My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

  This wail had woken up the baby that was being carted out by one of the Catholic mothers, and who was now taking the opportunity to demonstrate that it had the most developed lungs in the northern hemisphere.

  And then Juliet had charged in the direction of the door, tears streaming, with an elegant and artfully delivered, ‘Don’t ever speak to me again, you fuckers!’ directed behind her towards the table of her peers.

  Yep, Roxy mused, as she picked up a pile of goo formerly known as efficient record-keeping, it would be great if something exciting ever happened around here.

  Several hours later she was on her four hundred and thirty-seventh ‘Oooooooohhhhhmmmmmm’ when she realised that if she didn’t get out of there then Mrs Robinson-Smith, the woman who’d spent a fortnight trekking in Nepal and now considered herself on the same spiritual plane as the Dalai Llama, was going to get a Nike Cortez up her arse.

  She glanced over at her mother and Violet, both sitting crossed-legged on the floor wearing the fabric of this and every other season in Farnham Hills: velour. Both of them had their eyes closed, their thumbs clenched against their middle fingers, and were making a sound that fell somewhere between a fart in a wind tunnel and the mating call of Moby Dick.

  ‘Mum,’ she hissed. Mrs Robinson-Smith opened her eyes and puffed in outrage. Roxy shrugged an apology. ‘Feel ill, I’m going home.’

  The lemon-velour Buddha gave her a concerned look.

  ‘Time of the month,’ Roxy explained, scrambling to her feet.

  It was only when she was out of the door and the cold air hit her that she realised the time-of-the-month excuse might not be entirely manufactured. When exactly was her period due? She tried to count backwards. She remembered coming on when she and Felix were travelling back from that weekend in Paris. Was that last month? Seemed so long ago. They’d held hands as they walked along the Seine. Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. They’d held hands as they walked along the fifty-foot balcony of a very posh hotel overlooking the Seine. She’d been naked and wearing five-inch stripper shoes so exposure to the general public would probably have resulted in community service and an entry on the sex-offenders register.

  She detoured into the village general store for medicinal supplies. Mrs Baxter, the woman who’d stood behind the counter every day in living memory (rumours had it she was approximately one hundred and twenty-six years old), acknowledged her presence with gushing indifference. She’d definitely been off on the days that they taught customer services at Shop School.

  ‘S’cuse me, Mrs B, where will I find Ben & Jerry’s?’ Roxy asked in the cheeriest tone she could muster.

  Mrs Baxter dragged her eyes away from her Reader’s Digest.

  ‘Is that those gay blokes who moved into the farmhouse?’

  ‘Yep, that must be them.’ Only here, thought Roxy with a sigh. Only here. ‘Oh, and can you tell me where you keep the ice cream?’

  ‘Back freezer, right-hand side, behind the Yorkshire puddings. Of course, in my day we made our Yorkshire puddings ourselves–none of that frozen muck.’

  Apparently Mrs Baxter had also been off on the day they taught effective sales techniques.

  Roxy bought a tub of raspberry ripple–not smart when it was freezing outside, she wasn’t wearing gloves, and Mrs Baxter only provided carrier bags if you had more than three items. Apparently, her grandson was an environmentalist and she was personally going to save a continent by reducing her plastic-bag output.

  By the end of the street, the ice cream had been under Roxy’s arm, under the other arm, held in one hand, then the other, then rested on top of a street bin while she blew into her cupped palms and rubbed them together to restore circulation. She now knew how Scott of the bloody Antarctic felt. It was no use. She couldn’t go on. It was one small step for man, one giant case of chilblains if she didn’t get out of the cold quickly.

  There was only one thing for it–she did what people in jeopardy have done since Mrs Baxter was in pigtails: she sought refuge in the house of God.

  The church-house door was barely opened when she burst in and dropped the ice cream in the hallway.

  ‘Thank fuck, another five minutes and my hands would have dropped off.’

  ‘Good evening, Roxy, my dear, and how are you tonight?’

  The bits of her that weren’t already frozen now promptly followed suit. God had a mighty sick sense of humour sometimes. She turned to see Father Murphy standing behind the door with an enigmatic smile on his face. To her left, Mitch appeared through the door that led to the kitchen. At least she thought it was Mitch–it was hard to see his face behind a sandwich so tall it could be used to jack up cars.

  ‘Sorry, Father. About the language, I mean. I thought it was Mitch who had answered the door. Not that it’s okay to swear at Mitch because it’s not. And I wouldn’t. It was just…’

  ‘I was just on my way out. Don’t you worry about a thing, Roxy, I’m sure the Lord will be quite prepared to forgive you after you’ve sought redemption at confession on Saturday evening–say eight o’clock?’

  Cornered. She could either blast her way out and risk eternal damnation or surrender quietly.

  ‘Erm…definitely, Father. Eight o’clock. Saturday, confession. I’ll be there.’

  Father Murphy reached over and lifted his hat from the hat stand, before leaving her with a nod as he passed.

  ‘See you then, my child.’

  As the door closed behind him she turned to a smirking Mitch. ‘He does realise that if he wants to sit through my confession he should probably bring sandwiches, water, a duvet and some kind of portable toilet system?’

  ‘I’ll give him the heads-up.’

  There was an awkward pause for a few seconds while both worked out the best thing to say next. Roxy caved first.

  ‘Okay, I’m really sorry if I embarrassed you the other night–and I still reserve the right to blame Juliet and her posse and the vodka we’d tanked in the toilets–so I say we never talk about it again and just go back to being pals. I promise you, Mitch, I do not find you attractive in any way whatsoever. Not at all. Definitely not…’

  ‘Okay, okay, I get it. Now stop before your reassuring words make me go and sign up for a place on Extreme Makeover.’

  She eyed him up and down–three-quarter-length denim cut-offs with frayed edges, a U2 tour T-shirt circa 1998, flip-flops and Chaka Khan’s hair.

  ‘Honey, that wouldn’t be your worst ever idea.’

  ‘I think I preferred it when you were weird and acting strange around me.’

  ‘I was not acting strange.’

  ‘Were so.’

  ‘Was not.’

  ‘Roxy, the last three mornings you’ve barely said a word to me. Do you know what that does to a guy? I’ve come to count on your unique brand of abusive friendship to get my creativity flowing in the mornings, and this week? Nothing. Haven’t written a decent word since Sunday. Oh, and vodka with teenagers? You want to tell me about that?’

  ‘Nope, I’ll add it to the confession on Saturday.’

  He picked up the ice cream and she followed him into the kitchen and watched as he took two bowls out of the crockery cupboard.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been a bit off the wall–emotions are all over the place just now. Think my hormones are either late hitting puberty or early on the menopause.’

  ‘Hey, look, it’s understandable, there’ve been a lot of changes, upheaval, and it’s perfectly normal that you’re a bit strung out.’

  ‘A bit strung out? I sent twelve space-hoppers, four pizzas and a tribe of African dancers–with bongos–to my ex-boyfriend’s apartment today. That’s not strung out, it’s Care in the Community. I don’t know, Mitch–I think being here is driving me nuts. It’s almost like I had so much going on in London that I never stopped to question whether or not I was actually happy inside, and now that I’m here there’s too much time to think. And commit credit-card fraud.’

  He handed her a bowl that runneth over
with raspberry ripple.

  ‘Look, I know it’s not been easy, but it’s not all bad here. And sometimes you just have to take time out to evaluate where you are and where you’re going.’

  ‘Wish I was in Prada and going to the Embassy Club.’

  She licked some dripping ice cream from her spoon. ‘But then, to be honest, I’m not certain I want to go back there either. I really miss a couple of my friends, but I’m not sure that’s enough of a reason to go back. I’ve no idea what I want to do. None. I just know that I can’t stay here. Apart from a glorious five minutes of chaos in the library this afternoon, I’ve been bored rigid since I got here. Nothing ever happens. Nothing. I mean…What’s that noise?’

  Mitch was already in his flip-flops and dashing out to the vestibule, where a red light was flashing like a beacon on the alarm panel by the door.

  ‘There’s someone in the church. I’m sure I locked it before I set the alarm. Bloody vandals have broken in again.’

  He snatched a set of keys from a nearby hook and tore out of the door, Roxy rushing after him. She would have loved to have said that she was having a Charlie’s Angels moment and was fuelled by notions of catching the bad guys and bringing them to justice, but the truth was that if there were petty criminals in the vicinity then she wanted a big burly bloke by her side. Even if he was wearing a U2 T-shirt and had Chaka Khan’s hair. The alarm could be a decoy to get Mitch out of the house so that they could kidnap her and kill her using Japanese martial arts and cling film. That episode of CSI Miami would never leave her.

  She jumped over the privet hedge that bordered the path, and then sprinted in Mitch’s wake across the lawn to the church. When they reached it, the front door was six inches ajar.

  ‘You stay here, I’ll check inside. If you hear me scream like a girl then call the police.’

  ‘I was impressed right up until that last bit. And anyway, you’re not leaving me here. Come on.’

  She pushed past him, then froze when she realised that the church was in total darkness. Thankfully, somewhere behind her, Mitch flicked on a switch and the Lord said Let there be light.

  As soon as their pupils had reacted to the change, they scanned the church. Nothing. No vandals. No damage. No sound.

  They stood for several seconds, barely breathing, waiting for a serial killer with a religious obsession to ambush them, slaughter them, and then dangle them from the giant cross on the wall behind the altar. CSI Las Vegas that time.

  Mitch audibly exhaled behind her. ‘Must have been the wind. Or an animal, maybe. I obviously left it unlocked earlier, because there are no signs of forced entry.’

  ‘Okay, then, Sherlock Holmes, can we go back to the nice warm church house now?’

  ‘Sure. Just let me check that a cat or dog hasn’t sneaked in. Don’t want to give Mrs Dodds a nasty surprise in the morning.’

  He walked up the aisle like an air-hostess on seatbelt duty, checking every pew as he passed. Roxy started tapping her feet, partly out of impatience, partly because her toes were icing up, and partly because the adrenaline was charging around her body with nowhere to go.

  ‘Roxy! Roxy!’

  That adrenaline diverted to her legs as she charged up the aisle in the direction of Mitch’s panicked shouts. She could just see the top of his hair now; the rest of him was crouched down between two pews near the front.

  She saw the blonde head first, then the rest of the limp body lying along the ancient wooden bench. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, peaceful. It could have been a breathtakingly stunning image if it wasn’t for the empty bottle and packet of pills lying on the floor next to her.

  Roxy flew to Mitch’s side, pushing him out of the way while taking the familiar head and cradling it in her arms.

  ‘Mitch, go and phone an ambulance. Now!’

  She turned back and gently swept the hair off the beautiful face, willing her to wake up.

  ‘Oh, Juliet, honey, what have you done?’

  The Seismic Lounge

  Thursday Evening, 11 p.m.

  The phone rang for so long that he’d almost given up hope of even hearing her voice on the answering machine. Just as he was about to replace the handset, he heard the click and then her playful, throaty tones as she invited the caller to leave a message.

  It was simple. He missed her. He hadn’t expected to, he certainly didn’t want to, but the truth was that he’d realised he was living in limbo–and it was time to move on. And he couldn’t do that without her.

  He frowned as he realised that he should have done this long ago. Better late than never, he supposed. He just hoped that she’d react to his plea and come back. Because until she did…Well, how could he find out the answers to the river of questions that were rising in his mind? For weeks now he’d been going through the motions, existing on autopilot, numbed by the frustration of the situation.

  No longer. She had to come back…she just had to.

  The beep finished and there was a brief pause as he tried to formulate his words.

  Then…

  ‘Hey, it’s Sam. I was hoping to catch you because we need to talk. The thing is, I need you to come back. I’m sorry, but I do. As soon as possible. Call me.’

  He put the phone down with a heavy heart. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that she didn’t respond well to being told what to do. He just hoped that this one time her heart would hear him and she would know that she had to come home.

  SIXTEEN

  Easy

  Ginny. Day 20, Friday, 8 p.m.

  The nurse took a long drag on her cigarette, relieved to be finally getting a break after the exhaustive task of working her way through patient after patient after patient. And she still had so many more to get to.

  ‘So is Sam single?’

  ‘What?’ Destiny took another drag on her cig. Urgh, these PVC uniforms always stuck to her like Sellotape after an afternoon orgy. It was a specialist service that had to be booked weeks in advance and was especially popular with young-buck bankers who’d just pocketed huge bonuses.

  This time there were four of them, all in their late twenties, all strikingly handsome and all happy to spend an obscene amount of their cash on a couple of hours of utter hedonism with half a dozen of the girls. They were Destiny’s favourite kind of clients, but she definitely needed a sit-down and a nicotine infusion after they left.

  ‘Sam. Is he single?’

  Destiny gave out a sexy, purring chuckle. ‘Lord, I’ve created a monster. Don’t tell me you’re thinking about banging him too?’

  ‘No! Don’t be ridiculous!’ Ginny declared indignantly.

  ‘Ridiculous? Tell me again about that little fantasy of yours. What did I do to you with the strap-on and the whipped cream after you’d spent ten minutes with your head in my nethers?’

  Ginny groaned. ‘I can’t believe I told you about that.’

  Destiny giggled. ‘Just tell me again how good I was.’

  ‘The best ever, okay? And if you’re going to mock then I’m never telling you anything again. I need to stop drinking. Half a dozen drinks and suddenly my deepest fantasies go from being my dirty secret to an appropriate topic of conversation. Another night on the town and I’ll be requiring the services of a nurse who has actually had some training in the medical field.’

  She opened a compact mirror, removed the sponge and patted some foundation onto her face. ‘I mean, look at me. Under this fine veneer of expensive slap there’s a grey face and thread veins popping by the second. I haven’t seen sunlight for days. I’ve forgotten what nutritious food actually looks like.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No, don’t say it. The garnish on a cocktail does not constitute one of the five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables as recommended by Government Healthy Eating Guidelines.’

  Destiny held up her cigarette packet. ‘Here, have a cigarette–it’ll take your mind off your unhealthy diet.’

  Ginny stuck her tongue out at her, b
efore continuing in a more serious vein. ‘Do you know what I miss most?’

  Destiny racked her brain. ‘Your anal boyfriend? And not anal in a good way, incidentally.’

  ‘I miss books. I miss the smell of them. I miss reading them. I miss losing myself in the pages.’

  Destiny viewed her with genuine concern.

  ‘Babe, you need help.’

  Ginny couldn’t stifle the laugh. ‘You’re right. You’re sitting there wearing a plastic nurse’s uniform and thigh-high boots, yet I’m the one that needs help.’

  Destiny feigned outrage as she tossed a fag packet in Ginny’s direction. ‘Remind me again when you’re leaving?’

  ‘One week. Seven days. I keep telling my liver that we’re on the home stretch.’

  Of course, now that Roxy was on Ginny’s Five People I’d Like to Kill in Heaven list, she could walk out at any time. What did it matter if Roxy lost her wages? Or her bonus? Or the guarantee of a good reference?

  Ginny, quite frankly, couldn’t give a toss. However, the truth was that she didn’t want to leave yet. Health issues and visits from ex-boyfriends aside, she was still finding this whole adventure absolutely exhilarating. Her only regret was that she hadn’t done it sooner. Perhaps if she’d come to university here as planned then her life would have turned out so differently. She would have moved in different circles, experienced different things, developed different dreams. Or perhaps if she’d done this when she was younger she’d have got homesick after the first week and fled back to the life that she left behind. Still, it would have been good to have taken the chance.

  ‘Single.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sam, he’s single. Has been since I started here.’

  ‘And does he…does he…you know?’

  ‘Take advantage of his employer’s perks? No. Never. And it isn’t for the lack of offers–Ceecee and Deedee have been practically stalking him for months. When Deedee came back from having her St Tropez and her Brazilian done last week, she lay across his desk in the buff and asked him to inspect the merchandise…’