to work out what we’re good at now.’ He looked around encouragingly. ‘Any ideas?’
Silence.
‘Simon’s good at cooking,’ Holly offered.
‘Oh, great!’ Simon snorted. ‘Forget the BAFTAs – my future’s fairy cakes!’
‘Anything else?’ Woody tried again.
More silence. They all inspected their laps. All of them, that was, except Roxy, who was inspecting Woody instead. It was weird seeing Woody be normal. She kept waiting for him to burst into lip-synch, or rip off his shirt and reveal a vest. But instead he kept banging on about self-help. She wanted his body, not his advice. And besides, she didn’t need to think of an alternative career because she
still had a career
– she was still totally famous!
Mind, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the gang. They were obviously suffering from some kind of mental status-shift delay. It must be crap to have fame and then lose it, but they only had themselves to blame. Staying famous was easier than ever –
had they learnt nothing from Madonna, for rock’s sake?
No scandal was bad enough to career-kill. Unless you were Gary Glitter or James Blunt – although, for the life of her, Roxy couldn’t work out what poor Blunty had done to make everyone hate him, other than sell a gazillion records and snog loads of models. But other than being a paedophile or James Blunt, it seemed you could get away with anything … drugs, booze, adultery, sex-addiction, shoplifting, hitting attendants in toilets, waving your willy at policemen in toilets – even getting engaged to Darren Day, if you were sorry about it later. A Piers Morgan interview could get you back on track in a week – and bigger than ever before. Mud no longer stuck, it just gave you extra traction for getting up the ladder.
Satisfied with her assessment, Roxy’s eye wandered over to the mini cheesecakes again. They’d done several circuits ofthe room and were now sitting on a nest of tables, right under her nose. She could’ve cursed Simon for bringing them. Was she the only person here career-minded enough to diet? She leant forward, about to edge them away, but suddenly found herself frozen. She hadn’t been this close to a cheesecake in years. They looked at her enticingly. Despite a lifetime of training to remove herself from the scene of calorific temptation – it was the fight or flight principle, only with saturated fat – Roxy’s mouth suddenly watered. She’d forgotten the alluring texture of cheesecakes: solid, yet soft, their creamy flesh inviting – luring you to sin. Of all cakes, the cheesecake was the most seductive: a femme fatale of puddings, beguiling even the most devout dieter into a ruinous state of cellulite.
‘Any news on Austin Jones?’ she blurted in panic, breaking the silence of the room. She wrestled her eyes over to Woody, but then realised she’d just swapped one form of temptation for another. She tried not to think badly about Jennifer. It wasn’t her fault she’d found Woody first.
Everyone looked up, grateful for the diversion.
‘Yes, contacting Austin was Roxy’s idea,’ Holly excitedly announced. ‘And a brilliant one, too! I mean, can we think of anyone who needs our support
more?’
‘Austin Jones?’ Simon looked strange. ‘Are we sure that’s a good idea?’
‘We’re not,’ Woody agreed, dark and broody once again.
Cressida looked confused.
‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?’
Simon faltered. ‘Well, he’s just… you know …
Austin Jones
. Way out of our league – even yours, Woods – no offence.’
Woody’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.
‘I mean, we’re just a bunch of soap stars and weathermen. We’ve had fame, but nothing like him. He’s
world
famous.’
‘He’s hardly Mandela,’ Cressida scoffed.
‘Yeah, what’s the problem, Si?’ hectored Terence. ‘Worried he’ll make you look little-league?’
Roxy was gobsmacked. Woody and Simon were looking so grave! ‘Come on, you
Silence.
‘Simon’s good at cooking,’ Holly offered.
‘Oh, great!’ Simon snorted. ‘Forget the BAFTAs – my future’s fairy cakes!’
‘Anything else?’ Woody tried again.
More silence. They all inspected their laps. All of them, that was, except Roxy, who was inspecting Woody instead. It was weird seeing Woody be normal. She kept waiting for him to burst into lip-synch, or rip off his shirt and reveal a vest. But instead he kept banging on about self-help. She wanted his body, not his advice. And besides, she didn’t need to think of an alternative career because she
still had a career
– she was still totally famous!
Mind, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the gang. They were obviously suffering from some kind of mental status-shift delay. It must be crap to have fame and then lose it, but they only had themselves to blame. Staying famous was easier than ever –
had they learnt nothing from Madonna, for rock’s sake?
No scandal was bad enough to career-kill. Unless you were Gary Glitter or James Blunt – although, for the life of her, Roxy couldn’t work out what poor Blunty had done to make everyone hate him, other than sell a gazillion records and snog loads of models. But other than being a paedophile or James Blunt, it seemed you could get away with anything … drugs, booze, adultery, sex-addiction, shoplifting, hitting attendants in toilets, waving your willy at policemen in toilets – even getting engaged to Darren Day, if you were sorry about it later. A Piers Morgan interview could get you back on track in a week – and bigger than ever before. Mud no longer stuck, it just gave you extra traction for getting up the ladder.
Satisfied with her assessment, Roxy’s eye wandered over to the mini cheesecakes again. They’d done several circuits ofthe room and were now sitting on a nest of tables, right under her nose. She could’ve cursed Simon for bringing them. Was she the only person here career-minded enough to diet? She leant forward, about to edge them away, but suddenly found herself frozen. She hadn’t been this close to a cheesecake in years. They looked at her enticingly. Despite a lifetime of training to remove herself from the scene of calorific temptation – it was the fight or flight principle, only with saturated fat – Roxy’s mouth suddenly watered. She’d forgotten the alluring texture of cheesecakes: solid, yet soft, their creamy flesh inviting – luring you to sin. Of all cakes, the cheesecake was the most seductive: a femme fatale of puddings, beguiling even the most devout dieter into a ruinous state of cellulite.
‘Any news on Austin Jones?’ she blurted in panic, breaking the silence of the room. She wrestled her eyes over to Woody, but then realised she’d just swapped one form of temptation for another. She tried not to think badly about Jennifer. It wasn’t her fault she’d found Woody first.
Everyone looked up, grateful for the diversion.
‘Yes, contacting Austin was Roxy’s idea,’ Holly excitedly announced. ‘And a brilliant one, too! I mean, can we think of anyone who needs our support
more?’
‘Austin Jones?’ Simon looked strange. ‘Are we sure that’s a good idea?’
‘We’re not,’ Woody agreed, dark and broody once again.
Cressida looked confused.
‘I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?’
Simon faltered. ‘Well, he’s just… you know …
Austin Jones
. Way out of our league – even yours, Woods – no offence.’
Woody’s jaw clenched ever so slightly.
‘I mean, we’re just a bunch of soap stars and weathermen. We’ve had fame, but nothing like him. He’s
world
famous.’
‘He’s hardly Mandela,’ Cressida scoffed.
‘Yeah, what’s the problem, Si?’ hectored Terence. ‘Worried he’ll make you look little-league?’
Roxy was gobsmacked. Woody and Simon were looking so grave! ‘Come on, you
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