Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown (Comedy Romance)

by Lynda Renham

  I really don’t believe I’m hearing this. Is he saying it’s my fault he had to shag some busty redhead because I work hard and like to relax with a book?

  ‘Maybe if you got off your arse and worked a bit harder yourself I wouldn’t be so tired.’

  ‘I do my best,’ he snaps. ‘Maybe if you had a more lively personality like Angie and lost a bit of weight and stopped eating those sponge fingers dunked in sodding Nutella …’

  ‘You bastard,’ I say, tears running down my cheeks. ‘Her personality has bugger all to do with it and you know it. It’s what’s in her knickers you’re interested in. You always did like redheads.’

  His world will fall apart when he discovers it comes out of a bottle. The hair colour that is, not her personality.

  ‘Come on Rox, we can sort this out. I’m sorry,’ he says, jumping up and trying to take me in his arms. He’s lucky there isn’t a knife on his plate because I swear to God I’d plunge it into his chest.

  ‘Don’t touch me with your filthy unfaithful hands,’ I scream.

  A rap on the door stops us in our tracks.

  ‘Roxie, Darren, I’ve got water coming through the ceiling. Are you trying to drown me?’

  It’s our downstairs neighbour, Craig. Shit, I’d forgotten about the lavender bath. I dash into the bathroom slipping on the wet floor. I can’t say the smell of lavender is doing much to calm me. I pull the mop from the cupboard and throw it at Darren.

  ‘Here. You can clean this up and when you’re done you can pack up your stuff, and that includes that bloody telescope, and then you can hot foot it over to busty Jayne Mansfield.’

  ‘Who?’ he says, looking confused.

  I bloody hate men.

  ‘But you can’t pay the rent on your own,’ he says stupidly.

  ‘If you’re not out when I get back Darren, I’ll hire some heavies to throw you out.’

  Although I’m not sure who the heavies will be at the moment as the only men I can think of are my dad and Felix.

  ‘You’ll regret this,’ he says, fumbling with the mop.

  I somehow don’t think so. It’s well overdue but it still bloody hurts.

  ‘Sod off Darren,’ I say, slamming the door of the flat behind me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stand outside the flats with a tear-streaked face, hair askew, in my tatty tracksuit bottoms and scruffy cardigan. I couldn’t look any worse if I tried. I certainly don’t look like someone just flush from winning the lottery. I rummage in my bag for a tissue and noisily blow my nose. After much deliberation I head for the park near the flats. It’s either that or my parents and I really don’t think I can take the stress of being with them right now. It’s all I can do to keep the tears at bay. How could Darren blame this on me? I really can’t believe I’ve wasted five years of my life with the wanker. What is wrong with me, anyone else would have dumped their boyfriend the first time they strayed. The truth is, I do, or at least did love Darren. I see the good in everyone that’s my problem, and Darren does have a lot of good qualities. He would sit through the corniest rom coms with me. How many men do that without complaining, and go out of his way to get my favourite sweet popcorn? He may be untidy but he always put the rubbish bins out on time and always bought me a jar of Nutella when I was premenstrual. I suppose that was more for his sake than mine come to think of it. If only he didn’t have a straying eye, or more to the point, a straying dick.

  I find an empty bench and fall into it. I dab my eyes. I won’t cry. I won’t let the cheating little bugger get to me, but minutes later I’m thinking of all the disgusting things he and redheaded Angie may have done together and I’m the quivering wreck I vowed not to be. I pull my phone from my bag and text Sylvie to say I’m going to be late.

  ‘Don’t worry chick, I’ll get the train. I’m that hungover,’ she texts back. ‘I won’t even notice the difference. Keep your pecker up.’

  Well Darren is sure to have his pecker up and I don’t need reminding of that. I’m finished with men.

  ‘Big Issue?’ says a guy with a woolly hat. ‘Help the homeless.’

  ‘I’ve just made someone homeless,’ I say, standing up. ‘And he’s the last person in the world I want to help.’

  ‘It’s people like you …’ he begins.

  ‘That everyone walks all over,’ I say miserably, rummaging in my bag and handing him a couple of quid.

  ‘Make sure that doesn’t go on Darren Smart,’ I say, walking towards Starbucks. I’ll get a takeaway camomile tea and then I’ll head back, and if the two-timing little bastard hasn’t left I don’t know what I’ll do. I wipe at my tears and enter Starbucks, the fresh smell of coffee beans reviving me.

  ‘Roxie, isn’t it?’

  I turn from the counter to see the boxer from the Fun Palace smiling at me. My morning couldn’t get any worse. I might be finished with men but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about one of them seeing me looking like Nanny McPhee. He looks different to when I last saw him, but that may have something to do with him being half naked then. He’s looking quite dapper in a dazzling white shirt, blue tie and suit. He’s sitting alone at a table with his laptop in front of him.

  ‘Do you remember me from the Fun Palace?’

  The truth is you couldn’t forget someone like him. He is quite stunning. All his features perfectly chiselled. He’s giving me his cheeky impish grin. He’s quite difficult to resist, even in my fragile state.

  ‘You don’t remember me do you?’ he smiles.

  ‘Sam Lockwood,’ I say, trying to pat down those bits of hair that stick out at all angles except the right one.

  He smiles.

  ‘You’ve a good memory. I don’t recall your surname I’m afraid.’

  ‘Brown, Roxie Brown,’ I say, wishing I could be alone. I can’t seem to pat down these stupid bits of hair and I can’t seem to stop my mind having visions of Darren and Angie doing disgusting things together. I feel tears well up and quickly brush them aside before Sam Lockwood spots them. I must have a traumatised expression on my face because he gives me a pitying look and says,

  ‘Won’t you join me?’

  ‘I really should get back,’ I say, when the last thing I want to do is go back.

  ‘Let me at least buy you a Danish? They’re pretty good here and it’s the least I can do to thank you for being my lucky mascot the other night.’

  ‘I really should …’ I begin.

  ‘They’re very comforting,’ he says with a wink.

  Well I certainly need comforting that’s for sure. While he gets the pastries I make a quick trip to the loo to see if there is anything I can do with my wretched hair and tear-stained face. I conclude that aside from plastic surgery there isn’t much that can be done. I twist my hair into a hairband and return to the table where he is waiting with the pastries.

  ‘I thought you’d abandoned me. I was just thinking how all was not lost and how I get to have two pastries when hey presto, you returned.’

  He has a lovely voice. I can’t imagine why someone like him would want to have coffee with me. He pushes the pastry towards me and then fiddles in his pockets.

  ‘Do you have a reward card?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ah well,’ he says throwing the jacket over the back of his chair. ‘I can’t find mine and seeing as points mean prizes, you were welcome to have them.’

  Oh my God. I stare at him. He is the right build of the murderer and he has dark brown hair. Maybe it was his eyes I saw through the telescope. This meeting was probably not even accidental. He most likely followed me from the flat. My hand is trembling and I put the cup down before I spill the tea. I don’t want him to know I know, do I? Once he knows that I know he knows … Oh God, my brain is going around in circles. My heart races as I think of ways to escape. He looks at me, both our pastries untouched in front of us.

  ‘Are you going to eat that? They really are to die for,’ he says.

  I hope he doesn�
��t mean that literally.

  The Danish looks innocent enough but supposing he has poisoned it? He could have sprinkled it with cyanide when I was in the loo. No one would have noticed. Who would be suspicious of a clean-cut guy like Sam Lockwood? I’m going to die in Starbucks.

  ‘Well …’ I begin.

  Then a flash of brilliance enters my head.

  ‘Would you mind swapping? I don’t really like cinnamon and that one seems to have less.’

  The truth is I love cinnamon.

  ‘Sure,’ he says, exchanging plates.

  What if he’s poisoned both of them? Or what if he guessed I would be suspicious and knew I would want to swap, then he would have the safe one and the poisoned one would be in front of me now. He takes a bite of the Danish and I feel my heart rate slow. I’m being ridiculous. There must be thousands of people with Starbucks reward cards and hundreds who would have lost one. I’m being stupid. I bite into the Danish feeling a little more confident.

  ‘I thought you lived in Chelsea?’ I say, while wondering how long it takes for cyanide to have an effect.

  ‘I have a meeting. In fifteen minutes actually, but I like to prepare so I usually sit here, have a coffee and a Danish. It sets me up nicely,’ he says with an impish grin. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ I say, widening my eyes.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  I’m not going to tell him I’m a chambermaid. Not that I’m ashamed or anything, not really.

  ‘In Chelsea actually,’ I say. ‘I work for Morgan Hotels.’

  His face darkens.

  ‘Ark Morgan?’ he asks.

  His mouth tightens and a frown appears on his forehead. I nod.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he says flatly.

  There is an uncomfortable silence and I shift in my seat. I can’t imagine anyone disliking Ark Morgan. He does a lot for charity, eradicating hunger and poverty across the globe, you know the sort of thing.

  ‘He’s a good boss,’ I say. Don’t ask me why I said that. I just felt I should stick up for Ark Morgan. The cloud lifts from his face and he smiles again. He’s much better looking when he smiles.

  ‘So, why aren’t you working today?’ he asks, popping the last of his Danish into his mouth. Neither of us has collapsed convulsing to the floor yet, so that’s a relief. He must have seen I’m a quivering wreck, it’s impossible not to notice my puffy eyes and blotchy face.

  ‘I had an argument with my boyfriend,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, the one who likes the Gunners,’ he says, seemingly proud of himself for having remembered.

  ‘He also likes redheads,’ I say miserably and instantly regret it. I could bite my tongue.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says touching my arm. ‘I could tell something was wrong.’ He looks into my eyes for a moment and is about to say something when my phone rings.

  I glance at the screen expecting it to be Darren but it’s my mum. I hastily reject the call.

  ‘It’s time for me to go,’ he says softly, removing his hand. ‘It was nice seeing you again.’

  ‘Thank you for the Danish,’ I say.

  ‘Next time I’ll get you one without cinnamon,’ he says, closing his laptop.

  My phone bleeps with a message. I really don’t need this now.

  ‘Someone is keen to get hold of you,’ he smiles.

  ‘It’s just my mum. She’s probably found a book on tantric sex she wants to give me … Not that I’m into that,’ I add quickly. ‘Tantric sex, I wouldn’t actually … Well, it’s my mum … not that she’s into it either, not exactly. She just reads books and things. Seriously, who’s got the time?’ I laugh nervously.

  Christ. Get me out of here.

  My phone bleeps again. I’ve never been so popular.

  ‘I’d best leave you to it,’ he says, with a broad smile. He holds out his hand. ‘It was nice seeing you again Roxie Brown.’

  I feel something in his hand and look down.

  ‘My number, if things don’t get sorted with the Gunner guy. We could maybe do another pastry.’

  His eyes meet mine again and for a second I feel hypnotised.

  ‘See you Roxie,’ he says as he heads for the door. My phone rings. It’s Mum and she’s in floods of tears.

  ‘Your dad has left me. Can you believe it? I’ve given him the best years of my life and now he buggers off.’

  That’s all I need.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘A project should have a code name and from this point on this is to be known as project That Night,’ says Sylvie.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense. How about project Bad Buddha?’ I suggest.

  ‘Project Bad Buddha doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue,’ says Felix. ‘It conjures up crime busters with huge bellies and evil smiles on their faces.’

  Sylvie shakes her head.

  ‘Why do we need a code name anyway?’ asks Felix.

  ‘Because that’s what you do,’ says the all-knowledgeable Sylvie. I’ve also set up a That Night WhatsApp group so we can stay in touch and share evidence. Our mission is to find enough evidence to solve this crime and then hand it over to the police so that justice can be done.’

  ‘Is That Night the best you could come up with?’ asks Felix.

  ‘It’s cryptic,’ says Sylvie.

  ‘You don’t say,’ mocks Felix. ‘Right, who’s for wine?’ he waves a bottle of Gallo Grenache Rose.

  ‘Ooh yes,’ I say.

  I could so easily become a lush right now. My partner of five years has left me and is probably shagging the life out of the bottled redhead. My dad left my mum, not to shag a bottled redhead I should hasten to add, and admittedly only got as far as the garden shed, but all the same. He couldn’t face swinging. Who can blame him? Mum had been playing lots of Matt Monro apparently, and that tipped him over the edge. I think it would tip anyone over the edge, frankly.

  ‘She kept playing Walk Away,’ he’d said. ‘So I did.’

  I’ve completely given up men and I don’t mean for Lent either, not that I know when Lent is mind you. So I may as well take up booze. Wine and Nutella, that works for me.

  ‘Here you go love,’ says Felix, pouring a nice measure.

  ‘Not while we’re doing forensics,’ snaps Sylvie.

  ‘Going through someone’s rubbish is not exactly forensics,’ argues Felix. ‘It’s more like an invasion of privacy, and I’d much rather be pissed doing it if it’s okay with you. Who knows what we’re going to find.’

  ‘Breaking and entering someone’s house is an invasion of privacy,’ argues Sylvie, ‘and that didn’t seem to bother you.’

  He gasps.

  ‘Oh, such words. Like a thorn to my heart they are. I’ll have you know I’m taking Buscopan like no tomorrow thanks to that little trip. I fear my bowels will never come out of spasm.’

  I down half of the wine before Sylvie can take the glass out of my hand.

  ‘This is serious what we’re doing. A man has been murdered. Have both of you forgotten that?’ says Sylvie crossly.

  ‘Of course not love. I just think you’re getting a bit intense. After all, we’re just going through some rubbish, not cracking the enigma code,’ mocks Felix.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten but I have had a bit on my mind,’ I say, trying not to sound too defensive. After all, Sylvie is just trying to help.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having seventy-five grand on my mind,’ says Felix. ‘Does shagging Darren know about that?’

  ‘I never got around to telling him,’ I say. ‘I told him to bugger off and he did.’

  ‘Result,’ says Felix, downing his wine while giving Sylvie a challenging look. ‘At least you won’t be bunking down here.’

  Sylvie shoots him a dirty look before placing all the evidence from the murder scene on the carpet in front of us.

  ‘Okay, so this is the situation. We know there was a murder because Roxie saw it.’

  I shudder at the me
mory.

  ‘So, we have one specimen pot containing what we can presume is the blood of the victim. Photographs of the fingerprints, a Starbucks reward card which I’ll lift for prints in a bit. Plus we have carpet fibres, hair, and the contents of a rubbish bin taken from the murder scene. So what should we be looking for?’ asks Sylvie.

  Felix shrugs, ‘Colonel Mustard and the lead piping?’

  ‘A tall dark stranger who likes coffee,’ I offer.

  ‘Clues,’ Sylvie sighs. ‘Did you have any luck with your internet search for a blood analyser, Felix?’

  ‘There are some cheap ones in India.’

  ‘India?’ Sylvie echoes.

  That’s a thought, now I have some money I could pop off to India couldn’t I? I’ve never really travelled much unless you count the Isle of Wight and a budget break in Rimini. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to travel. It just didn’t happen. India seems very colourful doesn’t it? Well it does if The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is anything to go by.

  ‘We’re not going to sodding India are we?’ barks Sylvie irritably. ‘Didn’t you find anyone?’

  ‘As it happens I was visiting this friend and I happened to mention I was looking for a blood analyst and …’

  ‘You just happened to mention?’ I say.

  Sylvie rolls her eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Felix. ‘He has a friend who has a friend who knows this guy who happens to know someone who knows this chemist …’

  ‘Jesus wept,’ moans Sylvie. ‘Is there anyone now left in Clapham who doesn’t know we’re looking for a sodding blood analyst?’

  ‘Anyway, we can go tomorrow night. I’ve got his address,’ he says proudly handing over a scrap of paper to Sylvie. ‘He’ll be expecting us.’

  Sylvie pops it into her bag before handing us latex gloves.

  ‘These aren’t Ark …’ I begin.

  ‘No, they’re not from the hotel stock cupboard. What would Ark Morgan be doing with latex gloves?’

  Ooh I shudder to think.

  ‘Can we please concentrate? Try to focus,’ orders Sylvie.

  ‘Shall I light some candles?’ suggests Felix.