My Best Friend’s Life

Suddenly, there was a loud scream, a lurch, and Ginny fell back to her seat. Strange, she was pretty sure that fear had paralysed her vocal cords and the scream hadn’t come from her. So who…?

She pushed her hair back from her face and gasped as she saw Fanny Brown bent so far backwards that her spine looked like it was about to crack, and behind her, clutching her ponytail, was Roxy, who was leaning down, whispering something in her ear.

Fanny went bright red. Green. Red. Green. Aaah–it was hard to tell what colour she was but she definitely didn’t look happy. Without releasing her grip, Roxy whispered something else and then gave Fanny’s ponytail a sharp tug. Fanny wailed with pain then nodded furiously. Roxy slowly pulled the ponytail upwards, allowing Fanny to stand up again, then released it with a flourish.

Ginny suddenly realised that not only was she about to die, but Roxy was too. Fanny threw back her shoulders, went chin-to-chin with Roxy, and then…quickly turned away and made for the door, taking Dopey and Daftarse with her.

Ginny’s eyes were bigger than the disco lights as she watched the retreating gang.

‘But…but…what…what…what…did you say to her?’ she blustered.

Roxy just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. But I don’t think she’ll be chatting to us again anytime soon.’

Ginny’s wave of nausea was swiftly replaced with relief and a massive dose of love. Roxy might be a nightmare, she might be moody, demanding and annoying, but Ginny knew without an iota of a doubt that Roxy would defend her against the world without a moment’s hesitation.

Now she had Ginny’s hand and was pulling her out of the chair. ‘Come on, you boring moo, let’s dance–or I’ll tell Fanny you want to have a chat with her,’ she added with a mischievous grin.

Just at that moment, Father Murphy’s DJing skills came into play and with the resounding screech of a needle being dragged across vinyl, Take That was replaced with the opening bars of Mr Blobby.

‘Aw shit, I hate this song,’ Roxy moaned.

Ginny sighed with sweet relief. Great. She could go back to just sitting in the corner, counting the minutes until it was time to go home.

Or maybe not.

‘Bugger it,’ Roxy continued, ‘let’s go outside until something decent comes on–I’m dying for a fag.’

SIX The Love Shack

Ginny. Day Two, Monday, 9.30 a.m.

Ginny hung up the phone and checked the clock. Nine thirty. Bliss–another two and a half hours before she had to be at work. Or, had to be at Roxy’s work, technically speaking. She picked up her mobile and tried Darren’s number again, hoping to catch him before the class started–nope, no reply. Never mind, she’d try to catch him later, in between Bums & Tums and his afternoon Tai Bo class with the Perky Pensioners.

She turned the TV volume back up, then burrowed back under the duvet with a smile on her face. Goldie Gilmartin, the glam forty-something darling of Great Morning TV, was gliding effortlessly from a feature about the current grooming trends for metrosexual males (new discovery–testicle waxing at breakfast-time puts you right off a marmalade bagel) to her standard superficial waffle as she closed the show. Ginny groaned at the naffness of it. Yes, the nation would have a good day. Yes, we’d be good to one another. And yes, you’re a patronising, condescending cow.

Good grief, what was happening to her? She’d been in Roxy’s world for one night and already she was adopting bitchy mannerisms and coming over all judgemental.

And she was even enjoying it! Yes, she could definitely get used to this. It was just a shame that Darren wasn’t here to share it with her. Maybe a romantic break was exactly what they needed to jolt them out of the rut they’d slipped into. But then, didn’t all couples go through this? Wasn’t this what love was all about–taking the sickness with the health, the poor with the rich, and the exciting with the bored-so-rigid-you-want-to-weep?

She wondered if he was missing her, and then chided herself–she’d been gone for less than a day! She was beginning to sound like one of those reality-show contestants who crumbled in a heap and wailed about missing their families after twenty-four hours in a psychedelic house in East London. And anyway, didn’t Roxy say that he’d taken it well? That he didn’t mind? That’s what she loved about him–he was so supportive, and if he was rooting for her then she could do this. She could. And she was only a tiny bit scared. Okay, she was bloody terrified. She’d never been on the tube on her own, let alone set foot in a brothel, and she just knew that all the girls at the Seismic would be like Roxy–cosmopolitan, switched on and fearless.

But how hard could it be? She could be cosmopolitan, she could be switched on, and although fearless might be a stretch, she could probably hit the middle of the apprehension scale, halfway between mildly nervous and hyperventilation.

In the meantime, a bit of shameless pampering would be nice. She padded into Roxy’s en suite and marvelled at the opulence. Travertine walls, polished marble floor, a huge vanity unit in natural oak with a square white sink perched on top. And the sink taps–wait for it–were those ones with the infrared beam which came on automatically when you waved your hand in front of the sensor. The glistening porcelain toilet gave the impression that it was floating in midair and the bath came complete with a remote control for the complex computer panel located between the taps. She wasn’t sure if she should bathe in it or attempt to contact the Starship Enterprise.

The prospect of an hour of glorious relaxation made her opt for the former. No wonder Roxy always looked so bloody gorgeous with all this time in the mornings to prepare. Ginny’s normal routine didn’t quite hit this level of luxurious self-indulgence–three women plus one bathroom equalled a five-minute shower, deodorant fumes that made your eyes water and a monthly visit from Dyno-Rod to clear the unidentified hairs that were choking the drains.

She turned on the tap on the spa bath. Oh, the decadence. She was thinking candles, she was thinking soft music, she was thinking bubbles, she was thinking…strange farting noises! Shit, wrong tap. She spun it back off then opened the other one, letting water cascade into the gleaming ceramic. Note to self–water in first, air in second.

She spotted the candles that were nestled in groups at the top corners of the bath. Jo Malone, grapefruit-scented. She’d never heard of them–she usually went for whatever was on offer in Sainsbury’s–but she was sure they’d be lovely. Bugger it, she’d light them all, Roxy wouldn’t mind. And if she did, Ginny would pick up some more for her next time she was doing the grocery shopping.

Finally, bubbles. She checked out the bottles on the shelf. Chanel. Bvlgari. La Prairie. So, Body Shop coconut bubble bath was out of the question then.

Ginny added a little of everything then slipped into the warm water before opening the air tap just enough to add a gentle, undulating flow. Monday morning, ten a.m.–Ginny was on the Bliss Highway, heading for Heaven. She took a wild stab in the dark and pressed the? button on the remote control, and smiled as the intoxicating tones of Usher’s ‘Burn’ filled the room.

And as her eyes drooped and she fell into a blissful slumber, the Young Catholic Mothers’ arses were the furthest things from her mind.

‘Ginny. Ginny! Time to go!’

Glug.

Three things happened at once: Ginny’s eyes flew open, her mouth followed suit, and the shock-induced loss of her equilibrium sent her shooting under the water.

As she performed a whole choking/retching/lungs-filling-with-fluid panic, she fleetingly wondered if anyone had ever drowned in Chanel bubble bath. It wasn’t an appropriate end for Ginny Wallis from Farnham Hills. It was the kind of demise more befitting of, say, Brigitte Bardot. Or Anna Wintour. Or Elton John.

Just as she surfaced and regained the use of her cardiovascular system, the door opened and Jude’s gorgeous head popped round.

‘You okay?’

Ginny shrieked with embarrassment and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

‘Can you see any inappropriate naked bits?’ she squeaked.

‘Only if you’re a really strange person who gets their rocks off at the sight of an erotically exposed elbow.’

Phew. Gingerly, she opened one eye and checked for herself. What a relief, he was right–the few bubbles that were left had congregated to preserve her modesty so there wasn’t a nipple in sight.

Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. Jude was wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans and a smile.

Was that mandatory in this house? Was it a condition of the tenancy?

Clause 1(a): I will pay the rent on time every month.

Clause 1(b): I will refrain from causing damage to the house or contents.

Clause 1(c): I will at all times wander around looking like I belong in a Calvin Klein advert.

‘Sorry, I must have…erm…fallen asleep. What time is it?’

He consulted his TAG Heuer. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘Noooooo! I’m late, oh shit, Roxy will kill me.’

In a blind panic, she levered herself out of the bath.

‘Whoa…inappropriate naked bits overload.’ Jude laughed and shut his eyes as Ginny shrieked again, hands flying to cover her vital anatomy.

‘Jude, you need to help me! I should have been on the tube fifteen minutes ago. And I don’t have anything to wear. And my hair looks like an explosion. And…I…can’t…breathe.’

She grabbed a towel from the vanity unit and wrapped it around her.

‘Okay, you can open them now.’ Did he ever drop that cute grin? Aaaargh–why was she contemplating the merits of a stripper’s dimples when she was late for her first day at work? Roxy’s work. Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘Don’t panic,’ said dimple man.

‘I’m already bloody panicking!’ she shrieked, grabbing a can of deodorant and spraying under her arms.

‘Stop!’ he yelled. The sheer force of his voice made her freeze–apart from her bottom lip, which was trembling, and her tear ducts, which were threatening to burst their dam.

‘Okay, here’s the plan. First of all, drop the can–that’s Glade air-freshener and you now smell of Alpine hills.’

Ginny flushed with mortification and placed the can back on the vanity unit.

Jude pressed on, kindly ignoring her beaming face. ‘Okay. Good. Now, forget the tube–there’s a car waiting outside for you. That’s why I shouted to you that it was time to leave.’

Ginny shook her head. ‘What car?’

‘Roxy came to some arrangement with the local taxi company–think she gets the boss a discount at the Seismic. Anyway, a car comes every morning to collect her and take her to work.’

Of course! What had Ginny been thinking? Roxy would rather set fire to her Jimmy Choos than enter the sweaty, over-populated tunnels of the London tube system.

‘And he always waits because Roxy’s never ready either. So you’ve got about fifteen minutes to get ready.’

Ginny felt the rising panic again. Fifteen minutes? To go from someone with the face of a jalapeño pepper and the hair of Crystal Meth Barbie, to the kind of cool, groomed perfection required at the Seismic? She’d need a fucking miracle.

The dam burst, tears and snot commencing flow. Now Jude was the one with the terrified expression.

‘Hello my darling, it’s just me!’ came a voice from the hallway, followed by a slamming door.

‘In here! And we need your help,’ shouted Jude, his tone one of palpable relief.

Ginny wiped her forearm along her nose to stem the snot.

Clicking heels announced the arrival of a figure in the shadows of the doorway.

‘Mmmm. My boyfriend, half-naked, strange woman, completely naked, and yet this doesn’t seem in the least strange or awkward. What does that say about our relationship, my sweet?’

Ginny sniffed and sighed at the same time, causing a delay in her brain registering the word ‘boyfriend’. Even in her over-emotional, frantic, ears-filled-with-Chanel-bubble-bath state, she was cognisant of the fact that the voice bore no resemblance to the dulcet tones of Cheska, attorney at law.

Jude turned to the new arrival.

‘It says that you trust me implicitly,’ he replied, teasing gently.

‘It says I’m fucking mad,’ countered the girlfriend, with an unmistakable smile in her tone. ‘Okay, explain…’

‘This is Ginny, she’s Roxy’s friend, she’s got fifteen–nope, make that ten–minutes to transform from…erm…’

‘I’d go with “tragic disaster”,’ Ginny offered ruefully.

‘…erm, lovely but fairly tragic disaster to groomed perfection, sitting in the back of that cab out there. Honey, think you can do it?’

The heels clicked forward. And in that split second, Ginny’s perception of a national icon changed forever.

‘Are you kidding me? I’ve already waxed some bloke’s crack on national television this morning–a ten-minute makeover will be a fucking doddle.’

And indeed, ten minutes later, Ginny Wallis, makeup flawless but subtle, hair swept back into an elegant chignon, dressed head to toe in cutting-edge black Prada, emerged from the doorway of a Knightsbridge building and headed towards a waiting cab.

As she pulled the cab door open, she looked back up at the flat’s window to see the silhouette of Jude and Great Morning TV’s Goldie Gilmartin snogging the faces off each other.

She smiled, turned and tripped into the car, landing spread eagled on the back seat.

Well, there were only so many miracles that Goldie Gilmartin could perform.

Now this was the way to go to work in London–no stress, no hassle, just sit back, relax, and watch the frantic bustle of the metropolis go by…Oh, and text your pal while you’re doing that.

2 grlfrnds? & 1 is GG. Thnx 4 wrning!

Roxy’s reply came back in seconds.

All hail da sex God. PS: re-arrngd ur filing systm.

Ginny felt a flush of anxiety creep up her neck. No! That system was her pride and joy, her baby. She’d planned it meticulously, she’d worked late, she’d even bought coloured card from the stationer’s up the High Street with her own money, and now–she couldn’t even bear to think about it–now, Roxy had gone and…

Her phone bleeped again. Roxy. She opened the text.

Ha! Kidding.

Why? Why were they friends? Ginny sighed, trying to get her heart rate back to a state that didn’t suggest cardiac arrest was imminent–a task that was immediately undone when she turned her thoughts to the Seismic.

On the plus side, Sam was obviously okay about her coming, as Roxy had promised to warn her if he had any reservations about it.

On the negative side, her body slipped into a mild panic attack at the very thought of the day ahead. Let’s face it, it wasn’t even noon and so far that morning living Roxy’s life had involved near drowning, indecent exposure, and being dressed by a woman who earned in excess of a million a year. If this was normality then she’d hate to get a taste of crazy.

She tried Darren’s mobile again–still no answer. Maybe she should just go home and stop this ridiculous charade before the stress caused permanent damage to her major organs.

Why was she doing this? She could be sitting in the library right now, drinking tea, eating a Penguin and trying to stop the fifth-year study group from the local high school from smoking hash and shagging in the toilets. It wasn’t the actual activity she minded so much as the fact that in the last month they’d broken two towel holders and a soap dispenser off the wall. It was just wrong on every level that sixteen-year-olds should be having hot, frantic sex when she was suffering from acute boredom of the genital department.

She frowned–had that thought really come into her head? There was nothing wrong with her and Darren’s sex life! Okay, so it was fairly perfunctory–missionary, doggy, and if they were feeling really wild, a spot of oral sex just to get things going–but at least it was regular: Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturday nights and Sunday mornings (except when Mrs Jones from next door had PMT because then she booked Darren for a Sunday-morning five-mile run to work off the aggression).

No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their sex life and the only reason she resented Team Delinquent was because the library didn’t have a maintenance budget to repair the damage in the loos. That was definitely her only issue. Well, that and the fact that the noise sometimes reached the members of the Perky Pensioners in the poetry corner nearby and she wasn’t sure their pacemakers were up to the strain.

Anyway, it was time to push the shenanigans of Farnham Hills out of her head and concentrate on psyching herself up for the shenanigans of Mayfair.

She tried to remember the tips in the best-selling self-help book that had come in the month before: Stress Overload? Take the Steps to Serenity. Although she wasn’t sure the book was up to much since the author had recently taken the steps to the Priory after a road-rage incident involving a truck, a milk cart and a thirteen-mile police chase.

She shook out her shoulders, exhaled, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Okay, step one: Picture the situ—

‘Excuse me, love, but we’re ’ere.’

And that’s why self-help books were a load of tosh–if you had the time to read the bloody things then you obviously didn’t need them in the first place.

She pulled her purse out of her bag.

‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothin’ love, it’s on account.’

She pulled out a fiver and slipped it through the slot in the glass.

‘Cheers, darlin’. Same time tomorrow?’

Well, would it be? Would she be coming back? Or would one day in a place where the activities would make Team Junior Delinquent look like spokespeople for conservative values be enough for her?

‘Definitely. Same time tomorrow.’

Ginny Wallis had come–now she just had to conquer.

Or should she leave that kind of stuff to the sadomasochism department of her new place of employment?

Ginny stood and stared at the tree-lined street, with a row of luxury vehicles bordering each pavement. Porsche. Mercedes. Porsche. Bentley. Another Porsche. Mercedes. BMW. There wasn’t even a complementary Corsa thrown in as an ethnic minority. This was where people of serious dosh flashed their cash. And their privates, apparently.

She switched her gaze to the building in front of her–a Georgian terraced townhouse, sandblasted walls, restored windows, petunias in the planters on either side of the entrance, a glossy green door and, beside it, a very subtle gold plaque, announcing in black italics that this was the home of The Seismic Lounge.

Class. Sheer class. If you overlooked the whole ‘get your knockers out for the boys’ stuff that took place inside. Inside. Ginny took a deep breath and steeled herself for movement. Who. Dares. Wins. If that motto could motivate the SAS to storm foreign embassies then surely it could get her past the front door of a knocking shop.

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.

Seconds later she was pressing the bell and watching as two cameras swivelled in her direction. ‘Good morning, can I help you?’

Ginny leaned over to the chrome speaker above the buzzer.

‘Er, I’m Ginny. Erm, Ginny Wallis. I’m working here today.’ She somehow managed to stop short of adding, ‘Which is a really, really bad idea and I’ve changed my mind so can you please phone my mum and beg her to come and collect me.’

The door swept open and Ginny crossed the line. That was it–no going back. She followed the shiny walnut floor along the hallway, barely registering the striking primary-coloured canvases that punctuated the lush ivory walls.

The end of the corridor opened into a reception area that–wow–was so far from her expectations that she was temporarily stunned. She’d anticipated pink walls, red sofas, porn posters and glass tables dotted with Playboy magazines and penis-shaped cigar holders. Where were the girls in red chiffon baby dolls and Perspex platforms the size of Fiat Puntos? Where were the red glass bowls filled with an international selection of condoms?

This room wouldn’t be out of place at the HQ of any large corporation. Welcome to Hookersville Inc.

It was an eclectic mix of old and new. The stunning glass and chrome reception desk juxtaposed against beautiful antique lamps. The original wooden flooring was an exquisite contrast to the thick, cream rugs. And the modern-art pieces were the epitome of clean lines, yet somehow didn’t clash with the three more traditional large bronze life-form statues–although that may have been because the statues demanded full attention on account of the fact that they were all males with their extremely generous appendages dangling in the breeze. Cancel that last statement. Ginny’s eyes widened as she took in the full view of the third statue–which, going by the evidence, was probably called something like Man in State of Arousal.

So at least now she knew where to hang her umbrella.

‘He has that effect on everyone. What I wouldn’t give to get stuck in a lift for two hours with the real thing. I’m Jennifer.’

Ginny automatically smiled at the stunning girl sitting on the cream leather chair behind the desk. Flawless skin, two sheets of perfect blonde hair hanging from a middle parting, a cream roll neck and cream crepe trousers. She was Roxy in negative.

‘Hi, I’m Ginny.’

The muted ring of a telephone cut into the conversation. Jennifer immediately turned her attention to the state-of-the-art switchboard and gesticulated in the direction of a door on the opposite wall.

‘Great–go through that door, turn right, along to the end of the corridor and it’s the room that says Eden Suite on the door.’

Okay, not quite the reception she’d been hoping for, but then at least she’d been expected so Roxy had obviously phoned and cleared everything as promised. Phew. After last night’s encounter with Jude and the Amazonian, she’d had visions of arriving to puzzled expressions.

A wave of dizziness overtook her; a sharp reminder that she’d been holding her breath for so long that there was a distinct lack of oxygen reaching the brain. Breathe. Breathe. She could do this. She was Roxy’s lifelong friend, she’d been styled by Goldie Gilmartin and she was borderline premenstrual–a combination that should give her enough balls and determination to get through anything.

She followed Jennifer’s directions and crossed the reception, then turned right into a sumptuous corridor of pale gold walls and a deep olive carpet so thick that she started to wobble on her heels. She passed several solid wood-panelled doors and a small elevator, and then just as the effort of staying upright was beginning to bring on a tension headache, she reached the door at the very end of the corridor: the Eden Suite.

Human Resources department, perhaps? Or Sam’s office? Staffroom? Or where they provided the brown paper bags for her to hyperventilate into?

She tentatively knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ replied a very posh female voice.

‘Confidence, Ginny, confidence,’ she whispered to herself as she made the necessary last-minute adjustments–hair flicked back, bag pulled up onto shoulder, sweaty palms wiped on trousers–then clutched the brass doorknob and turned it.

The door swept open and in the ten seconds it took for Ginny’s brain to process the scene in front of her, there was a quizzical look, a muffled groan, a massive gasp, a rush of blood to the ears and paralysis of the limbs. The last three belonged to Ginny–apt, as she was apparently in the right place to receive medical attention, having stumbled onto the set of Holby City. Or, rather, the porn version–Holby Titty.