Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown (Comedy Romance)

by Lynda Renham

  ‘I’m going to be creative honey,’ he croons.

  Sounds good to me, the more creative the better, in fact the more unrecognisable I am the better. Then there is less chance of the murderer spotting me.

  ‘She wants to show Darren what he’s lost,’ Sylvie says, staring at her own reflection.

  ‘Let me tell you something honey,’ chirps Lionel, pulling my hair around like there’s no tomorrow. ‘Ooh split ends my love. I’ll sort those little bitches out for you.’

  A girl places a green smoothie in front of me. That’s the trouble with these places isn’t it? Everyone’s on a health kick. What I wouldn’t do for a mug of tea with a sponge finger.

  ‘Men are like toilet cubicles my love,’ Lionel is saying. ‘They’re either taken or full of shit. I should know I’ve had my fair share. There’s plenty more fish in the sea and I bet your ex had a face like a mackerel didn’t he? No offence of course.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ I say.

  ‘This is fabulous Rox, thanks so much,’ says Sylvie, coming over all emotional and dripping tears into her smoothie. ‘You should have had the waxing, everything feels so smooth now.’

  If I’m going to have someone whip hot wax off me, then that someone is going to be me. Okay, it may take hours but at least I get to control the pain. I did try an epilator once, but Christ, that made my eyes water. If you want my opinion they’re weapons of torture. You vill tell us vat ve need to know or ve vill epilate you. There’s a limit to what I’ll do in the name of beauty.

  Meanwhile Lionel is talking nine to the dozen. I swear he’s stoned. I hope he doesn’t get too creative with a hairdryer and a round brush because there is no way I’ll be able to repeat the look no matter how many round brushes and sprays I’m given. It’s always the way isn’t it? You look sensational as you walk out of the hair salon and pray that you don’t get caught in a gust of wind, because that’s it, no matter how hard you try it just won’t go back into that perfect style you saw in the salon’s mirror. I watch in awe as Lionel transforms me. I’ve never had such sleek hair in my life. I’ll be sliding off the pillows. I can’t help wondering what Darren would say if he could see me now, that’s if Darren recognises me. I barely recognise me. Jennifer Aniston, eat your heart out. I haven’t felt this good about myself in months. I should do this more often, well as more often as the lottery money lasts. I imagine life must be heaven when you have money.

  After our treatments we have tea in a French cafe off Regent Street.

  ‘Unless you’re John Paul Getty the third, of course,’ says Sylvie, ‘and you get kidnapped and they start cutting off bits of your body and sending it to your dad. Then I don’t imagine it is heaven somehow.’

  Dad would not like that at all. He practically faints when Mum plucks her eyebrows. Just the thought of that puts me off my rhubarb tart. I push it to one side and check my phone. I stupidly keep hoping that Darren will message me to apologise for his stupid behaviour and beg to be taken back, but there is nothing. How can he prefer Titian-Bottle-Angie to me?

  ‘Could we have some more tea please?’ Sylvie calls in that voice she reserves for posh tea shops. It never works. She always sounds like she’s just had Bell’s palsy. Not that Sylvie and I spend much time in posh tea shops. The last time we had a posh tea was when Ark Morgan arranged afternoon tea at Claridge’s for his staff when one of the hotels won an award. He does things like that. He thinks of his staff and is very nice to them. Not many bosses do that kind of thing do they? I’m sure something must have been wrong this morning for him to be so sharp with me. I can’t believe he has broken up with his girlfriend. I read about her in the Sunday paper once. That’s another perk of the job; you get the magazines the guests leave behind. She was featured in one of the glossies. I remember looking at her dreamily and wishing I had skin that glowed like hers. I expect she goes to a beauty spa every day. I would too if I could afford it and had the time. It’s not so easy when you’ve got a job.

  ‘Of course you’d have to have tons of security and stuff. Think of all those burly men that would have to follow you around,’ giggles Sylvie.

  ‘All the same, it must be nice to have money. You’d never have to worry would you?’

  ‘You’ve got money,’ she smiles.

  ‘Yes, but I won’t get more will I? And it won’t last forever. Once it’s gone that’s it.’

  ‘You should invest it.’

  ‘Ooh,’ she says, picking up her cup. ‘I meant to tell you, the fingerprints on the Starbucks card matched those on one of the glasses. The other glass had different prints, but those prints were all over the coffee table. I’m guessing the Starbucks card belonged to a visitor and not the owner. But of course we don’t know which set of prints belongs to the murderer or the victim.’

  Why does she have to tell me this now? I was just about to tuck into my rhubarb tart again.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not sure. Wait until a body pops up I suppose. It must do eventually. We should have another That Night meeting I guess.’

  I’d much rather put this whole murder business behind me. Right now I’m thinking only of myself. Very narcissistic I know, but it’s not my fault there are mirrors all around the tea shop. I’m glowing brighter than a light bulb. My mind wanders to the cocktail party on Ark’s boat. I hope Ark notices me. Sylvie seems to think he won’t be able to resist me.

  ‘Roxie.’ I turn at the sound of my name to see Sam Lockwood. The guy seems to be everywhere. One minute he is in Clapham and the next in Knightsbridge. He’s like Superman, popping up when you least expect it. There was me thinking no one would recognise me.

  ‘It is you isn’t it?’ he asks, looking at me closely.

  Charming, there’s no need for him to sound so surprised is there? Sylvie flutters her eyelashes and puts on her posh voice. I do wish she would stop doing that. I’ll have to record her one day, so she knows how odd she sounds.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she says.

  How he gets time to work when he seems to spend his life in coffee shops is beyond me.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ I say.

  ‘You look …’ he hesitates and I widen my eyes. ‘Different,’ he finishes.

  Surely he doesn’t think I walk around in track suit bottoms, with bloodshot eyes and a blotchy face all the time? He points to a chair.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Please do,’ says Sylvie.

  ‘If I remember, I promised you a Danish without cinnamon. This is my chance.’

  ‘Without cinnamon?’ says a surprised Sylvie, ‘but you love …’

  I kick her under the table.

  ‘Can I get you one too?’ he asks Sylvie.

  She nods dumbly.

  ‘I’ll get a menu,’ he says as he walks to the bar.

  ‘Why did you kick me? And why does he think you don’t like cinnamon? You love cinnamon,’ says Sylvie.

  ‘Yes I know, but the last time he bought me a Danish I was convinced he’d laced it with cyanide,’ I say, lowering my voice.

  ‘Why would he lace it with cyanide? And more to the point why would you even think he would lace it with cyanide?’ She stares at me in disbelief.

  ‘Because I thought he was the murderer,’ I whisper while watching him talk to a waitress.

  She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Why would you think he was the murderer?’

  ‘Shush,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask so many questions?’

  ‘Because people just don’t go around thinking their Danish pastries are laced with cyanide.’

  I sigh.

  ‘Because he couldn’t find his Starbucks reward card,’ I say, feeling my face redden.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Do you know how many people have Starbucks reward cards?’

  ‘I know,’ I say hastily, seeing him walking back to our table. I have to admit he doesn’t look like a murderer. He’s dressed more casually today but still
looks smart. He’s not carrying a laptop this time but has a sports bag.

  ‘There you go ladies,’ he says handing us a menu while not taking his eyes off me.

  It’s nice to get all this attention but I’m sure if he knew I was a chambermaid he wouldn’t give me a second glance, with or without the beauty treatment. I glance shyly at the menu so I don’t have to meet his piercing brown eyes. What I wouldn’t do for a cinnamon Danish, damn it.

  ‘I’ll have the cinnamon roll,’ says Sylvie, grinning at me.

  I swear she does this on purpose. I love cinnamon rolls. I opt for a custard tart. What else can I do?

  ‘He’s really gorgeous,’ whispers Sylvie as he gives the order to the waitress. ‘But it’s you he fancies.’

  He can fancy all he likes. I’m off men and I am certainly off posh pricks, apart from Ark Morgan of course. They soon change their mind when they discover you haven’t got a high-profile job in business or some other fancy occupation and let’s face it, being a chambermaid isn’t a high-profile job. Anyway, I’m starting to think Sam Lockwood is a bit too smooth for my liking.

  ‘So what are you girls up to in Knightsbridge?’ he asks.

  ‘We’ve been having beauty treatments. Don’t say you can’t tell?’ she says teasingly.

  ‘I don’t imagine either of you ladies needs a beauty treatment,’ he says with that cheeky grin of his. See what I mean? He’s nauseatingly smooth. He’s a bit pushy too, shoving his phone number at me as soon as he heard I’d broken up with Darren.

  ‘You’re such a tease,’ flirts Sylvie, putting on a sexy pout. It never works with Sylvie; she just looks like Donatella Versace.

  I nibble my custard tart and covet Sylvie’s cinnamon roll as I do so. Sam Lockwood reclines in his chair and appraises me.

  ‘What are your plans for the rest of the evening?’ he asks between sipping his latte.

  ‘We were thinking of going to the theatre, unless you have something better in mind?’ says Sylvie, changing her posh voice to her sexy one, which sounds ten times worse but it’s no good telling her.

  ‘I’m fighting in an hour,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘I was thinking you might like to watch. Roxie is my lucky mascot after all.’

  Oh yes, sure. Like watching two men bash each other about is my idea of a great evening.

  ‘Are you a professional boxer?’ says Sylvie. ‘That’s awesome.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s awesome about beating each other up,’ I say.

  He’s far too arrogant for my liking. How dare he presume we’d want to watch him and some other guy beat seven bells out of each other?

  ‘Amateur,’ he smiles. ‘It releases a lot of tension and they’re friendly fights,’ he says, looking into my eyes.

  ‘We could go,’ says Sylvie, ‘it might be fun.’

  I thought she wanted to see Les Misérables. Mind you, that’s not going to be a bundle of laughs either is it? The waitress hovers over us, or should I say hovers over him, and Sam nods pleasantly at her.

  ‘Would you ladies like anything else? Or would you like to join me in a cab to Stepney?’

  Stepney, now there’s a night out. I look at Sylvie. Surely she would prefer the West End.

  ‘Sounds fab,’ she says.

  Great. Bloody great, and I didn’t even get a cinnamon roll.

  ‘We’re not really dressed for a boxing match are we?’ I say, sounding like a real killjoy, but let’s be honest, I’ve just spent a fortune to look like Jennifer Aniston and I’m not going to have it ruined by sitting in some sweaty smoke-filled hall watching Sam Lockwood get the shit beaten out of him. I don’t imagine Jennifer Aniston has been to a boxing match in her life. Even Les Misérables with all its misery seems preferable to that. At least my hair would stay in place for a bit longer.

  ‘Besides, I ought to get back to …’

  ‘The Gunner supporter,’ he says cheekily. ‘How is he by the way?’

  ‘Very well thank you,’ I say as Sylvie interrupts, ‘She’s broken up with him.’

  I roll my eyes. Why do I bother?

  ‘You’re not rushing back to wash your hair are you?’ he says with that grin that is starting to get on my nerves.

  ‘We’d love to come, wouldn’t we Rox?’ says Sylvie, giving me a kick under the table.

  Felix

  ‘You okay love, can I help with that?’ I ask.

  What I’m doing loitering outside the murder flat I do not know. That dolly Sylvie gets me pulled into some things but this has to be the pits. Dealing with her and Roxie’s wanker boyfriend issues are bad enough, but bollocking murder … At least those irksome little buggers aren’t hanging around today. The last thing I need is for them to see me. I wish that bitch Sylvie would answer her phone. I’ve got so much to tell her.

  Last night I was happily surfing. The net that is, you’ll never get me near the bloody water to do the real thing. I’d much prefer to lie on a sunbed watching other hunks doing it. Anyway, I’d been happily chatting to this gorgeous hunk on Gaydar when up it pops. The local news that is, I should be so lucky for anything else to pop up these days. A body had been found. Well it has to be ours. Not ours literally, we didn’t murder the poor bugger, but it does feel kind of personal now. It has to be the guy Roxie saw get shot. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we saw Doctor Whatsisname. It came to me in a flash that night. Well let’s face it, not much else comes in the night these days. The doc said the blood specimen was oil-based pigment. That’s a no-brainer, it’s clearly lipstick. I’m surprised Sylvie didn’t think of it. The murderer must be a jealous husband or possibly a transvestite, although I think that a bit unlikely as I feel sure Roxie would have clocked that one. Maybe the woman had legged it by the time Roxie looked through the telescope. Jealous husband finds wife with lover and then shoots him. You read about it all the time, but whichever way it goes there must be more evidence. I tried to phone Sylvie the next morning before work but was she answering the phone? Like hell she was. Then today she disappears to some beauty salon with Roxie. I can see between the two of them they are going to spend, spend, spend that lottery win.

  The old dearie smiles at me.

  ‘Hello,’ she says her rosy red cheeks blooming. ‘If you could lift this bag of rubbish for me dear, that would be lovely. I don’t know why they make these bins so high do you?’

  ‘No problem love, which one is yours?’ I ask.

  ‘No 103,’ she says, pointing.

  She lives right opposite the crime scene. What a stroke of luck. I take her bag of rubbish and lift the lid of bin 103 which is right next to bin 104.

  ‘Mrs Williams at twenty-two says it’s disgraceful how tall the bins are these days. By the way, isn’t it awful about Larry the postman? You’d never know would you? Still, Laura says it doesn’t show. Her husband just got his degree. First-class honours it was. I said he’ll be running that place soon. It needs a shake-up and he’s the man to do it.’

  I’m not sure if Larry the postman is the one who just got the first-class degree honours, if so why is he still a postman? And if she means the post office needs a shake-up then I have to agree with her. It took almost ten days for my frigging Strictly DVD to come. She stops and looks at me.

  ‘You’re one of them aren’t you?’

  I’m not sure if she means a postman, or a graduate with a first-class degree. Unfortunately I’m neither.

  ‘You know, a queer,’ she adds before I can answer. ‘One of those bum boys. We have one living at 104.’

  I try not to gasp. After all, I don’t want to frighten her off.

  ‘So you live next door to Victor Wainwright,’ I say.

  ‘Oh no dear, not now. He’s dead.’

  ‘Do the police know?’ I can’t hide my shock.

  ‘Oh no, lovie, because Laura said I was to throw all the evidence in the bin, lovely brooches they were.’

  I stare at her. This old biddy is the murderer? No, that doesn’t make sense. She mu
st have been an accomplice. She can’t be the one he was having an affair with. I know an older woman has a lot to offer but this is going too far. I pull out my phone and try Sylvie again while the old girl continues to ramble on.

  ‘I said to Laura that there were big signs on the window.’

  Signs, what kind of signs?

  ‘Everything must go, it said. There were some lovely brooches too and …’

  Yes, I think we’ve covered the brooches.

  ‘About Victor,’ I say. ‘Do you know how he died?’

  ‘Victor who, lovie?’

  ‘Your neighbour, Victor, the one who died.’

  ‘That was two years ago dear. The bum boy lives there now, buggered if I can remember his name though. Are you one of his friends?’

  ‘I have his interests at heart,’ I say. I need to get in touch with Sylvie. Honestly, while those two bitches sit under a tanning lamp, I’m doing all the investigative work.

  ‘Do you think I should tell the police then?’ she asks worriedly.

  ‘Did you hear the shooting?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Shooting,’ she squeals. ‘Who’s been shot?’

  ‘You said about getting rid of the evidence, was that from the shooting?’

  She places her hand on her heart. Jesus Christ, I hope she’s not going to have a heart attack. There’s no way I’m pumping that chest and my lips are most certainly not touching hers. I have strict boundaries regarding who touches my lips, and an eighty-year-old woman is way off limits.

  ‘Laura said it was just the blings that had to be got rid of. That just because the window signs said Everything Must Go, it didn’t mean I could just take it. But you have to admit it isn’t very clear is it? But Laura never told me someone had been shot. Was that my fault?’

  ‘You took blings from a shop that had a closing-down sale?’ I say widening my eyes.

  ‘It said Everything Must Go.’