by Shari Low
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 st
unning 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 Provocateu
r 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.’