Fifty Shades of Roxie Brown (Comedy Romance)

by Lynda Renham

  ‘Jesus Rox,’ groans Sylvie.

  ‘They were from Poundland, so I may have frayed everywhere too.’

  ‘It would have been easier to have left a business card love,’ quips Felix.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ groans Sylvie.

  ‘I imagine he would if he were here,’ says Felix.

  ‘I didn’t see any sock bits,’ says Sylvie, ‘so hopefully that won’t be a problem, but get the earring and give it to Felix as soon as possible so he can get rid of it,’ she instructs.

  ‘How am I supposed to get rid of an earring?’ Felix asks.

  ‘Can’t you throw it out of your aeroplane or something,’ she says.

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘What do you expect him to do, open the door at thirty-thousand feet?’ I say.

  ‘Christ, I know EasyJet has a bad reputation, but I didn’t know it was that bad,’ laughs Felix.

  ‘Can’t you flush it down the loo,’ suggests Sylvie. ‘They’re not going to go through all that shit and spot an earring.’

  ‘Yes, well thanks for that image love. Anything else you want me to do? I seem to be doing just about everything. I tell you, I never want to see another bottle of Parazone. I must have gone in every shop from here to Land’s End asking about bleach.’

  ‘A slight exaggeration,’ sighs Sylvie.

  ‘Anyway, only normal amounts have been sold, whatever they are. So maybe they only used a couple of bottles.’

  I shudder.

  ‘Honestly,’ I say, ‘I really think you two are getting carried away. We don’t even know if that body is our victim.’

  ‘I feel it in my water,’ says Felix.

  At least we’re not talking about his bowels for a change.

  ‘It’s too coincidental, here’s what we know so far,’ he says as he hands around the evidence that he took from the bin.

  ‘First, we know that Victor Wainwright is not now the occupant of the flat. He died two years ago. The electoral role hasn’t been updated, but what we do know is that the tenant in 104 is gay, at least according to the old girl in 103. Now, the question is, can a light-fingered eighty-year-old be trusted …?’

  ‘Light fingered?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Walked off with a whole bag of blings from a clear out sale because she thought an Everything Must Go sign means exactly that. You just shift the gear. However, if she can be trusted that means that either he is a transvestite …’

  ‘Transvestite? ’ I query. ‘How did you work that one out?’

  Felix sighs.

  ‘The so-called bloodstain was oil-based pigment, or in other words …’ he pauses for effect, ‘lipstick.’

  I check the time on my phone while Felix isn’t watching. I really want an early night. I want to look my absolute best tomorrow.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, still not really getting the point.

  ‘Or, there was a woman there. The murderer could have been a jealous husband,’ he finishes before opening a bag of doughnuts.

  ‘They always have doughnuts on stakeouts,’ he says. ‘Anyone for coffee?’ he asks producing a flask and three plastic mugs. ‘It’s decaf.’

  ‘I though the whole idea of coffee on a stakeout was to keep you awake. Don’t you think decaf slightly defeats the object?’ sighs Sylvie.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t get what?’ asks Felix.

  ‘The transvestite thing. I’d have noticed if one of the men was dressed up like Eddie Izzard wouldn’t I? And surely if the murderer is a gay transvestite then he wouldn’t be having an affair with a married woman would he?’

  Felix nods.

  ‘That’s the point. If the lipstick didn’t belong to a woman then we have to presume he’s a cross-dresser.’

  We do?

  ‘Anyone fancy a Domino’s pizza? I’m starving. We could be here hours. They always have pizza on stakeouts.’

  ‘Is that what it says in your book?’ I say scathingly.

  ‘You can scoff darling, but if you hadn’t been a peeping tom in the first place we wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘It could have been a crime of passion,’ says Sylvie. ‘You know what gays are like. They’re so over the top sensitive. He probably glanced at another guy at the Fun Palace and his partner became insane with jealousy and shot him.’

  ‘This is all supposition though isn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Ooh, hark at her with the long words,’ laughs Felix. ‘Of course, there’s still the question of the piece of paper the victim was holding, which brings us to this, exhibit A.’

  He’s only gone and marked it too. We look with interest at the crumpled estate agent’s details.

  ‘Where did you find that?’ I ask.

  ‘It was in the rubbish bin,’ he says proudly. ‘It was right on the top. I think the killer threw it in there so it wouldn’t be found in the flat. There’s handwriting at the top. Whoever sent this was with the victim on Saturday.’

  I lean over the seat to get a look at the scribbled writing. Good price, see you Saturday for the Fun Palace and we can discuss.

  ‘So he could be an estate agent,’ I say and my heart sinks. I’ve got to go and see one to view a flat. What if the murderer shows me around and then recognises me. I know the chances of him actually having seen me are slim but then again so were my chances of winning the lottery, and that didn’t stop me did it? The last thing I need is to be alone in a flat with the murderer.

  ‘Unlikely, there’s only two people working at that office and they’re both ancient,’ says Felix.

  ‘It says the flat is in Rommel Mansions,’ I say, looking at the photo on the agents details.

  ‘Except that doesn’t really help us, does it darling?’

  ‘Can you get pepperoni?’ asks Sylvie, ‘and maybe some beers. What do you want Rox?’

  To go home sounds good.

  ‘Ooh, here we go. He’s definitely gay isn’t he?’ says Sylvie, nodding at a guy walking towards us. I sink down in my seat.

  ‘Act natural,’ snaps Felix, quickly hiding the doughnuts and flask.

  Act natural? How is it natural for three people to be sitting outside someone’s flat stuffing their faces with doughnuts? You have to agree it is an odd place to have a picnic. It’s not exactly the most scenic place in Clapham. You’d be hard pressed to find a blade of grass anywhere.

  ‘You’ve got the gay radar, is he one of your lot?’

  ‘He doesn’t look the murdering type,’ I say, not that I have any idea what the murdering type looks like. I don’t suppose Jack the Ripper looked the murdering type, not that I know for sure of course.

  ‘He’s not gay,’ says Felix, taking the doughnuts from the glove compartment as the guy passes.

  ‘I really don’t understand why we’re doing this,’ I say finally. ‘Even if someone does go into the block how will you know if they go to flat 104?’

  ‘Ah,’ says Felix gleefully, grabbing Sylvie’s binoculars from under the seat. ‘We can follow them up the stairs with these. The lift is broken remember?’

  ‘Plus they will put the lights on when they get into the flat,’ adds Sylvie with a roll of her eyes.

  ‘We need to get this handwriting analysed,’ says Sylvie. ‘That way we’ll know if we’re looking for a gay guy won’t we?’

  ‘I suppose that’s my job too?’ says Felix.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘On the condition you let me go home and get some sleep. I’ve got a big evening tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sylvie told me. What are you wearing?’ asks Felix.

  ‘Sylvie,’ I say exasperated.

  ‘What? I only said you were going to a posh do.’

  ‘They do a pepperoni with anchovies,’ says Felix, flicking through the Domino’s Pizza menu.

  ‘Okay, you two can play Charlie’s Angels, minus one,’ I say angrily.

  ‘Charlie’s Angels were all girls,’ mumbles Felix.

  ‘Precisely,’ I say.

  ‘Oh cutting dear.’
>
  ‘Just another hour Rox and then we’ll head home,’ says Sylvie.

  I sigh.

  ‘Okay, can you get garlic bread with the pizza then.’

  I’m so easily swayed when food is involved.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ark Morgan is playing the piano expertly in the yacht’s dining room where waiters circle the guests with canapés on silver platters.

  ‘Quail egg madam?’ offers one.

  I decline and accept a glass of champagne, of which there seems to be a never-ending flow. I move hesitantly towards the piano and am mesmerised by Ark Morgan’s slim elegant fingers as they skilfully slide across the keys. He lifts his eyes and meets mine. I chew on my lip nervously. His hands pause and his audience sigh as he stops playing. He stands and walks towards me. His hand grasps my arm and I look up at him. I could stare at him forever. He whispers,

  ‘Don’t bite your lip. You should save that pleasure for me.’

  It might be pleasure for him but its bloody agony for me.

  ‘Miss Brown isn’t it? We’ve met before?’

  I don’t like to remind him it was when I had a hoover up my skirt.

  He grins, the unspoken words, ‘Laters Baby,’ hang between us as does a waiter who is determined to stuff quail eggs into us.

  ‘I’m going to give Miss Brown a tour of the yacht,’ he says.

  I shiver.

  ‘The ship has a safe room,’ he says. ‘I’m going to show you it.’ What he really means is his playroom. I may look stupid but I’m not naive.

  ‘Why?’ I ask breathlessly.

  ‘Because I want to be alone with you, where no one can reach us.’

  I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and knock it back. I need something to calm my loins, let alone my nerves.

  ‘Why?’ I ask again, sounding like a pestering five year old.

  ‘Because I’m going to spank your little bum raw. That’s why.’

  Well at least he said little bum. Up yours Darren Smart.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. I’m sounding like a retard now.

  ‘Because you’re my submissive Miss Brown and then I’m going to fuck your brains out.’

  I struggle to breathe and totter on my heels as he pulls me along. I trip and his arm reaches out to support me.

  ‘Are you okay? You know what they say, take more water with it.’

  I look up at Ark Morgan, except it isn’t Ark Morgan at all. It’s a grey-haired gentleman and he’s offering me his hand. I’d only gone arse over tit on my stupid heels. Me and my fantasies, honestly I’m lucky I didn’t end up in the river. That would be a great start to the evening.

  ‘Thank you, I’m not used to high heels.’

  I cringe. Not something one should say at a do like this is it? There can’t be a woman on board without a wardrobe full of Jimmy Choos.

  ‘Are you making your way to Morningsong by any chance?’ he asks kindly. ‘I’m happy to escort you. Save you tumbling on those heels again.’

  I open my mouth to reply when he spots the invitation in my hand.

  ‘How remiss of me, of course you are. Allow me.’

  This is a terrible mistake. I realise that now. As soon as I saw the limousines and waiters in their dinner jackets milling around the yacht I knew I was out of my depth. I should never have come. What if Ark Morgan recognises me as the chambermaid that spilt Johnson’s furniture polish down her front? I’ll get fired. He’s not stupid. He’ll know I nicked the invite. Chambermaids don’t get invitations. Keep calm. The chances of him recognising me are really slim. In fact, the chances of him even noticing me at all are even slimmer. I’d opted for the lacy Brazilian undies though, just in case. I rather think the Marks and Spencer’s pants may well be a penis reduction job.

  I watch as limos pull up and women dripping in diamonds pour out. I’m going to stand out like a sore thumb. I can’t say my name is Roxie can I? They’ll think I’m the bloody cabaret for the evening. If only I could turn back but there is no turning back and anyway the path is blocked with a posse of yuppie upstarts. I doubt I’ll make it without a gas mask as the heady perfume and aftershave could knock someone dead at fifty paces. So, I am led along the gangplank by the grey-haired man and onto the yacht. I feel my stomach churn with fear. I must keep calm. There is nothing on the ticket to say who it belongs to. I hand it over and attempt to smile confidently.

  ‘Thank you madam, enjoy your evening.’

  ‘Buck’s Fizz?’ says a waiter, approaching with a tray. I accept one and sip at it nervously. A tray of savouries are thrust in front of me. I decline politely. I feel so sick with nerves that there is no way I can eat. The last time I had Buck’s Fizz was at my gran’s wake. That wasn’t the real thing either. It was Babycham and orange juice, and it tasted better than this stuff, which just goes to show just how out of my depth I am.

  I follow the grey-haired man into the crowded foyer as a roaring noise sounds behind us. I turn to look as a shiny motorbike comes to halt beside a white Rolls-Royce.

  ‘What the devil?’ says the grey-haired man. ‘Who’s that on the Harley Davidson?’

  This could be the perfect opportunity to escape. While all eyes are on the yob on the motorbike they’re not going to see me, unless I go ‘arse over kettle’ as my grandma used to say, on my dash down the gangplank. I wish I hadn’t worn these damn shoes. A quick getaway is impossible.

  ‘This way madam,’ says a waiter.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  I wobble on my new Jimmy’s and fall straight into the arms of Ark Morgan. I guess that’s one way of getting him to notice me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I stare into his dreamy eyes as Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now plays in the background. His arms are around my waist and I can feel his hands burning through my dress. I can’t believe I am this close to Ark Morgan and what’s more he’s smiling at me. A waiter mops up my Buck’s Fizz, but I’m unaware of anything other than Ark Morgan’s beautiful eyes and sensual lips. I could be standing on the broken glass and I wouldn’t notice. I can stand any pain for Ark Morgan.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ Speak clearly for goodness’ sake. Poise and confidence, remember.

  ‘No problem,’ he laughs. ‘The boat rocks occasionally. Let me get you another drink.’

  He acknowledges some passing guests and gestures to a waiter.

  ‘Lucinda, Jeremy, lovely to see you. Do go through. I’ll catch up with you later, beautiful dress Lucy.’

  He looks stunning in his white shirt and bow tie. He could be a walking advert for Daz, his shirt is so white. I’m struggling to keep my eyes off him. He slaps a man on the back, ‘Lovely to see you George,’ and then passes me another Buck’s Fizz.

  ‘I’m Ark. I don’t recall us having met?’ he says, meeting my eyes.

  I’m saved from answering by another guest who glides towards us.

  ‘Mwah,’ she says, kissing those gorgeous Ark Morgan cheeks, ‘Lovely to be here darling.’

  She glides away leaving a trail of heavy musk in her wake. Ark turns to me and rests his hand on my hip. Oh my God, this is surely one of my fantasies.

  ‘Which hotel are you staying at?’ he asks as he leads me into a room overflowing with people, food and drink. I’m so dying for a pee. These Brazilian lace panties aren’t helping. Or it could be that my loins are throbbing so much that the Brazilian lace just isn’t coping. I feel it slowly disappearing up the unmentionable and it is all I can do not to shove my hand down there and pull them out. I’m uncomfortable enough without that too.

  ‘I spend a fair amount of time at the Crescent,’ I say. Well it’s not a lie is it? I spend half my week at that one.

  ‘Ah, that’s one of my favourites. I’m sorry, I missed your name.’

  Bollocking tit basket.

  ‘Roxanne Brown,’ I say, and struggle not to wince.

  ‘Roxanne,’ he repeats. ‘That’s an unusual name.’ He leads me to the
buffet table.

  ‘Please help yourself Miss Brown,’ he says, looking into my eyes.

  ‘You smell heavenly by the way,’ he adds before moving off to greet another guest.

  Oh my God, Ark Morgan said I smell heavenly. I’ve got to text Sylvie. Five minutes later I am mingling around the dining table as waiters serve lobster with salad and garnishes. There is roast beef, roast pork, roast duck and would you believe it, quail eggs. There are whole poached salmon, prawns, oysters and just about every seafood you can think of. I’m standing by an assortment of rice dishes when my eyes meet Ark’s across the room. I look behind to check he isn’t looking at someone else, but no, he is looking into my eyes. I smile nervously and look away.

  ‘Is there a loo I can use?’ I ask a waiter.

  That was a stupid question. He isn’t going to say no you’ve got to piss into the Thames is he? As it happens there is a choice of three bathrooms. I choose the nearest and burst in only to find three glamorous women parading in front of the mirrors, their Chanel make-up and hair tongs strewn across the marble top sink unit. Honestly, there are three loos here and they have to choose this one.

  ‘I told him if he fucks that little slut again it’s over. I can’t keep firing the bloody nanny can I?’ says one of the women.

  They turn and glare at me. You’d think I was the little slut the way they look at me. I consider doing a U-turn and finding the other loo but then think better of it. I really don’t think I can hold it in much longer. Doing a little wee in your knickers at a posh do like this just isn’t the thing is it? The yuppie women give me another look and continue talking in their posh voices. I imagine they have names like Beatrice or Theodora but most definitely not Roxie. I close the door of the cubicle and lean against it. All I can think of is Ark Morgan’s hand on my hip. I thought I was going to multiple orgasm there and then. I find myself visualising him pulling off my Brazilian panties, staring down at me, his eyes sparkling with anticipation as I throb in readiness. I feel myself sliding down the door. I pull my phone from my bag and text Sylvie

  Ark Morgan thinks I smell heavenly.

  The bathroom door slams as the yuppies leave and I venture out of the cubicle. I check my reflection. Everything still looks perfect. I wash my hands with the luxury soap and tap my red cheeks with a cool cloth from a basket by the sink. The towels are soft and white. I’ve seen all this stuff in the hotels of course, but I never thought I’d be a guest expected to use them.