Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? (48 page)

‘Your gimp?’ Simon echoed.

‘Oh, yes! Didn’t he tell you? He’s quite a treasure!’

‘Didn’t
who
tell me?’ Simon frowned in alarm.
‘Who’s
quite a treasure?’

Roxy looked at Woody. ‘Is that it?’ she asked quietly. ‘No stories about anyone else?’

Woody shook his head.

‘Oh great!’ Simon erupted. ‘What about me? I’m part of the group too – or don’t I count? This is just typical. I can’t even get my character assassinated!’

Holly was looking at Roxy sharply. ‘Why are you asking, Roxy? Do you
want
there to be a story about you?’

‘God, no!’

Holly frowned. ‘But you’re the one with all the ideas about how to be famous. You’re the one who actually
wants
to be in the papers.’

‘Yes,’ Roxy conceded, ‘but no! Things are different now.
I’m
different now.’

‘Oh. My. God, it’s
you
, isn’t it?’ Chelle blurted.
‘You’re
the one who blabbed all the stuff to Nicola Blunt!’

‘As if! Nicola Blunt never even takes my calls!’

‘So you
did
ring her?’ Holly pounced on her admission.

‘No! Well,
yes
. But not for ages,’ Roxy tried to explain, the weight of the group’s eyes suddenly on her. I just used to phone to say which club I was going to, so she could send a photographer and I’d get in the paper. I never got through, though … just left messages. And, even then, none of my pictures ever made it on to her page.’

Chelle folded her arms. ‘I don’t believe her,’ she declared frostily.

‘I do,’ Woody said simply.

‘Me too,’ agreed Sue. ‘Roxy wouldn’t do something like this.’

Roxy looked at them gratefully. And, despite all the horribleness and tension (not to mention the hung jury on his shagabout status), she looked into Woody’s eyes and melted.

‘What about you, Chelle?’ Terence sniped. ‘You’re not in the paper, either. Who’s to say it wasn’t
you
who dished the dirt?’

‘Oh, cock off!’ Chelle replied with contempt.

‘But
you’re
the one with all the magazine exclusives.’

‘Yeah, and they’re
my exclusives,’
she snarled. ‘Why would I want to give coverage to you lot? Besides, Simon’s not in the paper, either, or Holly, or Woody – are you saying they did it too?’

Terence shut up.

‘Look, fighting about it isn’t going to help,’ said Woody.
‘We’re friends, remember? The stories are in there, and that’s that. We can’t let this get to us.’

‘This is my fault,’ Austin suddenly burst out. ‘They’d never have gone after you lot without me.’

‘You musn’t blame yourself,’ said Sue. ‘None of this is down to you.’

‘Yes!’ Holly agreed.

‘Shit happens,’ Roxy added sagely. ‘This bollocks is nothing but chip paper. Most of it’ll be in recycling by lunch time.’

Simon turned to Austin. ‘You can stay here tonight, if you like. We’ve got a spare room. You can lie low.’

Austin shook his head.

‘I’ve got to get back to Carmen; I can’t leave her with the mob at the door. Besides, I’m used to this shit. The press have bugged me for years.’

‘Well, do you want me to drive you back to your wall?’

Austin nodded. ‘Cheers, Si; you’re a mate.’

‘What about you, Sue?’ Roxy asked. ‘Do you want to stay over at mine?’

‘Yes, please,’ Sue answered, relieved.

‘Give me your keys and I’ll nip back and pack you a bag.’

‘But what about all the photographers?’

‘They’ve managed to
not
recognise me for years.’ Roxy smiled. ‘I’m sure they’ll manage again.’

Everyone returned to their bacon butties, chatting quietly. Despite all the bombshells, excitement hung in the air.

Instinctively, Roxy’s eyes turned to Woody. He seemed paler today – deadly serious. She knew he’d be blaming himself for
the papers, for being the one who’d brought them all together, for not thinking ahead and preparing for it. He looked miserable. Suddenly Roxy forgot all about Jennifer and Chelle. The urge to reach over and comfort him was so strong. She wanted to wrap him up with her body, to kiss the worry away from his forehead, to stop him beating himself up as he stared vacantly into the depths of the newspaper.

But Woody wasn’t staring vacantly; he was staring hard. In the hubbub of all the exposures, nobody had seen what he’d seen – the tiny article tucked away on page eight.
‘CHILD PRODIGY RETURNS’
. It was just a few lines announcing Holly’s comeback novel, due in bookshops later that year. But it wasn’t the article that Woody was staring at – it was the photograph pictured alongside: the old, familiar mugshot of Holly from her top-selling heyday; the grainy snap of the teenager her parents had been so careful to shelter; the unlikely romance queen, with glasses, plaits and a brace. And then Woody looked up at current-day Holly as she comforted Sue on the sofa.

3.31pm @foxyroxy

Papers AWFUL. These are good people that Nicola Blunt’s hurt. Why did I ever want to be on her page? Feel sick at the very thought.

To:
Roxy Squires

From:
ITV Drama Department

Dear Ms Squires,

We hope you don’t mind us emailing you directly, but we have a programme idea we’d like to propose.

For a few years now, we in the ITV Drama Department have been avid followers of your Twitter account. We have laughed, cried and revamped our wardrobes according to your brilliant #ROXYSAYS tweets. Some of your drunken posts have made us cringe in embarrassment, whilst your relentless positivity in the face of obvious defeat has frequently moved us to tears! But the one thing your tweets all have in common is that they
always
have us on the edge of our seats!

And so to our programme idea …

We think
all
single ladies of a certain age and in a certain state of professional frustration will fall in love with the #ROXYSAYS tweets, just like us. You have summed up the desperation of being an ageing former
somebody
just perfectly (what
does
a ladette do when the world’s moved on and that hunky husband hasn’t come a-knocking?). So we would like to turn #ROXYSAYS into a six-part comedy drama. And as a post-modern twist, we were wondering if you’d star as yourself?

What do you think? Are you interested?

Roxy looked out of the window, wondering if the ITV email had brought even a fleeting flash of happiness. It hadn’t. She still felt depressed. Lavender Heath’s siege-like state was bringing her down. She watched bleakly as yet another news crew traipsed past the end of her drive, and wondered if the story would
ever
blow itself out.

The village had been crawling with press all week. It was as though the
Sunday Post
articles had been a starting gun, and they’d raced up from London within the hour. Everyone was desperate for more gossip on the Austin-Sue-Terry love triangle. But the Lavender Heath residents were a tight-lipped bunch, well used to being discreet. They’d retreated up their winding driveways and behind their sculpted topiary. The media discovered nothing. But there was nothing the press hate more than not winning, and no hack was going to be the first to withdraw. So they’d all stayed, endlessly pummelling the locals for gossip and scouring the streets for more dirt. And at the centre of it all, the scrum at Austin’s gates was
unmoving. Tents, cameras and satellite trucks had settled in on the pavement of Cherry Blossom Drive.

Roxy sighed.

This didn’t rock.

Staying at home was pure torture. She was used to being a free spirit, rocketing wherever and whenever she liked. Being stuck in the eye of a news storm wasn’t half as exciting as old Roxy would’ve imagined. It wasn’t cool – it was boring, and frustrating, and crap. Like house arrest, with the added agony of not knowing what Woody was doing in her absence. Despite the opinions of Cressida and Sue, every time she thought about what Chelle and Woody might be up to, Roxy felt like she was going to hurl. Had Chelle taken shelter at Woody’s house? What if Jennifer picked
now
to come back? Was she right, or wrong, about the affair? Did Woody love Jennifer, despite her absence? Did he ever miss Roxy at all?
Arrgghh!
It was driving her mad! Didn’t the press realise that to be suspended in this state of not knowing – for her
not
to see Woody for so long – was a violation of her human rights, like being denied water, oxygen or satellite TV? And that, as a kindness to her soul, let alone her sanity, they should bugger off back to London forthwith?

Roxy sighed again.
Thank God for Sue
, she thought as she flicked on the kettle to make her house guest her umpteenth cup of tea of the day. Having Sue to stay had been the only saving grace – like flat-sharing with the sister she’d never had. Sue was great company, with an endless appetite for dissecting the
Sunday Post
scandals. They’d theorised over the source of
the leak for days, like a never-ending game of Whodunnit. They’d followed the latest ‘love triangle’ stories on the internet, and Roxy had even persuaded Sue to laugh at their absurdity. They’d nattered, and baked, and drunk tea. They’d burnt Sue’s plastic ransacking the high streets of cyberspace, and blown Roxy’s mind with a crash course in crosswords. They’d watched Terry’s old forecasts on YouTube. They’d even worked out to Roxy’s exercise DVDs, feeling the burn with the curtains closed as they giggled at old-Roxy’s Lycra. But best of all, Sue had talked about Woody. She’d sung his praises as a kind, thoughtful friend, without whom she’d still be stuck at home, too timid to look beyond her net curtains. Roxy nodded vigorously as she recounted tales of the first group meetings and hoped her friend couldn’t hear how much louder her heart started beating every time she mentioned Woody’s name. She’d even coerced Sue into watching his greatest hits on an old video – ostensibly for a time-filling laugh, but truthfully because gazing at vintage clips of him in a vest was the only way she could appease the pains of her withdrawal.

What was he doing without her?

Did he ever think of their
moment
up his ladder?

The kettle boiled to its crescendo. She filled up the teapot, cut two large slices of turnip-and-walnut cake and put them on a tray. But then her attention was caught by something at the end of her driveway. It was a lone photographer, separated from the pack. He was kneeling down, retying his shoelace, a cigarette wedged between his lips. Roxy’s blood suddenly boiled like her kettle. Before she could stop herself, she opened
the window, thrust her face angrily through and shouted with as much volume as she could muster, ‘Bugger off back to London, you porky-pedalling, bloodsucking scumbag!’

The photographer jumped, startled at the rage that shattered the birdsong. His cigarette dropped from his lips. A moment later, he yelped as fag met skin through his trousers. Roxy cackled in manic delight.

‘Mess with Lavender Heath at your peril, snapper boy!’ she hollered, and lobbed a lump of turnip-and-walnut cake at him. She slammed her kitchen window and picked up her tea tray, victorious. That’d show them! There was nothing like a spot of cake-based violence to get the message across. Just because they were villagers, they weren’t bumpkins. How
dare
they invade their home, insult their friends and deprive them of their God-given right to clean windows? Who the hell did they think they were? Well, Roxy had news for them … It would take more than a few cameras and microphones to break Lavender Heath. The media weren’t dealing with a bunch of lily-livered city-dwellers here – oh, no! Mess with Austin, Terence and Sue, and you messed with the whole of Lavender Heath.

She carried the tea in to Sue with a smile.