My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

  The receptionist also logged all requests from the suites for refreshments, contraception, sex aids or reinforcements. Who knew when a cosy twosome would suddenly become a titillating ménage à trois (hopefully, without Ginny being un, deux or trois)? Or quatre? Apparently, if Stephen Knight was involved it often stretched to a netball team.

  Other tasks on the job description included answering the phones, making appointments and managing the very efficient payment system.

  When a client entered he swiped his credit card at the door. While he was showering/bathing after his appointment, his ‘service provider’ would call down to the receptionist with a list of any supplementary charges. There was a standard hourly rate, but optional extras included refreshments, costumes (dry-cleaning bills were extortionate in Central London), additional girls or the extension of the session. It was Ginny’s job to finalise the account, charge it to his credit card, and then update the client’s personal record file so that his likes/habits/requests/tendencies could be prepared for his next visit.

  So far, so clinical and efficient. Not to mention twisted and borderline freaky.

  Not that Ginny was judging.

  The receptionist then alerted the drivers and ensured that the client’s departure was seamless.

  ‘So, under normal circumstances, do I ever actually see these…men?’ Ginny asked, beyond relief that–cases of mistaken hooker identity aside–her new role seemed to be no more sordid than a day at Farnham Hills library. In fact, given that the teenage population of the village were hellbent on giving anatomy lessons in the library toilets, this was actually a step up in the sexual activities department–at least the dual benefits of contraception and soft furnishings were provided.

  ‘Sometimes. If there’s someone you particularly want to get a look at, just make sure you’re there to open the door personally when they arrive. Or direct them to a waiting room and then pop in to ask if they need anything. Occasionally they’ll wander through here but usually they prefer to keep out of sight. There are two butlers, Harry and Fred, so if you’re busy just give one of them a bell and they’ll do the running around. Got all that?’

  Ginny frantically searched her head for any missing links in the sexually deviant chain–nope, she reckoned she just about had everything covered.

  ‘I think I’ve got all that. But what do I do if anything goes wrong?’

  ‘Just call Sam. And if he’s not around then buzz Destiny–that’s her real name, her mother took too many drugs in the Sixties. Anyway, she’s lovely and during the day she’s the most senior of the girls–Sam’s right-hand hooker. On the overnight shift it’s Charlotte–scary, freaky and only comes out after dark. Yes, there have been rumours but she’s massively popular with the men of the cloth and she’s never actually punctured a customer’s skin yet. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to her, but I wouldn’t turn my back just in case…’

  The noise of the front door closing travelled down the hall. Jenny switched her gaze in that direction.

  ‘That’s if you last long enough to meet her…’

  Just when Ginny’s confidence was edging back up to somewhere near normal, Sam Carvell strutted towards her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention and her knees summoned the spirits of all things Elvis and began to shake. This was ridiculous. It was only a job–and a temporary one at that. What was the worst he could do? Say no? Fine–she’d just head back to the Hills and return to her old life, old habits, old job, old spaghetti bolognaise. Roxy had been at the library for a full morning so she’d probably have been fired by now anyway.

  But…sod it, her emotional pendulum had swung back in the direction of ‘excitement and confidence’ and she realised she wasn’t ready to give up. She. Was. Going. To. Do. This. She just had to keep focusing on the positives. The positives. The positives…

  Sam was five feet in front of the desk when he stopped reading the papers in his hand and looked up, the puzzlement clear on his face. Ginny decided to jump straight in–after all, what did she have to lose except a gorgeous flat, a designer wardrobe and a flatmate with pectoral muscles like split cantaloupes?

  She took a deep breath. This was her chance to impress Sam, to reassure him that she was more than capable of representing his company in a calm and intelligent manner.

  ‘Hi, Sam, I’m Ginny. Roxy’s friend. We met at the…vol-au-vents…and, erm, you said, erm, if I needed a job…that, erm…’

  She clamped her jaws shut. There were some times when silence was the better option and this definitely seemed like one of them.

  Sam looked at her searchingly, trying to place her. His brow furrowed above his brown eyes and, as he distractedly ran a hand through his neat black hair, Ginny realised who he reminded her of: Ben Affleck. Just in looks, obviously. As far as she was aware, Ben Affleck hadn’t compounded his acting success by putting together a stable of voluptuous beauties that charged by the hour.

  ‘Hi Jenny…’

  ‘Ginny!’ she interjected instinctively.

  Sam turned to look at her, adding gently, ‘I know, I was saying hello to Jennifer.’ He gestured to Jenny from the Block. Ginny’s stomach flipped. This was fast sailing to the Titanic end of the ‘First Day in New Job’ disaster scale.

  ‘Okay, then. Ginny, I do, of course, remember you. Roxy’s party, right?’

  Ginny nodded.

  ‘And is Roxy okay?’ He sounded genuinely concerned. Or perhaps he was just trying to get a grip on whether or not his receptionist had completely lost the plot. Either way, she realised that she had to try to speak in an intelligible fashion.

  ‘She’s fine. Well, sort of. Well, not really. She’s just kind of upset and…upset…and…you know…’

  ‘Upset.’ He finished the sentence for her, just a touch of teasing in his tone.

  She felt a flush burn at the bottom of her neck and then sprint upwards, crashing to a halt at her hair follicles.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again. But I’m afraid I’m not looking for any more girls. We’re fully staffed at the moment. In fact, two of our former girls have just returned from a six-month sabbatical on a rapper’s estate in New York, so we’re actually over quota at the moment.’

  A horrible realisation dawned. Bugger, not again!

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t understand–I’m here to cover for Roxy. She’s, erm, you know, the upset thing, with all the problems she’s been having, and you said she couldn’t resign, and yes, I know I’m speaking really quickly and I promise I don’t always do this, and anyway, Roxy asked me to cover for her and work her notice period because you said if I was ever looking for a job I should…’

  ‘Breathe! Please, breathe–you’re turning purple,’ Sam deadpanned.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just nervous.’

  Jennifer looked at her watch. The date with the French chef was looming large.

  ‘Sam, I’ve spent the last hour–’ she nudged Ginny under the desk ‘–showing her the ropes and she’s picked everything up really quickly. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Really good.’

  Sam subtly tilted his head to one side.

  ‘You’ll sign a confidentiality contract and provide ID and references?’

  Ginny nodded.

  ‘And you’ve done similar work before?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Well, since Roxy has left us with little choice and it’s only for a few weeks then welcome to the Seismic. I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon, so just yell if you have any problems.’

  ‘So I can stay?’

  ‘You can definitely stay.’

  The bubbles of excitement worked their way from Ginny’s stomach to her throat, manifesting themselves as a huge grin and a barely discernible squeak.

  This was going to be great. As long as she stayed within the reception area, this was going to be so posh, so cultured, so windswept and so fascinating.

  ‘Oh, and Jenny, before you go, can you show Ginny the staffroom, the kitchen, the condom cupb
oard and the sex-aids vault.’

  And so not a job she would ever put on her CV.

  SEVEN

  Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?

  Roxy. Day Six, Friday, 1 p.m.

  Text, Roxy to Ginny:

  Please, please swap bck, homicidal urges getting harder 2 ignore.

  Text, Ginny to Roxy:

  Plead PMT, u wl get off with parole.

  Roxy sighed and decided to use her murderous tendencies for the good of the community. She marched over to Hi-tech Central.

  ‘Excuse me, the computers have a twenty-minute limit and you’ve been on it for twenty-five–could I ask you to log off so that someone else can use it, please?’

  The teenager barely registered Roxy’s existence. Or maybe he did. It was hard to tell when all she could see under the baseball cap was a couple of zits, a cold sore and facial hair that looked like the aftermath of a bush fire. Oh, and an aggressive sneer, but that might be a result of playing an online game that involved him eradicating masses of people with the nuclear weapon of his choice.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  Roxy glanced at the Reverend Stewart on the next computer. Yes, she knew he was banned but there were no kids in the library and Auntie Vi had popped out to get her hard skin seen to, so Roxy had decided there was no harm in it. Just because he was a man of the clergy didn’t mean he didn’t have the same needs as everyone else. She peeked at his screen–High Street Knockers. And no, it wasn’t the official website of a manufacturer of mid-priced door brassware.

  But back to the delinquent with the social skills bypass.

  ‘Your time is up.’

  He turned his head, raising his chin enough for Roxy to see that underneath the mandatory Burberry baseball cap was a fifteen-, possibly sixteen-year-old with dead eyes and a challenging expression.

  Jesus, what was it with teenagers these days? It was Friday–only her fifth day at work–and already she’d had to pick three roaches out of the Crime/Thriller section, found a bra and a half-bottle of vodka in Diet & Nutrition, and caught one couple indulging in an anatomical lesson of their own underneath the Science & Nature shelves. To be honest, she didn’t know whether to be outraged, horrified, or jealous that the only hot and heavy action around here didn’t involve her. In the end, she’d waited until the whole of the fifth-year study group was present then announced to Romeo, Juliet and all their mates that the next time she caught any of them behaving in an inappropriate manner she was getting the nuns from the local convent down to give a talk on the merits of chastity before marriage. They’d reacted with horror, fury, and then resorted to truly rebellious behaviour–studying.

  ‘Look, just piss off. I said I’m busy.’

  Roxy leaned right in so that the man of God and large mammary compulsion couldn’t hear her.

  ‘Listen, you little prick, I’ll make a wild guess that you’re supposed to be at school, so either fuck off now or I’ll phone the headmaster–no, make that the police–and I’ll tell them that you’re causing a breach of the peace. Which, trust me, you will be when I tip your spotty arse out of that chair.’

  The teenager turned and stared at her, his hand hovering ominously over his jacket pocket. Roxy rolled her eyes. What was he going to do? Assault her with a deadly packet of sugar-free gum? She gave him the stare of death she normally reserved for lecherous drunk guys with the dual delights of halitosis and a hard-on. Eventually, he stood up, pushed the chair back so violently that it almost took out the A–G shelf in the Self Help section (ABC of Contentment, Be the Best You Can Be, Clitoral Exploration for Dummies) and pushed past her as he headed to the exit.

  The reverend turned to check out the disturbance and Roxy shrugged.

  ‘Too many E-numbe—’

  Halfway through the sentence he refocused on the computer and Roxy realised that she’d lost him to the High Street Knockers. She sighed. What did it say about her that she was in her early twenties (it only became late twenties after 28), attractive, witty and chic and yet she couldn’t even hold the attention of a man who was paid to be a professional listener? She sat down and reached for her mobile again.

  We regret 2 inform u that Roxy Galloway died from boredomitus.

  Ginny’s reply was swift.

  Condolences. So can I have her Prada bags?

  Roxy tossed her phone across the desk in disgust and then logged on to her Hotmail account. Fifteen emails. Three adverts for cheap cosmetics, one announcement that she’d won the national lottery of Zimbabwe, one request from her bank to log in and update her security details (made somewhat dubious by the fact that it was spelt ‘seceurity detaels’, five offers to improve her girth and erectile stamina, three prescriptions for weight-loss pills, a voucher allowing her to purchase shares in a Colombian diamond mine and an online shopping survey from Boots.

  Messages from Felix? None. Not bloody one. Not even one of those crap jokes or filthy personal emails that got hijacked and spread around the globe ruining some poor sod’s life in five minutes flat. Nothing. Nada.

  Roxy’s shoulders slumped and a little part of her wished that the cyber scum she’d just ejected from the building would reappear so she’d have someone to vent her irritation on. What the fuck was wrong with Felix? Why wasn’t he grovelling? Didn’t he realise that she was the best thing (other than the six-figure salary, the yacht and the Ferrari) that had ever happened to him?

  Let’s face it: she was at least one league above him in the looks department, she wasn’t clingy, needy or whiny, and her blow jobs were legendary–he should be lying prostrate in front of her, begging for forgiveness. He was an arse. A completely self-absorbed, narcissistic, delusional arse. And she was glad to be shot of him. Really glad.

  But why wasn’t the bastard calling?

  She shuffled back over to the reception desk by the windows and immediately spotted Auntie Vi on approach. She was difficult to miss. If the psychedelic anorak wasn’t enough to grab your attention, the glare from the yellow legwarmers and bright pink wellies could cause temporary blindness.

  ‘Reverend, the Porn Prevention Officer is just about to walk in the door–get over to the Natural History section or she’ll be on the phone to the archbishop before the hour’s out.’

  Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  ‘Hello, dear, sorry I was so long–had a bunion you could’ve skied down. Morning, Reverend.’ The reverend flicked over a page of The Official Guide to Prehistoric Habitation then gave Vi a wave.

  She returned the gesture, while whispering to Roxy, ‘Has he been on that computer?’

  ‘Nowhere near it, Auntie Vi.’

  Violet smiled. She couldn’t deny she’d been a bit apprehensive about taking Roxy on–you never knew what that girl was going to do next–but she had to admit that it had worked out wonderfully. The customers seemed to like her, she kept on top of the paperwork and, strangely, there had been no damage to the toilets for days. Just a shame she seemed to be, well, a bit subdued.

  Roxy, meanwhile, was waiting for nature to take its course. There was a silence for a few seconds and then,

  ‘Cup of tea, love?’

  And there it was. The Nobel Prize for Services to PG Tips goes to Violet Wallis. Tea. And another tea. ‘Like a cuppa, love?’ ‘Time for a brew?’ At least twenty times a day. Violet Wallis was single-handedly keeping the entire tea-producing industry of the Indian subcontinent afloat.

  Roxy needed comfortable shoes, the patience of a saint and the water-retention skills of a camel to work here. Auntie Vi might mean well, but in the name of reinforced bladders she wasn’t sure she could take it much longer.

  Five days she had been there. Five days of no phone calls, no emails, no flowers, almost no conversation with anyone over sixteen or under sixty and–argh!!!!!!–no contact from the prick who had betrayed her. Just lots and lots of tea.

  Friday. The end of the week. Usually she’d have her weekend planned and, depending on her shifts, it would invariably involve some combina
tion of back-to-back working/shopping/eating/drinking/sex. Her glance flicked to the Self Help section–if she’d written a book in her former life it’d be called Hedonism Rules…And If You Don’t Agree, Grab a Drink and Dance While You Think about It.

  Now the closest thing she got to adrenalin-fuelled decadence was when Vi surprised her with a HobNob. Things were getting so wild around here that she might soon go really crazy and hit the baker’s for a strawberry tart.

  She had to find something to do. The prospect of a weekend in Farnham Hills was up there on her desirability scale with public transport and herpes. The four weeknights she’d already endured had been bad enough. Roxy felt her buttocks clench in horror as the memory of her first night came flooding back…

  A fabulous night out, they’d said, so Roxy had even dressed up for the occasion (although obviously she’d had to work within the constraints she’d been dealt). In the end, she unpicked the reindeers and was left with a plain jumper, her black trousers and her Louboutin heels. Not bad for an emergency fashion situation.

  She even tried not to object too strongly when she realised that once again they were walking to their destination. Bloody hell, she’d have a four-figure chiropodist bill after a month here. But at least she’d have thighs of steel.

  It was a ten-minute walk and Vera and Vi had talked up their surprise destination the whole way there. Fun. Excitement. A great laugh. Really gets the adrenalin going. Gets a bit rowdy. You can’t help but join in. Oh, the suspense. By the time Roxy arrived at the village hall she was expecting an audience with Billy Connolly. Instead…

  ‘Two little ducks!’ yelled the eighty-year-old man with the wig that stayed facing the front even when he turned his head ninety degrees to snatch a ball out of a Perspex drum.