Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Shari Low 2008

Shari Low asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847560124

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007334964

Version: 2018-06-19

MY BEST FRIEND’S LIFE

by

Shari Low

To Rosina Hill, for your support, your courage

and your huge big heart…

To John, just everything, always…

And to my gorgeous, incredible boys, Callan

and Brad…Now go tidy your rooms.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One - Tom, Harry, Forget about Dick

Chapter Two - I Feel the Earth Move

Chapter Three - Don’t Go Changing

Chapter Four

Chapter Five - We Are Family

Chapter Six - The Love Shack

Chapter Seven - Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?

Chapter Eight - These Boots are Made for Walking

Chapter Nine - Doctor Feelgood

Chapter Ten - Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter Eleven - Blowing in the Wind

Chapter Twelve - Man, I Feel Like a Woman

Chapter Thirteen - Have I Told You Lately?

Chapter Fourteen - Do That to Me One More Time

Chapter Fifteen - Stop, in the Name of Love

Chapter Sixteen - Easy

Chapter Seventeen - Baby Love

Chapter Eighteen - I Got You, Babe

Chapter Nineteen - If You Leave Me Now

Chapter Twenty - Unbreak My Heart

Chapter Twenty One - Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I’m Yours

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The Daily Globe 22 June 2006

The Prime Minister announced today that, in line with European legislation, the government has decided to ease restrictions currently placed on the operation of brothels within the UK.

In this controversial move, it is proposed that from 1 July this year, local authorities will have the power to license and oversee premises engaged in the business of providing sex for payment.

Announcing the new regulations, the Prime Minister released the following statement:

‘It has been clear for some time that current legislation pertaining to the adult entertainment industry is neither realistic nor effective. In recent years we have seen dramatic increases both in the number of arrests for prostitution and in the influx of sex trade workers from other EU countries. This government has concluded that the only progressive, sensible way forward is to legitimise this industry, therefore allowing it to be controlled and regulated.

I’d like to give my firm commitment that I–assisted by a focus group comprised of six cross-party MPs to be called the Adult Entertainment Regulatory Commission–will personally monitor the success of the new guidelines and be fully involved in the forthcoming months in the evolution of progressive policies to further develop this sector.’

The Prime Minister refused to confirm, however, that applications to join the Regulatory Commission reached an unprecedented level, with 91 per cent of government members requesting a position.

ONE Tom, Harry, Forget about Dick

Ginny’s bedroom, the village of Farnham Hills, near Chipping Sodbury, Autumn 2007

‘So you mean, like, a penis embargo?’

‘Correct,’ replied Roxy. ‘I’m going to be an official willy-free zone. I’m on a twelve-step male-genital detox programme: Step number one, boyfriend is history. Step number two, I quit my job. Step number three, I recruit my best friend to help me get a new job. Er, Ginny, honey, that’s you.’

There was a pause so pregnant it could have applied to Social Services for free milk vouchers and child benefit.

Roxy waited for a reaction. None. Nada. Okay, so this wasn’t going to plan. Normally she could rely on Ginny to react in exactly the way she’d been reacting to everything Roxy said since they were sitting side by side in the playpen.

Act one: Rolling of eyes.

Act two: Loud tutting noise.

Act three: Adopts the approximate expression of someone who has just discovered that she is chewing a wasp.

Act four: Capitulates, offers sympathy, then digs friend out of big hole.

But no. Ginny was staring mournfully into space, as if she’d slipped into one of those cosmic, out-of-body trances that pass the time while you’re waiting in the bank queue or having a smear test.

‘Ginny?’ she probed, attempting to snap her friend’s focus back to the most important thing in life–herself.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I need help! Ginny, I’m single, I’m unemployed, I’m devastated…I’m desperate!’

From her cramp-inducing position on a tatty beanbag (circa 1990), Ginny looked over at her clapped-out single bed and the female reclining on it–probably the least desperate-looking woman she had ever set eyes on. Roxy’s jet-black hair hung in sleek, shiny slates from her middle parting to her shoulder bones. Her perfect, size twelve, über-toned frame was adorned in her standard uniform of black Prada boot-cut trousers, a black Nicole Farhi cashmere roll-neck and lethal four-inch stiletto Gina boots. Skin: flawless. Nails: perfectly plastic. Make-up: subtle. Breasts: pert. And Ginny just knew without looking that there were no hairs on Roxy’s legs, no hard skin on her feet, and her nethers had applied for permanent residence in Brazil.

There was no doubt about it: Roxy Galloway was channelling Angelina Jolie.

Ginny Wallis, meanwhile, was channelling the bag lady who sat outside Superdrug on an inner tube flogging jewellery she’d made out of string and discarded scratchcards.

She sighed wearily, so immune to Roxy’s perpetual melodramas that she’d slipped into a moment of reflection instead of enthusiastically participating in the panic. The contrast of her glam, glitzy, cutting-edge friend with the greyness of Ginny’s life somehow highlighted the fact that Ginny was twenty-seven and still living at home in a bedroom that hadn’t changed since the Nineties. The duvet was a tribute to the golden days when boy bands ruled the world. If the carpet ever revisited its former life it would have been baby pink and orange–now, ten years of spills and wear later, it was a delicate shade of road-kill. Even woodworm would shun the furniture. And the curtains were obviously designed by someone on LSD, bought by someone on crack and then hung by someone on two bottles of cider and a Lambert & Butler that Roxy had stolen from her mother’s handbag.

And they had paid for that wild, drunken, smoky, teenage night of fabric-hanging by being grounded for a month and having their Christmas Top Shop vouchers confiscated.

Urgh, it was depressing. Ginny pulled a bit of fluff off her hoodie, and pushed her riot of mousey-brown frizz back off her forehead.

‘Roxy, when did I become so old that I thought jogging bottoms and sweatshirts were acceptable as everyday outerwear?’

‘Honey, until four o’clock this afternoon when I resigned from my erstwhile employment, I worked with people who thought a crotch-baring French maid’s costume, nipple rings and five-inch Perspex platforms were acceptable everyday outerwear.’ Roxy’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Oh, I miss them,’ she wailed. ‘Have I made a mistake? I mean, it was a prestigious career in the hospitality industry…’

‘Roxy, you worked in a whorehouse,’ Ginny interjected, with a tut and a roll of the eyes.

Phew. Normal service was almost resumed. All they needed was the wasp-chewing face and they were back on track to Moral Support Central.

‘A classy, cosmopolitan, extremely upmarket entertainment club, if you don’t mind.’

Actually Ginny did mind. It wasn’t that she was a prude, it’s just that, well, she’d never understood Roxy’s career choice. Receptionist at the Seismic Lounge: guaranteed to make the earth move. Yep, whatever marketing genius had thought up that slogan was probably now enjoying a fulfilling career flipping burgers. Or making scratchcard jewellery next to the bag lady outside Superdrug.

Roxy had been ecstatic when she got the job. The club had opened the day after the government legalised brothels–definitely some insider information at work there–and it was on one of the most exclusive streets in Mayfair. Four hours of copulation cost the same as a second-hand Corsa, most of the girls spoke with accents that could crack windows, and the sex toys came gold-plated. It oozed class and made no apologies for targeting only the extremely wealthy. It even employed chauffeurs to collect the clients in blacked-out Range Rovers and bring them in through a private underground car park so that the paparazzi never got a recognisable shot. Actually, that wasn’t true–Stephen Knight, notorious B-list movie star, usually arrived in his open-top Aston Martin DB7 and parked it right outside the door. He was obviously channelling Charlie Sheen.

To Roxy, it was all so decadently glamorous. Short of becoming a fake-tan consultant or adopting a serial football-player-shagging habit, it seemed like the easiest way to hobnob with the rich and/or famous on a daily basis.

Glitz, high rollers, decadence and dosh–it was the life she’d always dreamt of (although, to be honest, she hadn’t exactly foreseen that the high life would carry a faint whiff of antibacterial cleaning spray and that she’d witness all the activity from behind a desk).

Roxy had always thought it was an aberration that she’d been born in Farnham Hills. She’d decided at an early age that the stork had obviously been on its way to a four-storey, three-million-pound townhouse in Belgravia when it was cruelly struck down by a shot from an armed robber’s rifle (yes, she had a very vivid imagination, even as a child) and forced to drop its precious bundle in an environment in which she clearly didn’t belong. When her classmates were splashing their pocket money on Just Seventeen, she was buying Vogue. When, at sixteen, they were fantasising about a fortnight in Faliraki, she was dreaming of a weekend in St Tropez. And when they were imagining their future husbands, children, and three-bedroom semis on the new housing estate on the edge of the village, she was imagining tunnelling to freedom and spending the rest of her life shagging an obscenely rich bloke, surrounded by walnut panelling in the master suite of his custom-built yacht.

And okay, so she wasn’t quite there yet, but when she was offered the job at the Seismic she instinctively knew that she had opened the door to the world she belonged in.

And the bonus was that, as receptionist, she only had to meet, greet and keep the customer records up to date. The money was great, the tips were outstanding and, unlike the rest of the girls, her pay packet didn’t come at the expense of cystitis.

She loved it–at least to start with. But over the last couple of months it had all seemed a little too repetitive. The same faces week after week, the endless stream of girls (who invariably quit once they’d earned enough to buy a flat, finished university or received an irresistible offer of marriage from a blue-blooded, upper-class, Eton-educated arms dealer), and the rising scepticism after yet another client did an ‘At Home with the Happy Family’ spread in Hello!. Roxy had to admit it–the job was wearing down her trust in men and turning the loving act of sex into a business transaction. Did you enjoy your ejaculation, sir? Oh, lovely–now would that be Visa, MasterCard or American Express?

She just wanted to be like normal people (porn stars and penile-implant specialists aside) and experience a daily life that wasn’t controlled or influenced by actions of the male reproductive organ.

She could probably have struggled on for another couple of months, but the latest devastation in her love life had tipped her over the edge. She winced. She still couldn’t believe that after two years of devotion Felix was history. Gone. Past tense.

But after spending three days submerged in hysterical mourning she had decided that no man was worth a forty-five per cent increase in wrinkles caused by perpetual sobbing–even if he was the first and–penis-embargo withstanding–last love of her life.

She would never, ever mention his name again.

Ever.

Except in a blatant ploy to get help and sympathy from a bored, indifferent best friend…

‘God, Ginny, you’re so self-absorbed. Since Felix betrayed me I’m experiencing such an overwhelming trauma that I’ve put off having my roots done, I can’t face going out and I’m so bitter that my karma has gone all to fuck. I mean, how would you feel if you were not only unemployed, but you’d caught the love of your life shagging the local florist?’ she wailed. ‘And he didn’t even have the decency to send me a bunch of bloody flowers.’

Ginny nodded in what she hoped vaguely resembled a sympathetic expression. It lasted about three seconds before the truth made a break for freedom.

‘He was a twat anyway.’

‘He was not!’ Roxie protested.

‘Was.’

‘Was not.’

Ginny sighed. ‘You do realise that we’re twenty-seven? Apparently we should have given up on childish, petty, pantomime dialogue somewhere around puberty. Remind me again why we’re friends?’

She had a point. Almost thirty years of friendship, based on having absolutely nothing in common other than the fact that they were born on the same day and their mothers were distantly related. Speaking of which…

‘Hellooooooooooo, girlies.’ The sing-song shriek came from downstairs and was accompanied by a slamming door and the smell of chow mein.

Said girlies groaned. ‘How can you be related to someone who sounds like that? You know, you really have to move out of your mother’s house, Gin–it’s obscene that you still live here at your age.’

‘And is my favourite girlie still up there too?’ screeched another voice, which to the untrained ear sounded very like the first one.

Roxy sighed. ‘And how can I be related to someone who sounds like that?’

Then, louder, ‘Yes, Mum, I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘I’ve got your favourite here, sweetie–prawn crackers and crispy chicken. We thought we’d all have dinner together.’

‘Gin, do you think our mothers are having a lesbian affair? I haven’t seen them apart since about 1974. Urgh, mental image, my mother muff-diving…don’t think I can face those prawn crackers now. And I’m not buying that my mother moved in here just for the companionship.’

Gin giggled. ‘You have a sex-obsessed, twisted mind. They’re not lovers, they’re cousins.’

‘About third cousins, four times removed. I’ve met people in public toilets who are closer relations than that. But think about it. Since your dad popped his clogs and my dad popped Mrs Fleming from the fish shop, they’ve been joined at the hip. Urgh, another mental thought that I could live without.’

‘They’re cousins!’ shrieked Ginny, smacking Roxy with a threadbare, heart-shaped pink pillow, and still her perfect hair didn’t move an inch out of place.

‘There should be a law against parents having sex. Come on then, let’s go join them. But when we’re finished you have to help me update my CV and find a new job, Gin–you know I’m hopeless at that kind of stuff.’

‘And what am I, a careers officer?’ Ginny replied indignantly.

‘You work in a library! There are loads of job information advice thingies in there.’

‘There are also several editions of the Kama Sutra and a whole bloody shelf on the menopause, but I know sod all about those either.’

Objection overruled.

‘Come on, hon, please. I really need you to help me decide what I’m going to do. Maybe I should take a year out and travel a bit. Or go back to university. I only had one year left to do, before…well…before…’

‘Before you got caught giving the philosophy professor a blow job. Under a podium. During a lecture.’

‘Girlies!!!’ came another shriek from downstairs.

Ginny groaned. ‘You know, Rox, you’re right–I have to move out of here. I need to stop wearing clothes with “sweat” in the title, and I need to shred the apron strings.’

Suddenly, a rousing chorus of ‘Hey Big Spender’ filled the room.

‘Rox, either your arse is singing or that’s the naffest ringtone I’ve ever heard.’

Roxy ignored her and checked the screen.

‘Shit. Shit. Bloody shit. It’s Sam at the Seismic.’

‘What did he say when you resigned?’

‘Actually I just left a note. Couldn’t face them.’

To Ginny, this didn’t exactly come as a newsflash. It was vintage Roxy. Roxy, who couldn’t face up to life’s un-pleasantries if her Miu Miu mules depended on it. It had been the same their whole lives. Roxy couldn’t tell a boy she didn’t like him any more so she sent Ginny. Roxy never did her homework, she just copied Ginny’s. Roxy didn’t want to tell her mother she was leaving home, so she did a midnight flit. Ginny carried the bags. Crazy, impetuous, dramatic, spontaneous, endlessly fucking irritating Roxy.

But then…

Wasn’t that the same Roxy who had poured a can of Vimto down the front of Kevin Smith trousers in primary school because he’d put chewing gum in Ginny’s hair? The poor guy was probably still in therapy trying to eradicate the nightmare of spending the next ten years with the nickname Pisspants.

And wasn’t that the same Roxy who’d bought Ginny her very first box of tampons? Actually, she’d stolen them from a fifth-year prefect’s gym bag, but the thought was still there.

And that was definitely the same Roxy who had invented the care package that got Ginny through every teenage moment of doubt, insecurity or low self-esteem: two Mars Bars, a packet of Silk Cut, a bottle of Diamond White and the Dirty Dancing video.

Ginny’s face reverted to pensive-slash-wasp-chewing as she grudgingly conceded that, despite all Roxy’s faults, she was more than a friend and general irritation: she was the closest thing Ginny had ever had to a sister. One who was insanely annoying, spoilt, demanding, high maintenance, yet still managed to make Ginny laugh more than anyone else on earth. And, if she was totally honest, sometimes she admired Roxy’s spirit. At least Roxy had taken chances in life, she’d broken the mould and experienced a bit of excitement and danger–although that police caution for flashing her baps at a bus full of American tourists travelling down Farnham Hills High Street had been a jolly jape too far.

Nope, at least Roxy would never be boring, Ginny conceded dolefully.

Unlike her chum, no one would ever call Ginny spontaneous. Her life’s CV could fill one paragraph: Same job since she left school almost a decade earlier, same boyfriend for twelve years, still lives in the same village she’s lived in all her life, with her mother, in a bedroom that she hasn’t decorated since before the millennium. Ginny was so ponderous that she took two weeks to decide to order something out of a catalogue, and that was with the safety net of a money-back guarantee.

Boring? Check. Restrained? Check. Dead? It was pretty close…

Ginny pulled at a thread at the bottom of her sleeve and half the cuff unravelled. Fabulous. She hastily shoved the sleeve halfway up her arm to conceal the demise of a sweatshirt that had given her years of loyal service.

She glanced at Roxy and guessed that Roxy probably didn’t have a single thing in her wardrobe that was more than six months old. Urgh, sometimes Ginny really felt like the bland, wardrobe-challenged poor relation. But then, this was the life she’d chosen. This is what made her happy. Content. Satisfied with her lot. Condemned to a lifetime of mediocrity. Ouch, where had that come from?

It was just that sometimes…Well, just sometimes she’d like to know what it felt like to get dressed up to the nines in designer togs, in a bra and pants that weren’t matching shades of grey, in shoes that didn’t lace up and come in three different shades of boring, and spend just one day where she couldn’t predict–down to the last second–everything that would happen.

She shrugged off her melancholy. It didn’t matter if she had the odd moment of regret–she’d already chosen her path, and her ship hadn’t so much sailed as sprung a leak, capsized, and plummeted to the bottom of the local pond. And anyway, who was to say that any other life would make her happier than the one she had here with her mother, long-standing boyfriend and steady job, in the village she’d always lived in, with the same people she’d been seeing every single day of her life? This was it. And it was as good as it was going to get. Wasn’t it?

Over on the bed, Roxy was blustering into the phone. ‘But I don’t know anyone who can cover it! Okay. Okay. I understand. Okay. I’ll get back to you. Sorry, Sam.’

She snapped the phone shut.

‘Fuck.’

Ginny climbed out of the pond and rejoined the drama. ‘Problem?’

‘He says I can’t just walk out–something about a one-month notice period, blah, blah, blah. He sounds really pissed off. Apparently Sascha has gone off with herpes and Tilly has been barricaded in a hotel by the News of the World because she’s doing a kiss-and-tell on some MP this week, so they’ve got no one to cover for me. He says I’ll lose my holiday pay and my salary and, oh, I don’t know, a bloody kidney if I’m not at the desk tomorrow. So much for turning over a new leaf.’

Roxy looked at her watch. ‘The new, penis-avoiding me lasted for a whole eight hours…’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘…and now Felix will know where to find me and he’ll come begging me to take him back.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘…And I tell you, if he pitches up with a bunch of petunias I’ll shove them up his…What?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Cover your shift at the Seismic. Sam’s the guy I met at your birthday party, right? The one who helped me fill the vol-au-vents?’

Roxy groaned. ‘Still can’t believe you brought vol-au-vents to my party. Thank God Gordon Ramsay couldn’t make it or you’d have had his stroke on your conscience.’

‘Can we just focus on Sam? He was nice. Your type actually–how come you didn’t go for him instead of the dickhead?’

Roxy’s lip pouted even further than usual. ‘Thought about it, he fits all the criteria, but the man works in a brothel–could you imagine the dinner-party conversation? “Hi, I’m Jeremy, I’m in hedge funds, and you?” “I’m Sam–vaginas.”’

Ginny shrieked with laughter, but Roxy barely rose from her morose state. ‘Anyway, Sam, party, so?’

‘Well, he was nice. Vaginas aside, obviously. Said if I ever decided to move into the city I should check in with him to see if there were any vacancies. Of course, I was wearing your clothes, your jewellery and your shoes at the time, so he probably thought I was Miss Cosmopolitan Girl about Town. Anyway, if it’s only for a month, surely he wouldn’t mind?’

‘But even if it was okay with Sam, what about your job? Where will you live? You can’t commute, the hours are too irregular.’

‘I’ll move into your place.’

‘And I would live…?’

‘Here.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

Ginny’s inspiration was gathering speed. Suddenly this seemed like the best idea she’d ever had. Spontaneous? She could be spontaneous. Her enthusiasm bubbled. Spontaneous was her middle name. Actually, it was Violet, after her mother, but that wasn’t the point.

‘I’m not. Come on, Roxy–it totally works! That gives you a month to sort out what you’re going to do with your life and heal that devastated soul. Should be ample time. You can live here and you can take my job in the library. You said it yourself, it’s the best place to research your future options.’

‘But they’d never let me.’

‘Course they would. Hold on, I’ll ask the manager.’ Ginny opened her bedroom door.

‘Muuuuum, is it okay if Roxy takes my place at the library for a few days?’

‘Course it is, dear. Now, hurry up, or I’ll have to microwave your hoisin sauce.’

‘That’s settled then. Come on, you know what to do there, you covered my holidays.’

‘That was in 1998!’

‘Trust me, nothing’s changed. What shift are you supposed to be on tomorrow?’

‘Er, noon till eight,’ replied Roxy tentatively. She had a horrible feeling that for the first time in her life she was being outmanoeuvred. The library. One month. God, she could smell the boredom.

But then, she couldn’t face London again. She needed a break. She needed to be away from the Seismic, away from memories of Felix, away from the constant pressure to be nice to grown men who paid for women half their age to attach probes to their testicles.

‘Okay, I’ll do it. On one condition…’

‘Name it,’ said Ginny.

‘I’m changing that duvet. If I’m going to sleep with Westlife, then I want them to have working parts.’

Summary:

Ginny shows little or no interest in PE, Drama, Art or Music. Her only focus in the arts is in the field of literature, where Ginny shows a voracious appetite for all genres.

This was reflected in her achievement of second place in the county short-story competition with her splendid entry, ‘The Day My Cousin Stole My Bike’.

Ginny should be encouraged, however, to broaden her interests to encompass other disciplines and areas.

Personal Skills:

Ginny’s behaviour and conduct within the school this year has, as always, been exemplary. She has achieved a 100 per cent attendance record and a perfect punctuality score.

She is articulate, pleasant, diligent and always keen to help others.

She works well under direction, but is equally capable of using her own initiative.

Ginny has a keen analytical mind and excels in her ability to absorb and process information.

Ginny has now assumed her new role in the school library, where she is responsible for the efficient management of the record systems and the inventory. She is handling this position with efficiency and enthusiasm.

Challenges/Development Needs:

Ginny continues to lack confidence and finds it difficult to assert herself, especially in the presence of authority or stronger characters. As a consequence of this, she can occasionally be easily led–as witnessed by the smoking incident earlier in the year.

Shyness also continues to be a challenge, and this often prevents Ginny from participating in class or group discussions or projects.

It is hoped that as Ginny matures her confidence will improve, allowing her interpersonal skills to develop to the same level as her intellectual abilities.

Signed:

TWO I Feel the Earth Move

Ginny. Day One, Sunday, 9 p.m.

It was hard to tell what was thumping louder: the wheels of the train, Ginny’s heart or the adrenaline that was making her toes tingle. Actually, the latter two may have been caused by the fact that she was wearing Roxy’s Gina boots and they were a size and a half too small. But bugger it, she was done with playing it safe, being sensible and pitching camp in her comfort zone–now, for war, hostage situations, life and fabulous footwear, she was adopting the motto of the fearless: Who Dares Wins.

As long as the blisters didn’t turn septic and kill her first.

And anyway, she was hardly going to start her windswept glamorous month in the UK’s metropolis in a pair of Hush Puppies that she had fished from the Shoerite sale bin.

She spotted the middle-aged woman in the beige padded mac sitting across from her, eyeing up her faux leopardskin trolley-case: flashy, trashy, and guaranteed to make Jackie Collins weak at the knees with lust. She’d had to prise Roxy’s fingers off it one by one. It was one thing taking her job, her flat and her life, but apparently her luggage was connected to her soul by an invisible umbilical cord and could only be freed by two hours of persuasion, vast amounts of grovelling and the promise of a blood donation should Roxy ever require it.

This furry suitcase on wheels was the personification of the new Ginny: bold, outrageous, completely out of character with its environment. Her stomach flipped with a surge of excitement, an emotion that up until that afternoon she’d thought twenty-seven years in Farnham Hills had knocked out of her. Ten miles from Chipping Sodbury, almost two hours west of London by train, population 3,453, Farnham Hills should have an official disclaimer at the village gates.

WARNING: Residence in this area can induce feelings of intense lethargy, boredom and, in extreme cases, a sudden and irrevocable fusion of the buttocks to the nearest couch.

Ginny grinned and a giggle escaped her as she allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. She felt bold! She felt fearless!

The woman opposite, however, just felt mildly disturbed that Ginny was laughing for no evident reason and hatched a plan to pretend to disembark at the next station then jump back on into another carriage. But Ginny was oblivious, too busy revelling in the astonishment that she had finally plucked up the motivation for a long-overdue break from monotony. She was on a mission to walk on the wild side–although she might want to shop for comfortable footwear first. Never in her life had she behaved in such an irresponsible manner, and she was determined that nothing or no one was going to stop her. Ginny Wallis was finally going to start living!

‘S’cuse me, dear, is this your phone under there?’

The woman across from her was bent over, peering under Ginny’s seat, her support tights fraying under the strain.

Her congratulatory contemplation interrupted, Ginny got down on her knees and fished under her seat for the stray ringing device. She checked the phone, then the screen–Darren. So much for her new, independent life. She hadn’t gone three miles from home and she’d already lost her phone, and only a timely intervention by the dual forces of a disapproving stranger and her boyfriend of twelve years had delivered it back to her. Maybe Roxy was right–maybe years of suburban institutionalisation had rendered her unsafe to leave home without a responsible adult.

She took the call.

‘Hi babes, it’s me. I’m just on my way over–I was going to bring a DVD–are you in the mood for Scarface or Armageddon?’

Ginny pondered the question. Brutal violence in the gutter of humanity or a global cremation? Somewhere deep inside her, her new happy-go-lucky gene was clutching its heart and screaming for a paramedic.

Suddenly Ginny realised that she couldn’t breathe, and not just because Roxy’s shocking pink Wonderbra was so tight and uncomfortably bosom-levitating that she could rest her chin on her cleavage. Who was she kidding with the whole ‘walk on the wild side’ nonsense? Ginny wasn’t wild, she was sensible. Conservative. Cautious. She was the woman who wouldn’t go out after dark without a mobile phone, a first-aid kit and pepper spray. This whole thing was ridiculous. She wasn’t some flighty eighteen-year-old, she was a grown woman who should know better. Suddenly, she could think of nothing she wanted more than to get off the train and head back home for a familiar night of companionship, affection and violent DVDs. She could just put this whole thing down to friendship-induced diminished responsibility. People would understand–Roxy had been driving everyone nuts for years. But…

But what about excitement? What about adventure? She put her hand up her back and surreptitiously unhooked her bra, allowing her breasts to deflate and her lungs to regain their normal capacity.

She inhaled deeply: breathe, breathe, breathe. Okay, here goes.

‘Actually, Darren, something’s come up. Can we give tonight a miss?’

There was a deafening silence as his brain tried to compute this information. In Ginny’s life, nothing ever just cropped up. It was like saying the world was flat or Nicole Ritchie had a high-grade Bakewell tart habit.

He was stuttering now.

‘Sure, babes, so tomorrow night?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Tuesday?’

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to have to tell him. She was a grown bloody woman. She could do this. She could.

‘I’m, erm, working. You know. At work. My work. Work. Working. Shit!’

Okay, maybe she couldn’t.

‘What?’

‘Okay! But don’t be pissed off. It’s just that I’m doing a favour for Roxy…’

‘Are you on a train?’ he blurted.

‘And she’s on a penis embargo…’

Exit one fellow traveller, bustling off at speed with suitcase in tow and a backwards, disapproving glare.

‘…so I’m filling in for her at work for a month. Just a month. No biggie. And it’s not as if I’m miles away–only a couple of hours. We can still catch up on my days off. And…’

There was a deafening noise as the 10.30 p.m. express to Bristol sped past them in the other direction. She wasn’t sure if he’d hung up or the signal had dipped out. A sudden creeping feeling of nausea rose from her stomach. And she hadn’t even been to the buffet car.

Was she being crazy? Why was she risking upsetting the one thing in her life that was truly outstanding?

Darren. Darren and Ginny. Ginny and Darren.

It sounded so right, like the perfect couple. Or the kind of act that wears coordinating costumes and gets nil points at the Eurovision Song Contest.

They’d met at school. Two pubescent, hormonal souls intrinsically linked by inherent geekdom and the love of biology, physics and orderly conduct.

Twelve years later they were still together and happy. If you overlooked the whole ‘bored rigid, fleeing to London’ thing.

She’d miss him. She really would. He was one of the good guys–he’d never cheated, betrayed her, let her down or told her that her arse was massive. Actually, since he’d developed his love of science into a degree in anatomy and a career as a personal trainer to Farnham Hills’s rich and bored housewives, he could probably nip the fat-arse thing in the bud anyway.

But the firm bottom line was that he was a nice guy. And the six-pack stomach wasn’t exactly a hindrance to his desirability either. But lately…Well, sometimes nice just wasn’t enough. He worked such long hours maintaining the inner thighs of the village that they’d settled into a mind-numbing routine. He’d work all day, then pop over to her house every second night around nine. They’d watch TV, fall asleep on the sofa, and then he’d let himself out when he woke up. At weekends, they’d really live it up and order in a takeaway or nip down to the local pub for a few drinks. Just a few. After all, it would border on criminal to deprive the wedding fund of its weekly income.

The wedding. Or, to give it its official title, ‘Her Mother’s Reason for Living’. They’d been planning it for so long that at least a dozen of the original guests would only be attending with the help of Derek Acorah.

Every single iota of her being wanted to marry Darren Jenkins–except the ones that watched Sex and the City, realised that there was a big world out there and recoiled at the very thought of only having sex with one bloke for the rest of her life.

What was she, a Fifties throwback? How many women would go through the whole of their lives and only have intimate relations with one male organ?

It was obscene. Prehistoric. Pathetic. Her gravestone would read, ‘Here lies Ginny Wallis–woman of morals, traditional values, and the most unadventurous vagina in the free world.’

The passing of the 10.45 p.m. to Bath caused a thunderous noise that snapped her from her discontented musings.

She blew her hair off her face and gave herself a swift reality check. She loved Darren. She was going to marry him. This little adventure was not, repeat NOT, some veiled excuse for infidelity and wanton sexual exploits. It was just a bit of fun. A little injection of high-grade joie de vivre to snap her out of the mind-numbingly predictable torpor that she’d slipped into over recent years. One month of new routines, new faces, new sights and new experiences.

As the train pulled into Paddington Station, the bubbles of adrenaline started thumping through her veins again. She pulled up the handle on the leopardskin trolley case, swung her scarf around her neck and applied some lip-gloss. Roxy’s lip-gloss. She’d found it in the pocket of Roxy’s Zara swing coat, which she’d adopted a few hours before.

Ginny Wallis, visiting London on a one-month sanity visa, wore lip-gloss.

Oh yes, her pucker was going to teach her lady bits a thing or two about adventure.

As she stepped off the train and pulled the trolley behind her, a familiar figure caught her eye. Weird. She was sure that woman had got off the train a few stops back.

Curiosity forced her to crane her neck around. Yep, it was definitely…upside-down. The world was upside-down. She’d been in London for approximately thirty seconds and she’d fallen at the first hurdle. Literally. She winced as she took in the damage to her sprawled limbs. Her thighs, knees and ankles were fine but–whoa–her footwear was terminal. Shit, Roxy would kill her.

Ginny’s next thought wasn’t one she had ever imagined would run through her brain.

So exactly how many shifts would she have to work in a brothel to buy a new pair of Gina boots?

Summary:

Roxanne shows a keen interest in all areas of the expressive arts. She is currently a member of the netball team, the hockey team and the athletics team and is especially committed to her roles in the Lower School Mixed Volleyball Team and the Lower School Mixed Swimming Team. It was regrettable that Roxanne’s positions in the latter two teams came under threat due to the breach of school rules that was brought to your attention last month. This has, as advised, been noted on her school record, and she will in future be supervised when travelling to outside events with male members of any sporting squad.

She continues to excel in Drama and will play the role of Mary Magdalene in the forthcoming production of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Personal Skills:

Roxanne continues to be a challenge in areas of discipline, structure and responsiveness to authority. Her attendance score was 72 per cent this year, although that is expected to improve after our joint discussions with the amusement arcade and village café. She is, as agreed, now barred from both within school hours.

She is often resistant to direction and is easily distracted when charged with using her own initiative. She is prone to rambunctious behaviour and often displays a tendency to manipulate her peers and defy school rules and regulations.

However, it should be noted that, as her superior grades demonstrate, Roxanne is capable of achievement, especially in the subjects that she enjoys. It is perhaps unfortunate that she achieves these grades without any discernible effort or endeavour. Needless to say, should Roxanne apply herself to her schoolwork, it is the opinion of the teaching staff that she would excel in all subjects.

Challenges/Development Needs:

As discussed during our frequent contact this year, Roxanne must improve her general conduct and commitment within the school. She continues to flout authority, often initiating forbidden activities–as witnessed by the smoking incident earlier in the year. Her behaviour must improve if she wishes to remain at Farnham Hills High School.

Signed:

THREE Don’t Go Changing

Roxy. Day One, Sunday, 11 p.m.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Roxy stared at the ceiling as the hands ticked round on Ginny’s alarm clock. Her anxiety levels rose with every sound. It was bloody ridiculous–I mean, who even had ticking bloody clocks these days? Hadn’t Ginny realised that Europe now imported almost the whole of the national export quota of LCD tat from China? Well, at least now Roxy knew what to buy her for Christmas.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Urgh! She put her head under the pillow. After a few seconds she realised that this caused a slight problem with the respiratory functions necessary for maintaining life. She stuffed the alarm clock under the pillow instead. Finally, silence! She heard a creaking coming from further down the hall and her eyes widened. She bloody knew it! Her mother was sneaking into Auntie Violet’s room for some naked duvet wrestling. She should have known when her mother joined Weight Watchers that she was up to no good. Why was the thought of middle-aged parents having sex so hard to deal with? Still, she supposed she should be grateful–her mother and Auntie Vi having a tickle she could just about cope with, but the mental image of her mother being rogered over the sofa by some burly, hairy bloke would traumatise her for life.

Her ears strained as she craned to hear the Marks & Spencer’s thermal slippers padding along the Axminster.

Nope, it was too much–there were some times in life that oblivion was the preferred option. She needed a diversion and fast. She pulled the clock back out from under the pillow.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

This was a living hell. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t on the same scale as, say, civil war, famine or disease, but then, at least there was official aid for those situations. Who did she have to help her? Bloody no one. Her one stalwart, the only person she could depend on, had buggered off on the last train to London.

If it weren’t for the fact that the only things that could make this situation worse were puffy eyes, she’d have cried.

She missed Felix. She’d given him the best two years of her life, and how had he repaid her? With a betrayal that had devastated her to the very soul.

The lying bastard. The cheating, lying, arrogant, cold, condescending, mendacious scumbag. God, how she missed him.

She clenched her teeth to stop the tears. If she succumbed to a full-blown sobbing session she’d have to go to the bathroom for tissues, and the risk of what she’d meet on the way there was enough to quell the waterworks.

She had a sudden feeling of almighty dread. Didn’t her mother tell her that she’d been to an Ann Summers party in the village hall last month? A mental picture of two middle-aged women in PVC bondage gear only six inches away through a plasterboard wall flooded into her head. She pulled the alarm clock closer to her ears to drown out any sound effects. If she heard a buzzing noise coming from the next room the therapist bills would leave her bankrupt.

This wasn’t supposed to happen to her. She’d had her whole life planned out. Go to London. Fall in love with wealthy bloke. Marry in big castle with Mariah Carey singing ‘Ave Maria’ as she swept up the aisle.

Oh, she knew she was being unrealistic. Mariah didn’t do private functions–she’d have to settle for Charlotte Church.

But she’d really thought Felix was the one, because here was the thing: she really had loved him. After a lifetime of dispensing her love and affection towards the opposite sex in direct proportion to their wealth/status/power/generosity (if she ever met Bill Gates, he was in for the time of his life), Felix had totally ambushed her in the emotional department. They’d met in the underwear section of the gents’ floor in Harvey Nicks. He was stocking up on new Prada pants, while she was searching for trendy boxers for her latest fling: a fifty-five-year-old with a saggy arse and a penchant for thongs that was putting her off her food. Although the fact that he owned half of Buckinghamshire was a huge consolation (and, in all honesty, her very favourite thing about him).

But despite her devotion to her current man’s portfolio, she couldn’t help but admire Felix’s merchandise. He was over six foot (she checked out his shoes–nope, no lifts) and his shoulders were as broad as his hips were narrow. He was wearing cream chinos, moccasins, and the kind of preppy shirt that made him look like he belonged in one of those old black and white films of the Kennedy family playing touch football on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard.

The moment they made eye contact and he smiled at her across a Y-Fronts for the Older Man display, she realised to her utter astonishment that all that Mills & Boon ‘love at first sight’ mush that Ginny used to read really did have a basis in fact. If she’d been wearing a corset, she’d have whipped it off and made a dive for his throbbing loins right there and then.

Instead, she smiled back, said hi, and ten minutes later they were having coffee, two hours later they were having sex, and within the month they were talking long-term relationship with the prospect of a city flat and a house in the country, four kids (all at boarding school) and a month every summer in Barbados. She’d absolutely adored him. Her knees went to jelly when he walked into a room. Her stomach flipped when he grinned at her. Okay, so he was sometimes a bit on the arrogant side. And yes, he could be abrasive, self-centred and ruthless. But then, weren’t those common attributes in most successful men? She loved his confidence, his strength, his certainty, and from that first orgasm in the fifth-floor toilet of Harvey Nichols, she’d known without a single doubt that he was her soul mate and that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him–in sickness and in health, till death (or his unfaithful cock) do them part.

Roxy bit her lip and swallowed back a sob as she had a sudden astonishing thought: She would have loved Felix even if he were poor.

She let that magnanimous sentiment float in her mind for a second, before taking an imaginary baseball bat and battering it to death. Who was she kidding? She was in love, she wasn’t Mother Teresa.

And while Felix wasn’t exactly Donald Trump, he did work in the City (something to do with liquid assets) and earned a six-figure salary–enough to provide them with a comfortable future. Sadly, it was also enough to provide some tart from the florist with a second-hand Micra and reduced rental in one of the flats in Felix’s property portfolio. Daisy, that was her name. Bloody Daisy, working in a florist–you couldn’t make it up. Sometimes, in painful moments (eyebrow plucking, bikini waxing), she took her mind off her agony by torturing herself about how long it had been going on. Days? Weeks? Surely it couldn’t have been more than a couple of months without her spotting the signs? After all, it would surely have affected his behaviour. Unless…Her heart tightened. Could it be that this wasn’t the first time? Was his wandering dick the reason that he’d always blocked her suggestions that they move in together? Had he been shagging everything in sight since the moment they met?

How could he have been? She had never even contemplated being unfaithful to him. Well, apart from the time she’d snogged his brother in the coats cupboard at the family Christmas dinner. Oh, and the time she’d let his mate grope her to orgasm in the back of a taxi. But alcohol was to blame on both those occasions, and anyway, neither of those incidents counted because there was no exchange of body fluids. After all, a girl had to have her standards.

His mate had been rather cute, though…What was his name again? Nope, it was gone.

But the point was, she had never breached his trust, even when she had really wanted to. Hadn’t she had a raging crush on Sam since the minute she had started working in the Seismic? But had she once acted on it? Absolutely not. And that was only partly because a) she realised that he wasn’t interested in her in the least, and b) as previously ascertained, the man ran a brothel for God’s sake–not exactly the type of career that you’d be happy to disclose on passport applications.

A buzz cut through her thoughts.

Dear God, no. Please no. She clenched her eyes shut and wondered if she could remember the phone number for the Samaritans.

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

Nooooooooo. Mental instability beckoned and she saw her future–rocking back and forth in the foetal position and recoiling at the notion of sexual relations.

Bzzzzzzzzz.

She suddenly realised that the buzzing noise was a bit closer to home. Or, rather, to her single bed and Mark, Kian, Shane, Nicky and Bryan.

Her hand grappled across the bedside table and snatched her vibrating phone.

It would be Felix–well, he could bloody well rot for all she cared. She would never forgive him. Never.

Actually, since her feet were sticking out the bottom of the duvet and hypothermia was slowly setting in, she was beginning to realise that a fortnight at the Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados would probably heal her shattered heart.

But she’d never tell him that. Let him come begging, the bastard–preferably with Expedia vouchers in hand.

She opened the new text message.

Arvd safe. On way 2 flat. Hope u r ok. Lol, G.

She tossed the phone onto the floor. Typical bloody Ginny, rubbing salt in the wounds. In approximately an hour’s time, Ginny would be snuggled down in HER king-size bed, between HER 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and HER cashmere throw, drinking a decaf mocha choca from HER state-of-the-art coffee machine. Actually, the coffee machine belonged to her flatmate, but that’s why it was called communal living.

She pulled the duvet up around her ears. She missed her life. She might only have left it about thirteen hours earlier, but she missed it.

But in the words of the Dalai Lama, as one chapter closes, so another opens. Or was that Oprah?

Maybe this break would be good for her. No city living, no crushing crowds, no five-pound vanilla skinny lattes from the faux American coffee bar at the corner of the street and no cocaine crumbs on her handbag after she’d propped it on top of a toilet cistern while peeing in a nightclub. Ew, she hated it when that happened–why couldn’t people clean up after themselves? She really didn’t get the whole cocaine thing–why snort up all that cash when it could be used to finance a high-grade Marc Jacobs habit instead?

Maybe she should just view this whole episode as a city detox. She would de-clutter her life and her mind, and get herself back on track to the glorious existence she deserved. She would take bracing walks that would leave her with the complexion of Heidi Klum after a week in a Swiss spa. She would heal her tortured heart and soul by reconnecting with those less fortunate than herself (and, let’s face it, in this backward land that time forgot that was just about everyone). She’d embrace the slower pace of life and use it to recharge her batteries and catch up on all those things she didn’t have time for in the city: reading, exercising, eating healthily, plotting Felix’s death.

She wiped her eyes with Shane’s hair. Yep, this was going to be fine. Great. Perhaps not in the same league as a night in Pangaea knocking back champagne with minor (and occasionally major) royals, but she’d cope.

She let her eyes droop and her breathing settle into a steady rhythm.

Roxy Galloway was a survivor and she was going to be okay. It was her last thought as she fell asleep…just missing the strange buzzing noise that started in the next room.

Excerpt from an old journal belonging to Daisy Davenport

Daisy’s Diary 2006

22 December 2006

Dear Diary,

It finally happened! Six months stuck behind the counter in that bloody florist’s shop and finally he noticed me–you know, Ivy League Guy. Except he’s not from America–I’d say no further west than Chiswick but that’s only a guess. Anyway, I’ll find out soon because HE ASKED ME OUT!

Okay, okay, I’m going to start at the beginning because I never, ever want to forget this. I’d just been on the phone to the agency again (STILL no jobs lined up–can’t believe I’m over the hill at twenty-five–I could definitely still pass for twenty-one and Yasmin bloody Le Bon is still working and she’s so ancient). I was just thinking maybe I’d try Paris (Kelly told me she’s getting loads of knicker work over there and she’s, like, thirty) when he came in, bang on time (every Friday, three o’clock). He smelled as gorgeous as ever, although I do wonder if Paco Rabanne isn’t taking the whole retro thing a bit too far. It was the usual: a dozen red roses for some bird called Roxy, to be delivered to her home Saturday a.m., with a card that says ‘Endless Love, from Felix’. You’d think he’d have used a bit of imagination and varied the message every once in a while, but then when you look like he does you don’t have to make much of an effort to get your leg over. So I reach out to take his credit card and bam! Our hands touched, our eyes met and he smiled this adorable smile. Ten minutes later we were in the back having coffee, and one thing led to another and before long we were doing it on top of a pile of hydrangeas that will have to be binned before the boss sees them. I know, I should have held out, done the whole hard-to-get thing, but it was truly love at first sight. Well, about twenty-fourth sight really, but this was the first real meeting of eyes and minds. And other parts. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeee! (And, incidentally, he’s built like a horse down there and went at it for ages–thank God I remembered to put the CLOSED sign on the door.)

The important thing, though, is that putting out so quickly wasn’t a bad idea because he loved the fact that I was so adventurous. He says that he’s never met anyone like me before and it was meant to be, and that’s why he just had to have me right there and then. I could definitely tell he’s not the kind of guy who normally pulls stunts like that because he was so embarrassed afterwards that he got all shy and left really quickly to get back to work. But–and here’s the really great bit–I’m seeing him again tomorrow night. And, even better, he told me to forget sending the flowers to that Roxy girl–says from now on the only girl he’ll be sending flowers to is me. Except, I don’t really need them since I’m allowed to take home the ones that are about to go on the wilt, but I didn’t want to tell him that–thought it might spoil the moment.

This is it. I’ve got a feeling about him–I finally think I’ve found the one decent straight bloke left in London…

Just hope the girlfriend doesn’t take it too hard when he breaks it off with her tonight…FOR ME! Yasmin Le Bon, eat my pants! Dxxx

FOUR

Ginny. Day One, Sunday, midnight

Ginny pushed the key into the door, thumped it open with her shoulder, then hobbled through, dragging the trolley case behind her. Style was all very well but you could go off a fashion item really quickly when you had to lug it up a flight of stairs late at night while balancing on one shoe. And, naturally, she’d managed to get the only cab driver in London who didn’t want to talk, wasn’t in the least bit helpful, and ejected her at such speed that she’d left the broken heel on the seat. That was the superglue plan scuppered then.

None of this would ever happen to Roxy. Roxy could walk a tightrope in six-inch heels, the cab driver would have been falling over himself to help her, and he’d probably have been so enraptured by her divine sodding goddess-ness that he’d have carried her case to her door.

As she stepped into the hall a barrage of sounds accosted her. She vaguely recognised the music–it was that bloke…the weird-looking one…erm, Beyonce’s boyfriend…what’s-his-name? She racked her brains. Crazee. Lazyee. Note to self: brush up on contemporary music artists–there was more to life than those collections of number-one hits that Woolies sold for a fiver.

She dumped her handbag and the trolley case on the hardwood floor, careful not to scuff the sheen on the cream silk walls. She’d always loved Roxy’s place. On the floor were rich, thick planks of glossy solid oak, the walls were lined with a light vanilla suede, and hanging from the ceiling was a stunning, simple crystal and chrome chandelier that struck the perfect balance between class and contemporary. The light, the space, the beautiful pastel prints on the walls, there was something so uncluttered and simple about it–especially when juxtaposed against the chaos that was Roxy’s perpetually melodramatic existence.

And it was clean. Spotless. Although that probably had less to do with Roxy’s domestic skills and more to do with Bogna, the Polish cleaner who charged fifteen pounds an hour and came complete with an overwhelming aroma of Eau de Domestos.

‘Hi. Are you…okay?’

Ginny snapped her head around to see a blonde with Rachel Hunter’s legs and Dolly Parton’s mammas staring at her like she didn’t know whether to scream or dial the emergency services.

‘Erm, yeah, hi. I’m Ginny, Roxy’s friend. I’m, erm, staying here tonight,’ she stuttered, toe-curlingly aware that she was windswept, dishevelled, her hair was sticking to her contraband lip-gloss and she was only wearing one boot.

But at least she had manners, she thought, as she haltingly held out her hand to shake Miss Amazonian Breastfest 2007.

Her action was met with a shrug, and only then did Ginny notice that the blonde’s hands were full. One tub of strawberries, one aerosol can of whipped cream, one bottle of champagne, two glasses. Didn’t anyone just go to bed with a cuppa and a good book any more?

‘Hey, Ginny–what are you doing here?’

She did her best not to gasp out loud as Jude, Roxy’s flatmate, appeared from his room with only a towel covering his modesty. He threw his arms around her and lifted her up in a bear hug. Big mistake. When he plonked her back down she lost her balance and folded like a sofabed. ‘One shoe,’ she explained weakly, getting back on her feet. ‘It’s a long story–I’d tell you but those strawberries will be past their sell-by date by the time I’ve finished.’

He grinned and Ginny felt her one good knee go weak. God, he was beautiful. His dark blond hair fell down to his shoulders, every muscle was rounded and defined, his square jaw was on the Brad Pitt side of Buzz Lightyear and the green eyes…oh, good Lord, they could make a girl swoon, sweat and remove her knickers all at the same time. He was, quite simply, a fine specimen of manhood. But then, most male strippers were. Except the ones who did social-club hen nights and thought The Full Monty gave them a lifelong licence to flash milk-white, flabby bodies in the break between the bingo and the buffet.

‘Ginny, this is my girlfriend, Cheska.’ He pointed at the Amazonian with the penchant for late-night berries. ‘Cheska, this is Roxy’s friend Ginny.’

‘We’ve, erm, just met,’ Ginny said with a nervous smile. Shit, what was the protocol for this? The only people she ever met in her mother’s hallway were the parish priest and the bloke who collected money for the Salvation Army. Oh, and that Ann Summers party planner, who seemed to be popping in regularly.

‘Anyway, erm, so, didn’t Roxy call to tell you I’d be coming?’

His blank face answered the question. Bugger. Typical bloody Roxy. She’d promised that she’d let Jude know and make sure it was okay with him.

He picked up the apprehension on her face and grinned. ‘Hey, look, don’t worry, it’s fine. It’ll be great to have you here. Are you just staying the night?’

‘Erm, a month?’ she announced tentatively.

‘Okay, so what have you done with Roxy? The Priory? A rich bloke? Or am I going to see her picture on Crimewatch?’

‘No, she’s staying at mine for a while. You know, to get her head sorted out.’

‘And there was me thinking she’d never go out of a ten-mile radius of Joseph, Daniel Galvin and Harvey Nicks,’ he said with a grin.

She’d forgotten about his teeth. He could have a part-time job as a product tester for the Hollywood Smile Company.

Ginny switched her focus back to Cheska. Body like that, legs like those, the waist-length shiny locks…She may only have been in the city for an hour but Ginny knew a pole-dancer when she saw one.

‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ Cheska said with a smile. ‘I’ll just head for bed, early start tomorrow morning. Have to be in Chambers by seven o’clock.’

Ginny suddenly had a vague notion that she’d seen Cheska before. Her powers of recall raced to catch up. Of Course! Wasn’t she the lawyer who was on the six o’clock news every night, going in and out of court at the side of the soon-to-be-ex-wife of a Sixties band legend? The divorce was proving messy, slanderous and keeping the whole nation entertained. And the tabloids had already made a poster girl of the gorgeous lawyer with the stern ‘No Comments’.

Ginny stopped herself from her habitual tutting and rolling of the eyes. Oh, the injustice. Cheska was a lawyer–those looks and a brain too. That should be illegal.

‘Gin, you know where everything is. Roxy’s room is in there, if you’re hungry help yourself in the kitchen–we share everything.’ Ginny fleetingly wondered if that included those strawberries, the cream and the champagne…licked from his naked torso. Jesus, a couple of hours since she’d left home and already her ovaries were sending filthy thoughts to her brain.

‘Great, thanks,’ she wittered, ‘I will. Thanks. I’ll…do that.’ Jude and Cheska backed into his bedroom, leaving her standing in the hall, sweat patches forming puddles under her arms, her face beaming so brightly it could have guided in ships. Aaargh, she was rubbish at dealing with awkward situations–a great quality for working in a brothel, she thought with a plummeting heart.

She limped into Roxy’s room and flopped down on the king-size, elaborately upholstered, cream leather bed, then leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp. No switch near the light bulb. Her fingers traced along the wire. She was halfway to the plug before she gave up on that possibility.

She turned it upside down. Nothing. She gave it a gentle nudge on the bedside table. Nope. She placed it back down and flicked the shade. Nothing.

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, and then, like a veritable miracle, it flashed into life.

Ah, she had it now.

‘Off!’ she commanded. It obeyed.

‘Tit!’ she declared loudly.

And then there was light.

Ginny lay back on the bed, her illuminating débâcle reinforcing that it was blatantly obvious she didn’t belong there.

She looked around her. The white carpet was so thick and fluffy that it looked like it had been knitted from pure angora wool. Mental note: be careful with contact lenses as they’d be lost forever if they landed on it.

The walls were papered with an ivory water-silk fabric that contrasted perfectly with the gold silk bedding. There were four, five, six, seven, eight pillows of assorted sizes and shapes, all in metallic shades of copper and bronze, scattered across the bed with haphazard panache. To her right, in front of the huge bay window, was a modern, double-ended chaise longue upholstered in white suede (another mental note to self: no sitting on chaise while eating, drinking, or wearing any fabrics that could possibly transfer dye–in fact, just stay beyond a one-metre radius of chaise at all times).

Against the far wall was a stunning cream gloss dressing table that matched the long row of drawer units next to it and the sleek bedside tables on either side of her.

She decided not to turn around to stare at the life-size nude photo of Roxy that hung above the headboard–a gift from an admirer with a love of both art and porn. Instead, she took in the huge plasma television. The pots of cream on the dressing table that would cost her a month’s salary. A stereo system with more buttons than a NASA flight deck. The wall-length wardrobe to her left, bursting at its designer seams.

How the hell did Roxy afford all this? But then, that had been Roxy’s gift her whole life: things just came to her. Never did she have to resort to Ginny’s Christmas-present tactics (Argos catalogue left open at the appropriate page). No, for years Roxy had had life handed to her on a plate…and for the next month, to a tiny degree, Ginny was going to see how it felt.

As she snuggled into the silky bedspread, she mentally bitch-slapped her doubts out of the way. Roxy’s life was one of indulgent luxury and, occasional embarrassing sweat patches aside, Ginny had a sneaking suspicion that she was absolutely, definitely going to enjoy it.

Sadly, that wasn’t a feeling that was shared by her fiancé. As she drifted off to sleep, strangely blissful despite the fact that she was still sporting a Zara swing coat, one boot and hair like a spider plant, her boyfriend was lying awake wondering what the hell had happened to his future wife.

The Palace Grand Hotel, Mayfair, London Security Log

Date: 30/09/07

Security Officer: Desmond Taylor

Duty Manager: Robert Hunter

Details of Incident:

At approximately 2.30 p.m., Anton LeComber, restaurant manager, requested security attend an altercation in the dining room. On arrival, it was found that the dispute was between one newly arrived female and a couple seated at table six. It became clear that said female had encountered her boyfriend dining with another woman and had become irate. A heated argument ensued which culminated in a bottle of Bollinger being taken from a nearby ice bucket and emptied over the head of said male and female. The offending female was removed from the premises. However, at the request of all parties, the police were not called. No further action will be taken, although the female–Roxanne Galloway, photo attached–has been advised that she is now barred from this hotel. Her abusive reply made it abundantly clear that she agrees with this decision.

FIVE We Are Family

Roxy. Day Two, Monday, 8 a.m.

‘ROXY!!!!!! Come on my darling, your Shreddies are on the table.’

Roxy prised open her eyelids. Fuck, what a nightmare. She’d dreamt that she’d chucked her job, caught Felix shagging a florist and spent the night with Westlife. And now she couldn’t swear it but she was sure she’d just heard her mother’s voice. It was definitely time to cut down on the cocktail consumption.

‘Roxy!!!!’

She bolted upright, her eyes wide. Noooooooooooo!

Of course! Her life was in the sewer–how could she have forgotten? Shane, Kian, Nicky, Bryan and Mark looked at her disapprovingly. ‘And you lot can piss off as well,’ she muttered. She clambered out of bed and gasped as she caught sight of herself in the teak dressing-table mirror–MFI circa 1976. Her pulse raced. Was she too young to have a heart attack? There, covering her lithe frame, were…man-made fibres! She could sense the impending wrath of the gods of Dolce & Gabbana. By fishing pyjamas from Ginny’s drawer in the semi-darkness the night before, Roxy Galloway had been catapulted from the House of Prada to the House of Matalan.

It was official: her life was in ruins.

‘Roxy!!!!’ And now her mother was screaming at her from the bottom of the stairs. It was like she’d been transported back in time and was fifteen years old–actually, that wouldn’t be so tragic: she’d be precociously beautiful, the most popular person she knew, and she’d be allowing Mr Kennedy the Physics teacher to feel her up at lunchtime in return for straight-A passes and bottles of Charlie.

‘Your Shreddies are getting soggy!’

That was Auntie Violet that time. How, in the name of adult independence, had she come to be living with two middle-aged, potential lesbians? She felt like she’d wandered into a Sixties commune. Next they’d all be chanting mantras about vulvas and having their periods at the same time.

Not for the first time, she considered the theory that females ended up looking like their mothers. In which case, whoever married her had better steel themselves to end up with a peroxide-blonde fifty-five-year-old who had tits like melons, fifty pounds to lose, a fondness for tight pink clothing and who lived by the theory that you could never wear too much lip-liner.

And the weirdest thing was that although her mother and Auntie Vi were only distant cousins, they looked exactly the same–if you didn’t count a weight variation of about four stone. It was like Christina Aguilera had gained sixty pounds, aged thirty years, and teamed up with her identical but much skinnier twin.

Roxy slumped back down on the bed.

Why hadn’t she gone home last night and packed some clothes? Why didn’t she go home right now, reclaim her life, and tell Ginny that this whole thing was bloody ridiculous? Because then…The truth was that then she’d remember how much she’d lost. She’d sleep in the bed that Felix had bought her. She’d wear the clothes that she’d shopped for with him. Or, rather, with his American Express card (the red one–he liked the fact that it made the very attractive shop assistants in Armani think he was compassionate and humanitarianly aware). And she’d have to accept the cold, hard fact that the compassionless tosser hadn’t called her once since she’d caught him in The Palace Grand with that tart.

No, self-delusion combined with the determination to appear elusive was a much better option. Let him play his little games, and when indeed he did come to beg her for forgiveness he’d realise that she’d moved on, got over him, washed that dick right out of her hair. She felt a wave of resolve return. She was destined to plan a new life, to rewrite her destiny and to spend a few weeks just taking time to find herself.

‘Roxy!’

And apparently herself was to be found eating Shreddies at her mother’s kitchen table. She pulled open Ginny’s wardrobe. She used the term loosely. This cupboard was so dilapidated that she just knew whoever had built it had had loads of unidentified bits left over at the end and had chucked them instead of investigating where they’d gone wrong. One door hung off its hinge, one leg had been replaced by a pile of books, and there were just bare screws where the knobs should be.

So, what to wear to work? As Ginny had borrowed her boots, the only footwear she had with her was a pair of Louboutin peep-toe platforms that she’d shoved in her overnight bag. She flicked through the rail:

–Jeans, from a supermarket–she’d rather take her own life.

–Three gypsy skirts, assorted colours–only useful if she needed an emergency tent while camping, a hobby up there on her enjoyment list somewhere between basket-weaving and piercing her clitoris with a stapler.

–Two cheap denim miniskirts–definitely handy, if she planned on taking up residence in a trailer in a Southern US state.

–Three pairs of black trousers of unidentifiable make or fabric. One of those would have to do. She felt the fabric–pure new wool. Kidding. They were of such high-grade polyester that if she went within twenty yards of any type of incendiary device there was a good chance she’d spontaneously combust.

She pulled a sweater from Ginny’s drawer, then immediately tossed it to one side when she realised it had butterflies on it. Dear God. This couldn’t get any worse. She pulled out another sweater and inspected it: pink wool with embroidered red reindeers. Reindeers. In October.

She turned back to the wardrobe and dragged a white blouse from the furthest end of the rail. It was probably Gin’s old school shirt, but since it was that or the reindeers, it was going on. She’d leave the top couple of buttons open so that her Agent Provocateur slate-grey silk bra peeped out, giving the whole outfit a small but significant edge of style. She pulled her hair back and gripped it in a tortoiseshell clasp. There was no point even looking for a decent pair of straighteners–she knew without even asking that Ginny thought GHD was a violent offence that carried a mandatory two-year sentence.

She plodded down to join Rosie O’Donnell and Martina Navratilova. God, she couldn’t even look them in the eye. She knew she was being ridiculous–the chances of middle-aged-woman on middle-aged-woman action even registering on her mother’s radar were about as high as Vera having a part-time job as a stripper. Shit, that reminded her. She’d forgotten to phone Jude to let him know Ginny was coming. No matter, she knew he wouldn’t mind. He was such a sweetheart. Kind, generous, self-deprecating and built like an Adonis–just a shame that he was such a serial shagger, she wouldn’t touch his privates without the protection of antibacterial spray and a pair of marigolds.

She wandered into the kitchen. ‘Morning, Mum. Morning, Auntie Violet,’ she grumbled as she pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Morning, darling,’ said her mother, Vera, kissing her on her head. ‘Oh, it’s so lovely to have you here, dear. Just like the old days.’

Roxy tried valiantly to muster a smile as she attempted to masticate soggy Shreddies. The welcome mat at the kitchen door would have tasted better. Urgh, she missed her lightly toasted bagel with organic marmalade.

She sighed as her mother and aunt bustled off to attend to the rest of their morning routine.

As soon as they’d left the room she picked up the phone. Ginny answered on the first ring.

‘Your life is officially crap,’ Roxy announced.

‘And this is a newsflash to you?’ Ginny laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s not crap. There are loads of nice things about my life.’

‘Name three without hesitation.’

‘Darren, my mother and…erm…’

‘Sorry, time’s up! And anyway, the joy of having two people you love is outweighed by the fact that you possess a butterfly jumper. Have I taught you nothing?’

‘You know, you are so shallow, Roxy. One butterfly jumper doesn’t make me a bad person…’

‘No, but the reindeer one proves you’re a fucking lunatic.’

Ginny shrieked with laughter. ‘Don’t let my mother hear you swearing–before you know it she’ll have the rosary beads out and Father Murphy will be making house calls.’

‘Jesus, shoot me now,’ Roxy muttered.

‘Not sure that Jesus actually takes requests. Anyway, why aren’t you on your way to work?’

‘Just going. What are you doing?’

‘Oh, I’m still in bed. Jude just brought me an orange juice and a warm bagel. With marmalade.’

‘I’ve never liked you.’

‘Oh, sword through my heart. Now get to work. And remember to keep all my records up to date–it took me months to devise that system and get it up and running.’

‘Ginny, you really need to get a life. And I don’t mean mine. Anyway, how’d Mr Motivator take the news of your thirty-day desertion?’

‘Fine.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘You haven’t told him yet, have you?’

‘Not exactly. Okay, not at all. He got cut off last night and I’ve not been able to reach him since. So I was thinking, since we’re doing this role-reversal thing and I’ve spent my entire life delivering messages of doom for you, maybe you could break the news. Gently. He’s doing a Bums & Tums class in the back room of the library for the Young Catholic Mothers this morning at nine thirty. But please, please, Roxy, promise that you’ll say you begged me to help you. I don’t want him to be pissed off before I’ve had a chance to explain it properly to him.’

Roxy groaned. ‘Ginny, it might have escaped your notice, but your boyfriend isn’t exactly my biggest fan. He’s never liked me since I tried to set you up with Jason Morrison in fourth-year PE. You’d have been much better off with him–he’s made it to the first team at Millwall.’

‘Yep, and the Sunday Mirror had two pages of photographs of him snorting coke off some female’s nipples at a dogging site last weekend.’

‘Well, no one’s perfect. Okay, I’ll break the news gently. Anyway, better go before my mother grounds me for late time-keeping. Oh, and if I die today, tell the doctors it was polyester poisoning–it’ll save them doing a post mortem.’

She hung up as her mother hurried back into the room. ‘Come on, dear, if I don’t open up the community centre then the Perky Pensioners committee will be loitering on the pavement and those mobile oxygen tanks are such an obstruction to passers-by.’

Roxy somehow resisted the urge to stab herself to death with her Shreddies spoon.

‘Okay, you go warm up the car and I’ll just get my bag.’

‘Car? Oh, no, dear, Violet’s got me on a diet and exercise plan and I think it’s starting to work–I’ve lost two pounds this month! Although that might be something to do with starting the change. Anyway, we walk to work. Look, I’ve got my pedometer–10,000 steps a day–got to keep the bones strong and the muscles flexible.’

Roxy’s life flashed before her. Or, rather, the life of her £650 Louboutin shoes. She felt like she’d just been told a family member was on life support and unlikely to make it.

This couldn’t get any worse.

‘Oh, and Roxy, love, you need to do up your shirt–your button’s come loose and you’re flashing your underwear.’

Half an hour, three blisters and two toes with frostbite later, Roxy hobbled into the community centre through a throng of senior citizens in felt headwear and plastic footwear. But at least they looked comfortable. She contemplated offering one of them fifty quid for a pair of shoes that came from the same kind of catalogue that sold bath chairs and those long rods with the grippers that allowed you to pick things up without bending down.

Her mother kissed her goodbye and toddled twenty yards to the entrance of the doctor’s surgery where she’d been the receptionist since dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Roxy moped across the corridor and followed Auntie Violet into the library. Located in an annex off the back of the community centre, it was the book depository that time forgot.

She dumped her bag in the staffroom and readjusted her hair, before snorting at the ridiculousness of it. Who was she trying to impress? Johnny Depp was hardly going to wander into the Farnham Hills library, find himself overcome with wild abandon and an insatiable desire for her before bending her over the gardening section and shagging her senseless. And anyway, wasn’t she absolutely, definitely, resolutely off men?

She wandered into the main section of the library and marvelled at how nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed in the twenty years she’d been coming here. The walls were still that impossibly depressing shade of inconsequential grey. The plastic flooring, probably manufactured by some seismic shift in the earth’s crust before time began, still stuck to your feet as you walked. The overhead fluorescent lighting could still bring on a migraine in under thirty seconds. And the rows and rows of books were still propped on thick hardwood shelves that buckled precariously in the middle.

The reception desk, or rather the four-foot-by-twelve-foot plank of Formica that masqueraded as Mission Control, still had bits peeling off the edges and smelled of Flash. Roxy sank to her knees and peered under the counter. Yep, still there–a carved love heart with ‘Roxy loves Stevie’ engraved in the middle. She’d done it in the summer of ’94 when her mother had made her work every day for two weeks as punishment for getting caught smoking a roll-up in the park pavilion. She’d have made her work for six weeks if she’d realised that the roll-up contained a couple of grams of the finest Moroccan weed.

‘So what do you think of our new look then? We’re all high-tech now and no mistake,’ boomed Auntie Violet as she joined her behind the desk.

‘Oww.’ Roxy banged her head on the underside of the desk, then prised herself upright.

She glanced along the counter, looking for some signs that the new millennium had actually arrived: a laptop, an MP3 player, a cordless phone–Christ, an electric kettle would be progress–but nothing, just yards of box files, record cards, a blue plastic penholder and a phone that still had a circular dial.

‘No, over there!’ gestured Violet, pointing down the feverishly popular Historical Romance aisle to two archaic-looking computers sitting side by side, each one complete with its very own grey plastic chair. Yep, thought Roxy, the producers of Gadget magazine would get a hard-on if they saw this lot.

‘They’re in such demand that we sometimes have to have a waiting list and limit the use to twenty minutes per person. Imagine! Oh, and remember old Reverend Stewart? Well, he’s banned from them–caught him looking at a site called “Babes with Biggies” and it wasn’t referring about their feet. Of course, he said it was an accident but we’re not convinced. His eyes are too far apart.’

With that, she turned on her heel. ‘Anyway, I’ll get the kettle on. Tea, love? Course you will. Milk and two sugars, I remember,’ she added with a wink. ‘It’s lovely to have you here, Roxy–we do miss you, you know. I’ll just get the tea and then you can tell me everything you’ve been up to. Dying to hear about all those city boys you’ve been courting. Back in a min–and since it’s a special occasion I’ll break out the Penguins!’

Roxy couldn’t decide what hurt more–the toes that were curled in excruciating mortification, the teeth that were clenched in horror, the jaw that was fixed into a manic, tortured grin, or the forehead that was thudding repeatedly off the desk.

This. Was. Never. Going. To. Work.

This wasn’t a city detox, it was a Saga tour to insanity. She’d never do it. She couldn’t. She wanted her old life back. Fuck it, she’d even take Felix back and just threaten to amputate his organ somewhere around the testicles if it was caught in enemy territory again. She wanted her job, she wanted her flat and she wanted Petrov, her bisexual, bilateral thigh trainer.

She let the cool stickiness of the Formica soothe her wrinkled brow. See! Bloody wrinkles! That settled it; she was on the next train out of here.

‘S’cuse me.’

There was nothing, nothing on God’s earth that could make her suffer this for a nanosecond longer.

‘S’cuse me.’

She rolled her head so that her left cheek was now on the Formica, and she squinted to focus.

It couldn’t be! She jolted up. Nope, it wasn’t. But it was pretty damn close. If she was squinting. In a dark alley. Wearing sunglasses.

So a bloke who, on reflection, had nothing in common with Johnny Depp, except long, brown un-brushed hair and gorgeous hazel eyes, was standing in front of her with an expectant grin on his face.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Okay, not exactly knocking her out with super-smooth chat, but hey, he was male, he was relatively good-looking and he didn’t appear, on first impression, to have any psychotic personality disorders–he therefore qualified in the category of ‘reality distraction’. She briefly wondered if he’d just stand at the desk all day and allow her to look at him and perhaps fondle his man parts on an hourly basis to ease the inevitable boredom. If she wasn’t off men, that was. And she was. Definitely. Until hell froze over or the real Johnny Depp appeared in front of her wearing nothing but a ‘Roxy Be Mine’ badge.

Farnham Hills Porn Prevention Officer chose that moment to reappear.

‘Oh, hello Mitch, love, how are you this morning? Fancy a Penguin?’

‘I’m grand, thanks, Mrs Wallis,’ he burred in a soft Irish accent. ‘Where’s Ginny then? Having a day off today?’

‘A few days off, actually. She’s gone up to London for a wee bit of excitement. You know how you young things are these days. Anyway, this is our Roxy, Vera from the doctor’s surgery’s daughter. Her and our Ginny have been best friends since they were still peeing in nappies.’

Toes re-curled. Jaw reset into manic grin.

Violet turned to Roxy. ‘And this is Mitch. Father Murphy’s nephew. He’s over from Ireland and staying at the chapel house with his uncle while he finishes writing his new novel. Imagine, a real writer in Farnham Hills!’

Roxy was indeed imagining. Mitch. Laptop. Naked.

Mitch held his hand out. With only a slightly embarrassing delay while she attempted to surreptitiously reopen those top two shirt buttons, Roxy reciprocated the gesture.

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘I usually call in every morning to have a coffee and a read of the papers. Hope that’s okay with you?’

Yep, Roxy thought, perhaps this life detox was going to work out fine–just as long as she went with the flow, took the ups with the downs, and managed to nip to the chemist in her lunch hour for a new diaphragm. She re-evaluated her strategy–perhaps the generic term ‘penis embargo’ had been too all-encompassing. Perhaps what she’d really meant was that she was avoiding Felix’s penis. Yep, why should the rest of the world suffer for one man’s sins?

An irritated voice cut through her contraceptive/copulation contemplation. ‘Morning, Violet, morning, Roxy.’

Strange, that someone could manage to say the word ‘Roxy’ in such an insidious tone that it sounded like something you’d throw up after eating raw chicken. She’d almost have preferred it if he’d had the balls to be upfront and greet her with, ‘Morning, have I told you today that I’d prefer you dead? No? Okay, brutal torture, slow demise–lovely.’

Roxy sighed as she turned to face her nemesis. Darren Jenkins. She loathed him. She’d always loathed him. Although under the influence of alcohol or physical torture, she might be prepared to concede that this negative emotion was born around the same time as she offered to show him her boobs in second-year Woodwork in return for his Sony Walkman and he knocked her back. She’d been horrified when Ginny had started seeing him a couple of years later, and over the following decade she’d pretty much avoided straying within a hundred yards of his super-toned thighs.

She had never understood what Ginny saw in him. He might be fit, he might be easy on the eye, he might be testosterone fuelled…but he was about as exciting as a daytrip to a morgue and just as warm. And he didn’t exactly treat Ginny as well as she deserved–last year he’d bought her a steamer for her birthday. A steamer. What the fuck was that about? Who woke up and thought, ‘D’you know what, I’m going to prove to my fiancée how much I adore her by buying a household item that aids the production of healthy vegetables’?

What. A. Prick.

Roxy suddenly realised that a tiny part of her hoped Ginny would meet someone else in London and dump this bore before he had time to save up for a matching sandwich toaster for Ginny’s Christmas present.

She snapped out of her musings when it became clear that they’d all been standing in awkward silence for about ten seconds, Darren staring at her with the type of expression more commonly seen on men who have bodies stored under their kitchen floorboards.

Johnny Depp-ish picked up on the tension and made himself scarce. Brilliant. The first time her hormones had stood to attention in weeks and Darren the Prick had scared him off.

‘Darren, love, I’ve brought in a nice smoothie I made for you last night–mango, kiwi and pineapple. The pineapple was just chunks out of a tin, but I don’t suppose it’ll matter. I’ll just nip back and get it for you.’

As Violet disappeared, Roxy contemplated reattaching her head to the desk while waiting for the inevitable explosion.

‘So, care to tell me what kind of insanity you’ve involved Ginny in this time?’

Houston, we have lift-off. And he was just getting warmed up.

‘You can’t bloody leave her alone, can you? What’s the problem, Roxy? What inconsequential, superficial little blip on your horizon have you blown out of all proportion and roped Ginny into sorting out for you this time?’

Roxy bared her teeth with a smile she pitched at ‘carefree while maintaining an appropriate level of undiluted evil’.

‘Oh, nothing really. I just decided that she was far too happy so I thought I’d fuck things up for her by selling her body to an Eastern European slave trader.’

Darren shook his head as his face cracked with irony. ‘You know, Roxy, you’re priceless. You just use and abuse everyone who has the misfortune to stumble into your screwed-up, pathetic existence.’

Roxy very maturely folded her arms, looked heavenward and ignored him, determined not to even dignify his accusations with a reply.

‘You’re toxic. Always have been.’

She stayed silent. He was a grown man who wore Lycra, for God’s sake. Who cared what he thought of her? She’d never stoop to his level. She’d just take this on the chin and handle it in a manner Ginny would be proud of. Ginny had made her promise to deal with this in a sensitive manner and she would. After everything Ginny had done for her she deserved it. St Roxy of the Blessed Martyrdom–it had a ring to it.

‘And I’m sick of you interfering in Ginny’s life. Why can’t you just piss off and leave us alone?’

Aw, fuck the sainthood.

‘Listen, you twat, if you want a reason that Ginny’s not here, go look in a fucking mirror. You take her for granted, you walk all over her and you bore her baps off. Ginny hasn’t gone to London to save my ass, she’s gone because she was desperate for some excitement, desperate to do something other than sit on a bloody couch night after night waiting for you to honour her with your presence. You have a problem? Take it up with your fiancée and don’t shoot the messenger.’

Silence. Stunned silence. Until a troop of Young Catholic Mothers marched in to have their buttocks remoulded. As Lycra Man backed off in the manner of an armed robber with a hundred SWAT guns pointing at him, Roxy had a feeling of impending doom.

The 1960s telephone burst into life. Roxy snatched up the receiver to hear an anxious Ginny on the line.

‘So did you break it to him gently?’

Roxy bit her lip and then did what all truly good friends do in a crisis–she lied.

‘Of course! I told him I begged you to help and that you should be sainted for services to friendship. He was fine about it. Absolutely fine…’ Roxy closed her eyes. Good Lord, she had to stop. She had to stop. Sod it–in for a penny, in for a huge big whopper that’ll prevent risk of blind fury from irate best chum.

‘In fact, he said you deserved a break and not to worry about him–you’re just to go and enjoy yourself.’

‘Really? Thank God. See, I’ve told you a million times, Roxy–he’s one of the good guys.’

And there it was–the kind of utter blind devotion and unquestioning adoration that a lifetime relationship required.

And that, Roxy thought glumly, is why I’m single.

School Disco, Farnham Hills
Hall Christmas 1993

‘Come on, Ginny, let’s dance–it’s ‘Relight My Fire’!

Ginny shrugged and shook her head. She hated dancing in front of people. She’d memorised every step in the video, but somehow it was easy to do in her bedroom with only her Take That posters as witnesses.

‘Forget it then! Honestly, Ginny, how are you ever going to get a boyfriend when you’re so boring. Boring. Boring. Boring. Well, I’m sick of boring!’

Roxy stormed off in a strop, leaving Ginny squirming in her chair. Roxy would ignore her all night now as punishment for not doing what she wanted–probably not a bad thing because if she got dragged into another smoking incident her mother would kill her. And no matter what Roxy said, those menthol St Moritz cigarettes were revolting.

She loathed these discos: chairs lined along the walls of the hall, a table outside the toilets selling flat Coke and crisps, and Father Murphy spinning records on a double stereo deck that the local pub had donated after the invention of CDs. And all this was witnessed through the haze caused by the two flashing disco lights attached to the front of the deck. Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green.

About a hundred youths had taken hours to plan their big night out, pick an outfit and then get dolled-up to the nines, only to be illuminated to the approximate shade of someone with acute gastroenteritis.

‘Move.’

Even over the volume of Lulu singing her lungs out, the aggression in the familiar voice was unmistakable. Ginny raised her eyes to see Fanny Brown staring down at her (actually her real name was Felicity, but Roxy had nicknamed her Fanny years ago and it had stuck, although obviously no one, other than the blatantly suicidal, said it to her face), along with her two pals Dora and Dorothy (aka Dopey and Daftarse, again courtesy of Roxy).

‘What?’ Ginny replied tentatively, trying to disguise the slight tremor in her voice. There was no denying it, Fanny Brown terrified her. She’d been suspended twice for fighting, once for stealing, once for threatening behaviour and once for kicking Mr Wilkinson, the Art teacher, in the goolies. Ginny made it a point to stay out of Fanny’s way.

‘I said MOVE! Something wrong with your ears?’ Fanny was bearing down on her so that her face was only six very scary inches from Ginny’s, choking her with the intoxicating fumes from the bottle of Diamond White Fanny had necked before coming to the disco. ‘We want to sit there, so move.’

Ginny’s heart was beating so fast that she was starting to feel dizzy–which at least took her mind off her churning stomach and the ever-increasing desire to throw up or faint. Panic overruled her motor skills and she discovered that although her brain was begging her legs to adjust to a standing position they were too busy trembling with fear to respond.

A split second later, Ginny felt a searing pain in her head and a compelling urge to levitate, the result of Fanny’s hands gripping on to her hair and wrenching it upwards. She was going to die. She was definitely going to die, right in the middle of Gary Barlow singing about needing her love.

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.

The room itself was remarkable only in its luxury. One wall was partially covered by a huge brass mirror that must have been at least six foot square. Directly opposite was a beautifully upholstered gold headboard framing a super-king bed dressed in crisp white sheets. To the side was a rustic Chesterfield sofa in gleaming brown leather, and next to it stood an antique side table topped with a bottle of Krug and two crystal champagne glasses, half-filled with the bubbling liquid.

But that’s where any semblance of normality ended, because standing at the foot of the bed, one eyebrow still raised, was a female doctor dressed in a uniform that Ginny was guessing hadn’t been passed by any NHS committee: six-inch steel heels on black platform pumps, a white coat that was wide open, revealing a cupless black leather bra, perfectly pert pink nipples, black suspenders and stockings. And Doctor Decadence may have had her auburn locks secured in a very efficient chignon, her black-framed glasses perched on her perfectly formed nose, subtle make-up and an air of authority, but she appeared to have forgotten her knickers.

Not that her patient was in a position to remonstrate about her omission. Lying prone on the bed, his identity concealed by the white bandages that covered him from head to toe, was a groaning man. Yes, definitely male–the only part of his anatomy that appeared to have escaped mummification was the massive erect penis that was pointing at the ceiling. And it appeared a rigorous medical examination was taking place as the doctor was tickling the red, throbbing end of his organ with her stethoscope.

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