t say all that … she didn’t dare. So instead she stared at the windowsill, took a deep breath and confessed to the other thing she’d been hiding.

‘It’s crap. My career: it’s crap.’

Behind her, Woody stood still. He didn’t say anything, so Roxy talked on.

‘I did a job yesterday. Not one of my normal, made-up ones,’ she admitted, ashamed. ‘A real job. And it was terrible.
I
was terrible. The whole thing was completely humiliating.’

Gently, Woody let go of the ladder and placed his hand back over hers.

‘I thought I was …’ Roxy faltered. ‘I mean – I didn’t realise I’m … that people think I’m …’ She swallowed hard. What should she say? An idiot? A has-been? A laughing stock?

‘It’s OK,’ Woody said gently.

‘They didn’t know who I was! The director thought I was a courier; he told me I’d got the wrong address.’

‘Ah.’

‘It was the
dregs
, Woody!’ she cried. ‘The job was the dregs, but I’d been so happy to get it.’

The first tear came. Roxy tried to blink it back but three more sprang up in its place.

‘I don’t think telly’s what I cracked it up to be,’ she said quietly. And then she dropped her head, closed her tears behind the walls of her eyes and said it: ‘I think my career’s over.’

Woody squeezed her hand and let his chest touch Roxy’s shoulders like an embrace. ‘It’s all right, Rox,’ he whispered. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

And standing there, hovering in the air outside her messy bedroom, clinging to a pair of rickety aluminium stairs whilst the career she’d fought her whole life for died around her, Roxy suddenly realised he was right.

Ladder-spooning with Woody, nothing else mattered at all.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
The offices of Merchant & Gervais

Dear Roxy,

Thank you for your letter suggesting Ricky and Stephen consider Terry ‘Tornado’ Leggett for any future ‘
Extras
-style ventures they’re writing’.

Whilst Ricky and Stephen currently have no plans to write any further episodes of
Extras
– or indeed anything that specifically suits Terry – they have said that they’re aware of his infamous broadcasts, and they’d be happy to meet him for a drink.

Please don’t take this as any guarantee of future collaboration. Think of it more as a ‘chemistry coffee’ to see if the boys all get on …

‘Do you want to be famous again?’

‘Are you on drugs?’

Standing on Terence’s doorstep, grinning like she was plugged into the mains, was Roxy Squires.

‘It’s a simple question, Tezza – fame: yes or no?’

‘Yes …’

‘Rocking!’ She beamed and waltzed right into his house.

Terence frowned and checked his watch. ‘Why are you here? I wasn’t expecting you.
And why are you so freakishly happy?
’

Ignoring his questions, Roxy pirouetted up and down his hallway, humming as she headed for the living room.

‘I haven’t got any tequila, if that’s what you’re looking for. I don’t keep hard spirits in the house.’

‘Who needs the hard stuff?’ she chimed back. ‘Life’s wonderful enough.’

‘High as a kite …’ Terence declared to the walls. And then he followed her into the living room to find her studiously examining his chairs.

‘Mega!’ she declared as she selected an old, brown swivel
chair and wheeled it to the window. She beckoned Terence over. ‘Come on, Tezza, park your peachies down here!’ She tapped its seat invitingly.

On the far side of the living-room carpet, Terence stalled.

‘Now look here, Roxy …’

‘Nah, ah, ah!’ She waggled a finger. ‘You promised!’

‘I know what I promised you, but …’

‘But what? You know you want to.’

His buttocks clenched. ‘I’m having second thoughts.’

‘Forget ‘em. Thinking’s overrated.’

‘And third, fourth and fifth—’

‘You’ll look a million times better.’

‘I doubt that very much …’

‘Terry …’ She patted the seat again. And then she delved into her handbag and pulled out a shiny instrument of lady-torture.

Terence couldn’t help himself. ‘But it might hurt!’

‘Don’t be a tart. It’s painless!’

Terence could tell she was lying. And yet somehow, against every atom of his sensible judgement, he crossed the room. A split second later, Roxy’s hands were on his shoulders and she was gently forcing him down. As his bottom hit cloth, she sighed.

‘You’ve literally no idea how long I’ve been dying to get my hands on these babies!’

‘I don’t want to look like that idiot Shane Warne,’ Terence grumbled. ‘I saw what he looked like after that Hurley woman got her hands on him.’

Roxy gave an injurious gasp. ‘Fear not, my little storm cloud,’ she said after a moment. ‘You are going to put the “Met” into
met
rosexual. Once I’ve had my way with you, you’ll be a new man: the kind of man women stop in the street to ogle; the kind of man whose career is going places.’

‘But I’m
me
, Roxy,’ Terence cried in exasperation. ‘A walking, talking blunder on legs! As welcome as a cold front at a picnic; as predictable as rain at a Wimbledon final. I’m boring old Terence Leggett. Emphasis on the boring.
And
on the old.’

‘No, that’s where you’re wrong,’ she insisted. ‘You
used
to be gaffe-ridden Terence, more obsessed with isobars than cocktail bars. But now you’re Terry. And Terry is a hot, tasty ladykiller.’

Terence sighed. ‘Look, Roxy, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts but, as the saying goes, you can’t polish a turd.’

Something in Roxy’s eye gleamed.

‘Ah, but you
can
roll it in glitter, Terry,’ she declared as she leant over him, lady-torture instrument in hand. ‘
You can roll it in glitter
.’

‘Tish! Thank God! I really need to talk.’

On the other end of the phone Tish sighed dramatically.

‘You’ve seen it then?’

‘Seen what?’

‘Oh, come off it, Rox. You read the tabloids before you even open your eyes! You’ve
sooo
already seen it.’

Roxy frowned.
Sooo already seen what?
Her mind quickly scooted through the stories she’d been working on for the group.

‘No, really, Tish; that’s not why I’m calling. It’s just, a really weird thing happened to me yesterday, up a ladder, and I really need your advice. See, my window was dirty and the wind was blowing and we held the sponge and I started crying and I know it sounds mad, but I think I might actually be in with a chance with Woo—’

‘No bloody respect for my privacy! Honestly, I’m so embarrassed,’ Tish declared, sounding anything but. ‘All the school mums were just giving me daggers. How was I supposed to have known there was a photographer? I’d never have worn that vest if I had. It’s not even Stella McCartney.’

‘A photographer? On the school run?’ Roxy was confused.

‘No, stupid – at the yoga class. Well, on the way out of it. They can’t think for a minute I set it up – I’d never do it in full daylight like that. And
never
with my hair pulled back! I could hear them all gossiping behind me –
and
it’s PTA tonight. And Guy’s gonna totally freak. Oh my God, you really haven’t seen it, have you?’

‘No, Tish, I haven’t.’

‘But you’ve read the tabloids, right?’

Roxy padded into the hall to retrieve the neglected newspapers.

‘I’m on the Nicola Blunt page! Main photo –
in leggings
!’

Nestling her phone against her shoulder, Roxy picked up the
Daily Post
and flicked to the Nicola Blunt page. Sure enough, straddling the paper like a super-toned colossus was a very large (and very gorgeous) picture of Tish. ‘DE-TISH-IOUS.’, praised the headline. And beneath it was Tish, looking luscious, her yoga mat rolled under one arm. Her hair was tied back post-yoga, immaculately Cheryl Cole glossy. Her make-up was natural and understated. She looked a bit shiny, but not in a sweat-drenched-Madonna-leaving-the-gym-in-a-flat-cap kind of way, more ‘90s-Cindy-Crawford-working-out-on-a-Malibu-beach.

‘But Tish, you look great!’ Roxy declared honestly. She battled the twinge of jealousy trying to take root in her gut.
She’d
never made it on to the Nicola Blunt page; but Tish had without even trying.

‘I look minging!’ Tish replied with some force. ‘A right wobbly-thighed munter.’

Roxy looked at Tish’s thighs; they were as taut and perfect as Kylie’s.

‘Why me?’ Tish moaned unconvincingly. ‘I’m just a mum – I haven’t worked in yonks. Not that being a mum isn’t work, of course; I mean, I know I’ve got the nanny and the cleaner and the tutors, but there’s always so much to be done. And I’ve been out of the game for ages – I can’t believe the tabloids still care,’ she cried, sounding as chuffed as nuts that they did.

‘But you must have known the photographer was there,’ Roxy reasoned. She’d scanned the page to see if her
When D:Ream Ruled The Waves
shame was in there – it wasn’t. ‘You’re smiling right into the camera.’

‘Well,
of course
I knew he was there when I stepped on him,’ Tish snapped. ‘But what I want to know is, how did he know
I
was there? It’s not fair …
we
can’t hide behind a silhouette. I mean, if nobody knows what Nicola Blunt looks like, how’re we supposed to avoid her? That bitch could be anyone.’ Tish thought for a second before adding, venomously, ‘There’s a woman at yoga whose dolphin planks are crap –
and
she’s always hungover. I bet it’s her. I don’t reckon she’s really even vegan.’

‘Honestly, Tish, relax. This is nothing to worry about,’ Roxy reasoned. ‘You look amazing, Guy won’t be cross and all the mums will come round.’

‘That’s what you think. But it’s warfare out there in the playground.’

It was time for Roxy to seize her chance.

‘Look, Tish, I’m sorry if my timing sucks again, but I badly need your advice about Woo—’

‘Not now, Rox,’ tutted her friend. ‘If they’ve papped me once, they could pap me again. Consuela, the cleaner, is going to drive me to the salon to get my hair done. Obviously
I
can’t drive – who knows how many lenses are lurking. So I’m going to lie in the back under a blanket. Don’t even ask if her licence is valid because, frankly, I don’t want to know. And Christ knows if we’re gonna make it there anyway; I just hope my satnav does Venezuelan!’

And two seconds later she was gone.