My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

  ‘Nooooo! What did he say?’

  ‘Said it was lovely and could she pass the stapler.’

  In a moment of supreme elegance, Ginny spat a mouthful of milky tea across the table.

  ‘Hey, watch the outfit!’

  ‘D, it’s plastic, it’ll wipe clean. Anyway, so why do you think he refused then? Gay? Secretly married? Just seems to me that the type of bloke who runs a place like this should be shagging everything in sight. I mean, I think he’s lovely, but people tend to go into a field of employment that they plan on enjoying. Just seems strange that he doesn’t, you know, live it up a little.’

  Destiny checked the watch that was pinned to her lapel. ‘I know, go figure. Anyway, better go. Joe Cave’s in next and he’ll have popped a Viagra on the way here. If I keep him waiting he’ll do himself an injury.’

  ‘Joe Cave, the actor? Oh my God, I loved him in that thing about the killer snake let loose in the underground.’

  Destiny got up, stubbed out her cigarette and took a final sip of her coffee.

  ‘Okay, since it’s you and I don’t want to fuel your rampant fantasies any more than I have already, I’m not going to make a joke about what I’ll be doing to his killer snake in about five minutes.’ She kissed Ginny on the cheek. ‘Now go back to that desk and dream about all the other things you want me to do to you. Tell me later.’

  ‘Nope, I’m over you. I’m going on to Portia de Rossi next–think I’m entering a blonde phase.’

  Their joviality resonated down the hallway as they left the staffroom and went in different directions: Destiny off to work with an endangered and potentially hazardous species, Ginny back to her position at the front desk. And as they went, neither of them spotted that their boss was standing against the wall just outside the staffroom door–in the same position he’d been in for the last five minutes.

  Ginny had barely sat down when the front-door buzzer rang. Strange–Jennifer wasn’t due on shift for another two hours and clients tended to stick to the back door, far from the prying lenses of any persistent paparazzi.

  She pressed the intercom. ‘Good evening, may I help you?’

  The voice on the other end surprised her for three reasons: it was as sharp as a scalpel, it oozed confidence, and it was female. Well, she’d heard that they did have the occasional female client but she’d yet to meet one. And, given the target gender of her newfound fantasy world, that was probably a good thing.

  ‘Yes, I’m here to see Samuel Carvell, and since it’s raining like Niagara out here I’d be very grateful if you would expedite my entry.’

  Ginny felt a mild tremble of panic in the pit of her stomach. This sounded like one scary lady. She shouldn’t let her in without clearance, but it went against her instincts and manners to leave her standing in the rain. She quickly pressed the entry button that opened the door. If this was a journalist using a ruse to get a look inside London’s most unusual service industry, Sam would fire her for letting the woman in. He’d warned her about these kinds of tricks on her first day. Brothels might be legal now but that didn’t mean the press were any less fascinated about who was indulging a bit of extramarital, extra-expensive nookie.

  Ginny watched with apprehension as the mystery caller came into view. If the woman was clutching a notepad and a Pentax then she might have to rugby tackle her and wrestle her back out the door again–an act that she’d struggle with under any circumstances, but which would be near impossible in her John Galliano skin-tight, calf-skimming pencil skirt and Fifties-style slingback peep-toe platforms.

  The minute she set eyes on the guest, she knew that she could never take her. To start with, this woman had a good six inches on Ginny. Her black, glossy hair fell in waves that skimmed past her shoulder blades. Her caramel sallow skin was flawless, her eyes were the shape of almonds, and every feature was perfectly defined by expertly applied make-up. She was wearing a dark, beautifully cut trouser suit that Ginny, fashion dunce that she was, still knew had cost more than she earned in a month. The light glistened off a rock the size of a grape on her index finger. And under her arm was a crocodile Hermes Kelly bag that Ginny was guessing didn’t come with a free bottle of Eau de Patpong Market. It was difficult to pinpoint her age. She had that supermodel gait and posture that was so deceptive she could be anywhere between Cindy Crawford and Jerry Hall.

  It wasn’t just the accoutrements of wealth that gave this woman the veneer of invincibility. It was the way she walked, the way she carried herself, every step taken with the confidence and certainty that she would have exactly what she wanted whenever she wanted it.

  Okay, so the rugby tackle was out of the question. Suddenly Ginny had another thought–what if this was someone’s wife? If Miss Glossy Veneer made a dash for the stairs then the rugby tackle might just have to be back on the agenda.

  ‘Good evening,’ the visitor purred, ‘as I said, I’d like to see Sam Carvell, please.’

  ‘Certainly, I’ll just check if he’s free. Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘That’s okay, Ginny, I know who’s calling.’

  Both women’s heads whipped round to see Sam, coffee in one hand, coming through from the staffroom area.

  Ginny spotted immediately that his voice was quite different from normal–garrulous, sweet, almost–good grief–sunny. Although (and it could either be blamed on the obvious shock or the dodgy reception lighting) he suddenly had the same pale complexion as Ginny did before she piled the slap on. To the trained eye it was obvious that this visit was completely unexpected, shocking, but definitely welcome.

  ‘Hey, Carmella, long time no see,’ he drawled.

  Ginny was mesmerised. This was like being a spectator on the set of a major soap opera, a really flash one where everyone wore diamonds and transported the kids to school in their Gulfstream jets.

  Glossy Veneer smiled, revealing perfect, blinding teeth, and then glided over towards Sam, arms outstretched. Oh. My. God. Ginny suddenly wondered if there was any way she could surreptitiously buzz Destiny and get her down here to watch this. She had no idea what was going on, but going by Sam’s demeanour it was obviously something pretty special. He was hugging her now, tightly, with a huge grin and his eyes closed.

  ‘I thought you were never coming back.’

  ‘Darling, didn’t I say I would?’

  ‘That was over a year ago,’ he replied, with just a hint of a reprimand.

  ‘Oh, darling, you know how time flies.’ Her hand flicked away his comment. She wrapped her arms around him again. ‘But I’m back now.’

  Sam pulled back, their faces inches from each other, their eyes locked.

  ‘For good?’

  ‘For good.’

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ Deedee spat, and then took a huge gulp of her Bollinger.

  ‘Down, girl,’ Mimi warned. ‘If your naked muff didn’t grab his interest then I think you have to accept that it’s never going to happen.’

  Ginny marvelled, yet again, how somehow this exchange now seemed perfectly normal to her.

  ‘So then what happened?’ Destiny probed eagerly.

  ‘No idea. They went into the office and they were still in there when Jenny came on shift and I left. It was so weird–I swear at one point I thought Sam was about to burst into tears.’

  ‘At least it explains one thing, though,’ Ginny declared.

  ‘That he’s got crap taste in women,’ Deedee muttered bitterly.

  ‘It explains why he’s single…’

  Deedee gave her the glare of death so Ginny quickly performed a defensive move.

  ‘…and why he, incredibly, refused the stunningly beautiful Deedee’s very generous offer…’

  Deedee’s mood visibly softened from premeditated homicide to malicious wounding.

  ‘…he’s obviously in love with this woman and he’s been waiting all this time for her to return to him. Quite sweet, really.’

  Deedee kicked her ankle, causing a swift retraction.

&nb
sp; ‘I mean nauseating. Quite nauseating. And stupid. Obviously. Daft. When he could have you, Deedee.’

  Deedee pushed herself off the barstool and strutted off in the direction of the nearest millionaire–a simple task since she knew every single man in London with an income of over £500K per annum.

  ‘Wow, I can’t believe we never knew. We’ve spent months trying to work out his story. More Bolly?’

  Ginny held her glass up for a refill. So much for cleansing her liver. She hadn’t planned to come out with the girls tonight but she was so desperate to tell them the gossip that she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

  A thought suddenly struck her–when had she ever been interested in gossip? Hadn’t she always prided herself on the fact that she never bitched or moaned about other people? Except Roxy, of course, but then she was only human.

  A few weeks ago she hadn’t known any of these girls and Sam was a virtual stranger, yet now she’d somehow integrated herself into their lives, and vice versa.

  She’d changed so much so quickly, and yet she still felt, well, like herself. Just a new, improved self, with better clothes and the occasional desire to sleep with one of her new chums.

  She held up her glass. ‘Here’s to Sam. Who got the girl back.’

  They all clinked glasses as Ceecee added, ‘And to friends–friends who will post Deedee’s bail after she gets her hands on Sam’s new woman.’

  Everyone in the group raised their glasses then downed the contents in one. Ginny felt herself sway–she definitely shouldn’t have done that.

  She should probably head home–it might be fun to find out what it felt like when your head hit your pillow before 4 a.m. It had been so long she couldn’t remember.

  Yep, she should definitely go. Definitely.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies, the gentleman over there sent this over with his regards.’

  Four bottles of Cristal were plonked in front of them. Ginny and the girls turned to see who had just become their very favourite person of the evening.

  Standing in the corner of the room, surrounded by a huge entourage, Joe Cave answered their curiosity with a subtle salute.

  Well, perhaps she’d have one more glass.

  Four hours, five glasses of obscenely expensive champagne, too many dances to count, and one surreptitious snog with the son of a football legend in the queue outside the unisex toilets later, Ginny stumbled out of the door. It had been a good move to alternate her alcohol with water because as a result she’d drunk enough champers to feel merry but not enough to feel completely squished. Normally the next destination would be an all-night café for coffee and perhaps an early breakfast, but Ginny could definitely feel her bed calling her back to the Mothership.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to go for coffee or come back to mine?’ Destiny asked.

  Ginny kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thanks–but I’m trying to get over you, remember?’

  Several doormen watched the exchange and spent the next ten minutes immune from the cold as endorphins charged around their systems, fuelled by what they’d like to imagine came next. The stunningly beautiful dark girl with the perfect body and the look of lust versus the blonde girl-next-door who wasn’t as innocent as she looked. Carlsberg didn’t make women, but if they did…

  Ginny watched Destiny jump into the black cab at the front of the queue, before taking the one behind her. It was almost 4 a.m, so she reckoned she’d be in her bed by half past, and, since she was off the next day, she could stay there for as long as she wanted. Bliss.

  Twenty minutes later she let herself into the darkened flat. Jude obviously wasn’t home yet, because if he was the lights would be on in every room and the music would be gently throbbing from the sound system that piped music throughout the flat. And anyway, she was sure he’d said something about seeing Goldie after work tonight. Or was it Cheska? Nope, Cheska’s court case was coming into its final days and she hadn’t been around much lately, so it was definitely Goldie.

  Ginny kicked off her shoes in the hallway and then wandered through to the kitchen. She pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and grabbed a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl, chiding herself that this was the first healthy thing she’d eaten in days. She really must get back to some semblance of normality, at least in the food stakes.

  She replaced the bottle of water and closed the fridge door with a little smile. She doubted she’d ever be able to see an American-style fridge freezer without having a flashback to the first time…the first time that…oh, it was such a shame that Jude wasn’t here because she’d definitely come over all…friendly. Yep, there was definitely something in the water in this flat.

  Bed. She needed to be in bed. And no, she wasn’t going to touch the battery-operated friend that Destiny had persuaded her to buy on their last shopping expedition. She was going to sleep. Sleep. And tomorrow morning she was going to go and find the nearest bookshop, buy a few new reads and then return to bed with three litres of water, a fruit basket and a historical drama that definitely didn’t feature scenes of wild sexual abandon. It was time for a detox of body, mind and libido.

  In her bedroom she clicked her fingers and the bedside lamps flickered on. She loved that. She took off her silk halter-neck top then dropped her skirt, before unclipping the sheer taupe bra and sliding off the matching thong. She caught her reflection in the mirror: she’d definitely lost some weight, and perhaps it was just the complimentary lighting but her legs looked a little more toned–probably all that walking around in high heels. Her calf muscles had been tighter than banjo strings since she’d got here.

  As she wandered through to the bathroom to brush her teeth, she realised that she was dragging out the whole process in the hope that Jude would be home before she fell asleep. She opened the bathroom door, then stopped dead. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim candlelight and her brain a few moments to catch up. There, in Roxy’s bath, illuminated by a dozen candles, was a very naked Jude. A very gorgeous, naked Jude.

  And, lying in front of him, with her back pressed against his chest, her eyes closed while his hands cupped her breasts, was a very naked and very blissful Goldie.

  Jude was the first to speak–and he had the good manners to remove his palms from his girlfriend’s nipples. ‘Sorry, Ginny, didn’t expect you home so early. We came in here because this is the biggest bath. For two. And…okay, I’m going to stop talking now and we’ll get out of here.’

  As soon as he’d started to speak, Goldie’s eyes had flipped open. She carried on where Jude left off, with not a shred of embarrassment or awkwardness. ‘Hey, honey, how are you?’ she asked, in the kind of breezy manner that suggested they’d just bumped into each other in the frozen-food aisle at Asda.

  ‘Er…naked?’ Ginny replied, snatching a towel from the nearby hook and holding it in front of her. Just when she’d thought that life couldn’t get any more crazy, she was having a casual, everyday conversation with one of the stars of British television–complete with full-frontal nudity.

  Goldie threw back her head and emitted the very same laugh that most of the nation heard as they munched on their cornflakes.

  ‘Babe, you’ll have to move first to let me up,’ Jude prompted her.

  Ginny started to retreat. ‘I’ll just wait out here while you…’

  ‘Don’t.’

  She had taken a few steps backwards when the command stopped her.

  ‘Unless, of course, you want to,’ Goldie continued. ‘But it’s okay with me if you stay.’

  Goldie’s voice was suddenly low, seductive, and Ginny’s eyes had gone from darting around the room in a desperate bid to find something to focus on other than Goldie’s nipples, to staring straight at her.

  Her heart began to race. Oh, God. Oh, God. This was another one of those moments. Another one of those crazy bloody moments that had been coming thick and fast since the moment she’d stepped into the parallel universe of Shagville.

  ‘In fact, it’s o
kay with me…’ Goldie was purring again. Purring. At her. The woman who interviewed pensioners about their talking budgies, who raised money for the sick and poor, who lunched with Cherie Blair, was purring at her.

  ‘…it’s okay with me if you join us.’

  Ginny’s lungs had now stopped functioning and she was struggling to breathe. This was outrageous. It was like discovering Fiona Phillips was a closet dominatrix and used willy clamps on Darren Castle during the commercial breaks.

  Her eyes flicked from Goldie’s to Jude’s. Surprise was etched in his gorgeous features, but he gave her an easy, languid smile. ‘Only if you want to, babe. If not we’ll get out of here.’

  Right then. So the way Ginny saw it she had choices here:

  Let the nerves that were making her tremble escalate until she threw up–possibly a passion killer and definitely messy.

  Ask them to leave and spend the rest of the night imagining what they were going to be doing in the next room.

  Retreat gracefully, throw on some clothes and go spend the night at the nearest Travel Inn.

  d) Joi—joi—join–holy crap, she could hardly even bring herself to think it…Join in. In which case she would never again be able to watch morning telly without a beaming face and crossed legs.

  ‘Ginny?’ It was Jude again, gently probing for an answer.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t. She might have come a long way in the last month but this was a fondle too far. She couldn’t do it. She…She’d just dropped the towel to the floor and was now standing there once again completely naked.

  Goldie held out her hand, and after a moment that seemed to last for longer than a breakfast-telly news bulletin, Ginny walked towards them.

  At the edge of the bath, she paused. What was the procedure here? Should she climb in the other end? Climb on top? Don a scuba set and go straight to the underwater exploration bit?

  Goldie helped her out. ‘Sit here,’ she ordered softly, motioning to a spot on the rim of the bath, about ten inches from Goldie’s shoulders.

  Ginny climbed onto the edge and swung her legs into the bath, the warm, frothy water reaching up to just above her calves. Okay, what next? Because she didn’t like to be pushy but she was still feeling like a bit of a spare tit. Or, rather, two spare tits.