by Shari Low
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 mont
h 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 m
eeting 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.