Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown (Comedy Romance)

by Lynda Renham

  ‘No way,’ I gasp. ‘I thought he had a girlfriend.’

  ‘For a big fan, you don’t keep up with the gossip do you? There was an interview with him in one of those Tycoon magazines. They put one in every room; where have you been? Anyway, they parted six months ago. He doesn’t like to talk about it, claims he’s had no time since for a new relationship. So he’s available.’

  ‘Not for someone like me.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that,’ she says holding up a gilt-edged invitation.

  ‘Lady Harle is on her world cruise isn’t she? Who will notice she’s missing? You have to admit it’s a shame to waste the ticket.’

  She thrusts it into my hand.

  ‘It’s this Saturday.’

  I look down at the invitation.

  Mr Ark Morgan requests the honour of your presence at a Cocktail Party aboard ‘Morgansong,’ Saturday, June 6th from 7 p.m. until midnight. Embarking from Dock C, Slip No. 27 at Royal Victoria dock. Dress formal.

  ‘I can’t possibly,’ I say. ‘What would I wear, and supposing he recognises me as the chambermaid with the hoover brush up her skirt.’

  She claps her hands together.

  ‘First, we know that Ark Morgan only invites a handful of guests to these functions. Most of them he’s never set eyes on. The rest are business contacts. I’ll bet you anything he has never met Lady Harle. You can be whoever you want to be. We’ll take you to the top beauty salons in London. You can afford it now Rox. By the time they’ve finished with you I won’t recognise you, let alone Ark Morgan. We can go to a fancy designer dress shop and get you a really posh outfit. And you can have your hair done. You’ll look like a million dollars.’

  ‘But the invitation is for Lady Harle,’ I point out. ‘I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.’

  ‘It hasn’t got her name on it.’

  ‘I’ve never been on a yacht in my life,’ I say, placing the invitation back on the hall table.

  ‘Now’s your chance, and you’ll meet lots of rich and handsome strangers, I only wish I could come with you,’ she sighs. ‘It’s the stuff of Mills and Boon.’

  ‘You can come to the beauty salon with me,’ I say, knowing how she has always wanted to treat herself. ‘In fact I was going to arrange it for you.’

  She claps her hand to her mouth.

  ‘The Great Zehilda got everything right. She said someone would give me something I’ve always wanted,’ she says tearfully.

  Blimey, it’s only a beauty treatment, not Ryan Gosling covered in whipped cream and melted chocolate.

  ‘I’m not making any promises though. I’ll have the beauty treatment and everything, but I’m not sure about the yacht and all that stuff.’

  Ooh, champagne and canapés with Ark Morgan on his private yacht. His glass touching mine, his lips pink with desire, his eyes full of lust and his husky voice whispering laters Baby. I suppose I could. What harm could it do?

  Chapter Twenty

  I turn the ignition one more time. The engine splutters and dies.

  ‘That’s it love. It’s reached its final destination,’ says Felix, ‘the great car park in the sky. Good job you won the lottery.’

  ‘I forgot to put petrol in,’ I say apologetically, ‘and I didn’t win the lottery, I had a lottery win. There is a difference you know.’

  You’d think I’d become Victoria Beckham overnight the way Felix talks.

  ‘We’ll have to get a taxi,’ says Sylvie as she clambers out.

  We stand on the pavement and watch a stream of black cabs file past, not one with their light on.

  ‘We could be standing here all night,’ says Sylvie, clutching her carrier bag with the blood specimen inside. ‘We’ll have to get the bus.’

  ‘I’m not getting on one of those,’ says Felix, flinging his scarf around his neck. ‘Those bell pushes and handles are covered in germs.’ He throws himself into the road and waves frantically at an oncoming cab.

  ‘Lonsdale Street,’ says Felix as the cab screeches to a halt. ‘Number 23.’

  The cab driver peeps at us through the rear-view mirror. Even I have to admit we look an unlikely threesome. Felix in his fedora, silk scarf and velvet jacket looks like he has stepped out of the Bohemian twenties, and Sylvie looks no better in her multicoloured shawl and crinkled skirt. I’m the only one looking normal in my jeans and blouse. Lonsdale Street is not a place you would park a car. Even my Fiesta wouldn’t be safe here. The cab driver pulls in behind a burnt-out Honda.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider waiting?’ asks Felix.

  ‘You’re dead right there mate. I wouldn’t,’ replies the driver.

  We pay and try to ignore a group of yobs on the street corner. We deduce they’re yobs by their immediate greeting of Whadda lookin’ at? And by the number of tattoos and earrings that adorn their bodies.

  ‘Just ignore them,’ Felix advises.

  ‘We are,’ says Sylvie. ‘It doesn’t seem to be helping though.’

  ‘Where’s the fancy dress party?’ calls one.

  ‘I think we should answer them,’ I say.

  ‘Are you insane?’ asks Felix.

  ‘She’s right. They’re more likely to get aggressive if we ignore them,’ agrees Sylvie.

  ‘Pay them off,’ suggests Felix. ‘You’ve got enough. If you spend your winnings on saving our lives then it must be worth it.’

  ‘I’m not giving three yobs seventy thousand quid,’ I say.

  ‘Christ, keep your voice down. We don’t want them mugging us,’ whispers Sylvie.

  ‘Ya looking for some good shit?’ one asks before making a gurgling sound and projecting a piece of phlegm which lands close to my foot.

  ‘Don’t open your mouth,’ Sylvie hisses. ‘I’ve got a feeling they may be homophobic, as well as racist and misogynistic.’

  ‘Can you be all three?’ asks Felix in a hushed tone.

  ‘We’re looking for number 23a Doctor …’ she says in a sing song voice.

  ‘Winters,’ I say, helpfully.

  They laugh.

  ‘Meow meow you’re after is it?’

  I’m beginning to wonder what it is that Dr Winters does. I’m only now hoping it isn’t something to do with cats and the local Chinese takeaway.

  ‘Yeah, they look the type,’ laughs another. ‘We can do you a good bit of blow.’

  They spread themselves across the path as we try to pass.

  ‘Whose great idea was this?’ I whisper.

  Felix opens his mouth, thinks better of it and closes it again. I see number 23 is across the road. I tug at Felix’s sleeve and nod in that direction.

  ‘It’s fine, thank you very much,’ I say boldly. ‘We can see the house. We don’t need any blow today.’

  I’m not giving the buggers a penny of my lottery money.

  ‘Sure we can’t get ya to change ya mind,’ says one menacingly.

  ‘Not unless you want D.I. Rennard here to arrest you. We’re undercover, chaps. We’re going to raid Dr Winter’s pad and sort out the meow meow, so why don’t you make yourself scarce before we throw you into the back of our police van.’

  I’m hoping meow meow is something illegal otherwise I’ll be looking a right plonker. Felix gazes at me in wonderment and admiration. Meanwhile the yobs look confused. I hope they can’t see my trembling hands. Sylvie nods confidently.

  ‘Move on you little pricks. I don’t want you on my turf. This is a big one I’m breaking here and I don’t want you in my way. Now scuttle off before we do you for that bit of blow you’re trying to flog us.’

  One slides his hand into his pocket and I feel sure Felix is hyperventilating. Sylvie crosses the road and I follow on my wobbly legs. We follow Felix down the stone steps to the basement flat, and knock on the door of 23a. Meanwhile the yobs have legged it, much to my relief. The door creaks open. A dishevelled man wearing goggles on his forehead stands on the threshold waving a taser gun at us.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I thought
you were those little fuckers again.’

  ‘We have an appointment,’ says Sylvie with a tense smile.

  ‘Charlie arranged it,’ says Felix.

  I’m not sure which is worse, the yobs or the chemist. He’s most likely in the middle of making a batch of meow meow. We’re ushered into the hallway, past piles of newspapers and science magazines and into a room at the end of the hall.

  ‘My laboratory,’ he says proudly.

  I’m afraid to look. I have visions of cats hanging from the ceiling or struggling in cages with pleading eyes begging for release. I shudder. I look around cautiously and am relieved to find there isn’t a cat in sight.

  ‘Your neighbours mentioned meow meow,’ I say nervously. ‘I’m just keen to know what it is.’

  ‘If it’s mephedrone you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong place and can bugger off now. I’m not into drugs,’ he says walking back down the hallway. ‘Everything is in the power of the mind,’ he adds mysteriously.

  ‘We don’t want drugs,’ Sylvie says, shooting me a dirty look. ‘We’ve got blood.’

  ‘We’ve all got blood,’ he retorts crisply.

  ‘We need the blood analysed,’ says Felix.

  ‘For what?’ he asks.

  That’s a point. We all look at each other.

  ‘For DNA,’ says Sylvie.

  ‘If it’s blood it will have DNA. You will need a DNA sequencer if you want me to find out anything about the donor,’ says the doctor dismissively.

  ‘Do you have one of those in your Tardis, doctor?’ Felix asks.

  He looks at us like we’re mad.

  ‘No sense of humour,’ whispers Sylvie.

  He leads us back to his laboratory. Felix peers at a test tube bubbling over a Bunsen burner. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dr Winters is building Frankenstein the second in another room. The place gives me the creeps.

  ‘Dr Winters …’ Sylvie begins as she hands over the specimen.

  ‘Phil,’ he says, studying the container.

  We all fidget uncomfortably. The thing is we didn’t have proper specimen bottles so Sylvie had to stuff it into a coleslaw tub. We washed it out first, obviously.

  ‘Have you been a scientist long?’ asks Felix, peering at bottles on a shelf.

  ‘I’m a biochemist,’ barks Phil. ‘I’m doing a post doc. This is free of coleslaw isn’t it? I bloody hate coleslaw.’

  Dr Winters looks puzzled as he studies the sample. He takes the coleslaw tub over to the table, pushes the goggles onto his head and replaces them with a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles and studies the specimen under a microscope. We wait patiently

  ‘This is an oil-based pigment,’ he says suddenly.

  ‘Is that a particular type of blood?’ asks Felix.

  ‘It’s not blood at all,’ says Phil, pushing the goggles further back onto his head. ‘But there are tiny particles of what looks like skin mixed in with it.’

  This is getting more gruesome by the minute.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asks Sylvie.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ says Phil handing back the coleslaw pot. ‘But it points to something odd if you ask me.’

  ‘I knew it,’ says Sylvie triumphantly.

  My heart sinks. I was so hoping I had imagined the murder. Now it seems I didn’t. Somewhere out there in the midst of Clapham is a murderer. I don’t know who he is but he probably knows me and it’s only a matter of time before he catches up with me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ he whispers into my ear, his hot breath against my cheek. ‘I can’t resist you in this dress. I’ve got to have you.’

  ‘But we can’t leave yet,’ I say.

  Holy crap, we’ve only just arrived. He fingers the ice cube in his glass and gives me a wicked smile. It doesn’t matter what all the sex manuals tell you. I can assure you all you need is an ice cube and you’re done. He pushes me against the railings of the boat. I look down at the rippling water. I wonder if I should mention that I only ever got as far as my 10 metres swimming certificate. I mean an ice cube is one thing but the freezing cold water of the Thames is another. I hardly think a 10 metre proficiency badge is going to hold me in good stead.

  ‘Make your excuses Miss Brown,’ he whispers, ‘or I’ll have to take you right here and if you struggle I’ll have to tie you up, and you know how you dislike that.’

  ‘You’re always so in control of me,’ I whisper.

  ‘I exercise control over all things Miss Brown as you well know.’

  My legs give way and his hands are there to support me. My breath hitches as he strokes my bottom. I wince and make a mental note to buy more arnica. This whipping malarkey is all very well but I do have to sit down occasionally even if it’s only on the loo. It’s lucky I don’t have an office job.

  ‘Are you ready for me?’ he asks, his hand lifting my D. Von Furstenberg dress and sliding up my thigh.

  I gasp. It’s bloody freezing out here. I’ve got goose bumps where I didn’t know I could get goose bumps. My hair is getting blown all over the place. I’ll never get it back looking the way it was. Why can’t I be all sophistication and grace like Jennifer Aniston? And now the wind is blowing right up my dress and there is nothing sexual about a cold breeze hitting you in the crotchless knickers area. I struggle to remember if I had signed up for this in my contract.

  ‘Do you want to touch me, Miss Brown?’ he whispers huskily, pressing his hardness against me.

  I’m on the brink. I really am. I’m on the brink of falling into the bloody Thames. I can’t see him for the hair in my eyes. I feel his lips close to mine and open my mouth to eagerly receive his, only to get a mouthful of river spray from a passing speedboat. I splutter and he thumps me on the back.

  ‘Are you all right darling,’ he asks.

  Darling? He never calls me darling.

  ‘Roxie, are you okay?’

  Sylvie’s voice pulls me from my fantasy as a Harrods’ shop assistant pats me on the back. I’m standing in front of a mirror in a D. Von Furstenberg black cocktail dress and choking after seeing the price tag.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I can’t believe how fabulous this dress is.’

  I can’t believe the fabulous price either.

  ‘You look beautiful my lovely. It was made for you,’ says the assistant offering me cashew nuts from a silver tray.

  ‘It does look spectacular,’ agrees Sylvie. ‘You have to take it. It makes you look really trim.’

  Is she trying to say I usually look fat?

  ‘It’s very expensive,’ I say, holding back a fart. I really shouldn’t eat nuts, but when they are offered like that it is hard to refuse. Darren used to guess how many nuts I could eat before I started. No, I must not think about Darren. I’ve got to bugger on haven’t I?

  ‘One thousand five hundred is a small price madam, when it transforms you into a million dollars.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I say. After all, I can afford it and I can’t possibly attend Ark Morgan’s function in my Zara dress. Sylvie claps her hands excitedly.

  ‘We need to get you a matching clutch bag,’ she exclaims as the assistant thrusts one into my hands.

  ‘A match made in heaven,’ gushes the assistant, ‘and at eight hundred pounds, an absolute bargain.’

  She’s certainly on commission.

  ‘Oh my God,’ utters Sylvie as we waltz out of Harrods. ‘I can’t believe you spent all that money.’

  Nor can I, but Ark Morgan is worth it. Let’s face it; this is my one and only chance to get Ark Morgan to notice me. Although I can’t believe I actually bought a dress from Harrods. Who would have thought it? Me, Roxie Brown of all people, it really is unbelievable. Sylvie says we should go to a show after our beauty treatments.

  ‘Make a night of it. I always wanted to see Les Misérables, we could go to one of those fancy theatre restaurants for dinner,’ she says.

  Sylvie certainly knows how to spend my money.

  ‘Rig
ht, next stop, beauty spa,’ she says excitedly.

  I don’t know about you but I always feel slightly guilty at being pampered, like I’m not entitled to it or something. Sylvie has no such qualms and I’m dragged to a top London beauty spa and kitted out in a dressing gown which is nowhere near big enough for me. I spend the whole time checking my boobs haven’t popped out which is not quite conducive to relaxation, and as hard as I try I really can’t see the benefits of the mud wrap. Being covered in mud and wrapped in cellophane by a total stranger feels more like a form of torture, unless of course Ark Morgan is doing it, then I imagine it is a sweet agonising torture. Ooh, he can wrap me in cellophane any time. Sylvie loves every minute of it and doesn’t seem at all fazed being covered in mud. Then, of course, there are the other women at the beauty spa. You know the type, all fur coats and no knickers, you’ve seen them. Those women who waft past you smelling heavenly and looking sensational and have never had a bald tyre in their life, or lost their boyfriend to a busty redhead. I’ve probably fished a few of their hairs out of the hotel shower drain in my time.

  Darren came back last night to collect his speakers. Bloody nerve as they never were his to start with but I couldn’t be arsed to argue. He said Angie’s hair absolutely does not come out of a bottle. And that it is Titian not red. If she’s a natural Titian then I’m Jennifer Aniston, although I’m starting to look like her, Jennifer Aniston that is, not Titian Angie.

  After the mud bath is the pedicure and foot massage. Having a stranger fondle your feet is a bit disconcerting especially if you’re ticklish like me. When Sylvie mentions the sauna I put my foot down good and proper. The last thing I want to do is sweat in a hot room with a bunch of strangers. It’s bad enough having Sylvie see me red as a beetroot and dripping sweat all over the floor. I really don’t get the appeal of pampering. It’s a loss of dignity if you ask me. It’s like going into a communal fitting room. Don’t you just hate those? You stand there comparing how you look against everyone else. You either come away feeling ten times better about yourself or ten times worse. The latter is normally true for me. But now, after the mud bath, pedicure and manicure I have to admit to feeling twenty times better about myself. I’m sitting in front of a mirror and for the first time I don’t mind looking at my reflection. My skin is glowing and looks all dewy fresh and is totally free from blemishes. Lionel the hairdresser looks at me through the mirror, his blonde Rod Stewart hair as stiff as meringue peaks.