Free Could It Be I'm Falling in Love? by Eleanor Prescott Page B

for a living (which was obviously something boring, else Roxy would’ve read about her in the papers), it couldn’t begin to come close.
    ‘Bollocks!’ Roxy shouted her verdict at each passing channel. And that was another thing that was annoying her. There was so much shit on TV –
and she wasn’t presenting it!
Her finger paused over the remote as she watched a few seconds of the latest celebrity stunt show. Presenting this stuff was as easy as breathing – she could do it a million times better than the leggy bit of fluff pouting into camera. Besides, she
knew
the producer of this show; she’d worked with him, years back. They’d partied together – shared a few lines in the gents at Madame Jojo’s. Sharing powder in a nightclub toilet was the media equivalent of a blood brothers’ cut; she should havepresented
all
his programmes after that. But he wouldn’t even take her calls now.
    Roxy tossed the remote away. There was only one thing for it … she needed to get pissed.
    She eased herself off the sofa, limped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Six pints of milk and a fat-free yoghurt stared back. Damn – she could’ve sworn she had a bottle of white. Undeterred, she pulled on a poncho, picked up her iPod and headed out to the offy.
    Stuffing in her headphones, Roxy hit shuffle. And Blondie’s ‘Rip Her to Shreds’ immediately filled her ears. She hit forward. Debbie’s girl-on-girl anger was replaced by familiar sticky-sweet chimes.
    ‘Argh!’
    Roxy crushed her thumbs into her iPod. That was the last thing she wanted to hear – Woody crooning about falling in love. She’d never have bought his back catalogue if she’d known he was girlfriended-up. She’d a mind to demand her money back.
    Stiffly, she walked in silence, rueing her day of bad luck. God, her legs hurt. She hadn’t exercised in yonks. But when the photographers had turned up this morning the opportunity had been too good to miss. There were paps –
real, live paps
– in her village. She didn’t have to schlep all the way to London to throw herself in front of a lens – there were a dozen, two dozen, a minute from her house! She’d hurtled back home and prepared an outfit.
    Or rather, several outfits.
    For her first spurious trip to the farmers’-market store (Lavender Heath was too posh for a common corner shop) she’d worn the classic off-duty LA-celeb look of jeans, white T-shirt, sloppy scarf and shades. But that hadn’t even raised a glance from the paps who were intently studying the ornate iron gates at the end of Austin Jones’ drive. So next she’d tried some vintage boho, before channelling VB in something tailored and torturously tight. The stakes were then upped with some fashion-forward Cheryl, before assets were maxed a la
Hollyoaks
-starlet. Finally, Roxy went the whole hog with some full-on Lady Gaga. Six unwanted pints of milk later, and still nothing! Eventually she’d dug out her roller skates. Normally she didn’t resort to these until summer, when she’d take a trip to London and spend a day skating around St James’ Park in microscopic knickers and a short, floaty skirt. That had worked several years in a row. Seven years back, she’d even made page three of the
Mail!
But even the combination of roller boots and a Lycra all-in-one (and then later – desperately later – roller boots, microscopic knickers and the short, floaty skirt) had failed to dent Austin’s paps. Eventually, when she’d skated eight whole loops of the village and her thighs had been on the point of collapse, she’d given up, gone home and sat on a radiator to thaw out.
    ‘BOLLOCKS!’
    The offy was shut.
    What was it with today? Was the whole world conspiring against her? Was a bit of Pinot oblivion really too much to ask? In desperation, she turned to the pub. Maybe they didtake-outs. She shoved the Dog and Duck door and stomped up to the bar.
    ‘Hey, Rox – over here!’
    Roxy froze. She quickly tried to