My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

  Goldie reached over to the back of the bath and lifted the shower hose from its cradle. She turned on the mixer tap and tested the water jet as it shot out of the chrome head. When it was at the perfect temperature, she manoeuvred round so that she was directly in front of Ginny’s (faintly trembling) knees. Ginny gasped as the water bounced off her thighs, slowly tracing a path from her knees, along her thighs, to her hips, then up over her stomach and breasts.

  She closed her eyes, blocking out the astonishment at the scene in front of her, allowing her senses to take over and drown in what was proving to be an incredible sensation of utter ecstasy.

  She felt Goldie’s hand gently slide between her knees, softly prising them apart, wider, wider, then she gasped as the hot jets moved along her inner thighs and found her clitoris, pounding against it. She moaned as every nerve ending in her body reacted to the sheer bloody magnificence of the candlelit cleansing ritual.

  Suddenly, she felt the shower jets subside and a very different texture was caressing the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, Goldie’s tongue moved in small, teasing circles towards the water droplets that still dripped from the little landing strip left after her inaugural Hollywood wax.

  And when it reached her tingling mound, Ginny finally opened her eyelids and saw Jude, behind his lover, watching the scene with playful eyes. Then she turned her stare downwards, to the head that was between her legs. Her hands clenched even more tightly onto the edge of the bath rim, her legs opened even wider, and Goldie’s tongue went even deeper as Ginny’s orgasm built to the most exquisite crescendo.

  And Ginny Wallis would forever reflect on the irony…She now knew what the woman she’d shared her mornings with for many years really liked to have for breakfast.

  To: Felix DeMille

  From: Mr C. Clacton–Dunhill, Clacton & Smythe Chartered Accountants Date: 31.10.07–10.47 a.m.

  Subject: American Express Card–R. Galloway

  Dear Mr DeMille,

  We have received a communication this morning from American Express Card Services regarding the American Express card held on your account in the name of Roxanne Galloway.

  As you know, it is a condition of this account that extreme variables in spending patterns be recorded and reported to you as principal cardholder. Over recent weeks, the expenditure on this account has increased dramatically; with an eighty per cent increase in average daily spend. More worrying, it seems, are the nature of the purchases on the account, which do seem to be rather unusual. An example of this follows:

  Services of African Steel Drum Band: £10,000 One combine harvester (second-hand): £6,500

  Please confirm that this card is still under your control, as we have obvious concerns that it has been stolen/cloned and is being used illegally.

  We have been unable to contact you by telephone to discuss this matter and would be grateful if you would confirm your current contact numbers.

  We await your instruction,

  Charles Clacton Esq.

  To: Mr C. Clacton–Dunhill, Clacton and Smythe Chartered Accountants

  From: Felix DeMille

  Date: 31.10.07–10.48 a.m.

  Subject: OUT OF OFFICE REPLY American Express Card–R. Galloway

  I will be out of my office from 26.10.07 until 11.11.07 inclusive. During this time I can be contacted on my mobile number. However, as I will be travelling throughout South America on a research trip, I cannot guarantee that I will always be within range. If you are therefore unable to reach me by phone, I will respond to your email on my return.

  Felix DeMille

  SEVENTEEN

  Baby Love

  Roxy. Day 21, Saturday, noon

  ‘Are you, like, my mother or something?’

  ‘No, I’m Florence Fucking Nightingale, now eat the soup that I lovingly extracted from a tin or I’m putting on my Barry Manilow Greatest Hits CD.’

  ‘You are, like, more than evil.’

  Roxy winked and gave Juliet a cheesy thumbs-up. ‘Sweet of you to say.’

  Juliet pouted as she dunked a huge wedge of wholemeal bread into the bowl of chicken soup.

  Roxy carried on hanging up knickers on a clothes rack that clipped over the one radiator in the living room. The unlikelihood of the situation didn’t escape her–she hadn’t washed her own clothes since, well, ever, and now here she was washing, drying and–God forbid–she might even suss out how to use the iron before the end of the day.

  Even in a life that generally ricocheted from one crisis/drama/adventure to another, this had been a truly eventful week. More out of character than the fortnight in Lanzarote with Mimi. More enlightening than the time she paid five hundred quid for the world-famous psychic to tell her she was going to have Felix’s babies (the big fat fake–she fleetingly wondered if she could sue under the Trade Descriptions Act).

  Finding Juliet in the church that night was a scene that would be etched in her mind forever.

  That ER box set Sam had sent her last time she’d had the flu hadn’t been wasted. In between using scenes of that gorgeous Luca bloke as foreplay for personal relief, she’d picked up on what to do in the case of unconscious patients–apparently she should look beautiful yet fearful, and shout in a dramatic manner.

  ‘Juliet, Juliet, wake up, honey, wake up!’

  At which point the patient should wake up, groggily thank Roxy for saving her life, and promise to name her first child Roxy…a tad unfortunate if it was a boy.

  Sadly it seemed that Juliet had a different perspective on the situation, because her reaction had been to twitch, groan, then throw up all over her rescuer.

  It seemed they didn’t need the ambulance after all–just treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder. Oh, and Juliet might need some help too.

  Supporting her on both sides they’d half-walked/half-carried her into the church house and laid her on the couch, agreeing not to call the doctor after she’d vehemently reassured them that although she’d drunk her body weight in Jack Daniels, she’d only taken two Paracetamol.

  Roxy wasn’t sure if it had been a misinformed suicide attempt or a sensible measure to prevent a hangover the next morning.

  After Roxy had wrenched off her sick-sodden sweatshirt and replaced it with the first thing that came to hand (and no, it didn’t escape her notice that Father Murphy’s ecumenical robe clashed with her trainers) she’d sent Mitch into the kitchen with an urgent, ‘Coffee, Chaka Khan, make coffee!’ She’d pulled a blanket over Juliet, watching as the teenager clenched her jaw and slipped back into her usual abrasive, sullen demeanour.

  ‘Don’t you dare go all huffy on me, Vomit Girl–it’ll take fucking weeks for me to get this smell out of my hair,’ she’d warned, her tone softer than her words. ‘So do you want to tell me what happened?’

  Juliet shook her head and spat a resounding, very definite, ‘No.’

  Okay, this wasn’t going to any kind of plan. Roxy instinctively knew that she had to tread gently, using the subtle probing techniques that she’d picked up over the years of getting great gossip out of people. Then she’d decided that since vomit was currently hardening on her hair, she didn’t have time to beat around the bush. ‘Tell me or I’m calling the doctor, the police and your parents.’

  Juliet had caved like a reformed criminal on Oprah.

  ‘Saffron and Ben–they’ve been seeing each other behind my back. Bastards.’

  Roxy gasped. She hadn’t seen that coming at all. ‘So that’s what all the commotion was about this afternoon?’

  Juliet had nodded. ‘Saffron just walked in and announced it. Says she’s been shagging him for months and she was fed up of waiting for him to chuck me.’

  ‘But she’s your best mate!’ Roxy had exclaimed. A sudden vision of Darren’s dick had come into her head. Pot. Kettle. She’d shrugged the image away. That wasn’t the same as this at all. She was the victim in that whole situation and so she knew just how Juliet was feeling.
Empathise, Roxy, empathise in a mature yet insightful manner.

  ‘What a bitch! Oh, I could slap the tramp. And he’s no bloody better. But, honey, topping yourself isn’t the answer.’

  Juliet had shrugged. ‘I wasn’t trying to top myself.’

  Roxy gave her a cynical look.

  ‘I wasn’t, I promise! I just didn’t want to think about them any more. So I started drinking and…I suppose I drank too much.’ She’d shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Juliet had repeated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’M SORRY!’

  Roxy shrugged. ‘S’okay, I heard you the first time–I was just milking it to make up for the fact that I’m sitting here dressed like a vicar and smelling like a cross-channel ferry toilet. And I can’t promise I won’t find other ways to make you pay over the coming week.’

  For the first time, Juliet had managed just a hint of a smile.

  Mitch, still in panic mode, had barged in a few seconds later clutching a hot cup of black sweet coffee.

  ‘Urgh, are you trying to kill me?’ Juliet groaned. ‘I hate coffee. Any Lucozade? This is, like, so lame.’

  ‘Juliet, honey,’ Roxy had laughed. ‘I think you’re on the mend.’

  And that’s the point when the titles should have rolled on this happy little scene and they should all have gone back to their lives, sharing forever the secret bond of this emotional experience.

  In make-believe land.

  In reality, they’d given Juliet a lift home in the church car (a canary-yellow Volvo Estate, circa 1982, that some old bloke had generously bequeathed to the church on his deathbed–although as Father Murphy had been giving him last rites at the time there were accusations of coercion) and made an astonishing discovery.

  Roxy had helped her out of the back seat and insisted on coming in with her.

  ‘I’m fine, I don’t need any more help!’ Juliet had protested adamantly. She might have got away with it if she hadn’t immediately wobbled and slammed into the miniature conifer that sat in a chipped terracotta pot at the front door of her tiny terraced house, sending chards of pottery careering along the street.

  ‘Look, I promise I won’t tell your mum or dad what happened–but I’m not leaving you here until I know that you’ve got someone to look after you. If you choke on your own vomit and die my karma will be fucked forever.’

  ‘My mum’s out.’

  ‘So I’ll wait until she gets home.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can. Juliet, face it–you won’t win this. When it comes to being determined, obstinate and immature, I’m the master. So I’m coming in whether you like it or not. And anyway, that dickhead Ben might come round and you’re in no condition to deal with him.’

  She’d turned to Mitch, sitting at the wheel of the Volvo and unable to resist a smile as he witnessed the exchange. ‘Mitch, you go on home, I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Jesus! Can someone just do what I bloody tell them around here?’

  He’d gone zero to thirty in about a minute and a half.

  Juliet knew when she was beaten. She’d grudgingly opened the door and let Roxy follow her, flicking on a table lamp just inside the hallway. It was a typical two-up two-down, part of a picturesque little terrace that used to house the staff of the big estate back in the early 1900s. The inside was sparse but neat: magnolia walls, beech laminate flooring, two navy Ikea sofas, and a light wood coffee table that matched the TV unit in the corner.

  A hallway, made narrow by the flight of stairs that ran up one wall, led through to the kitchen, small enough that the pine units and cork floor tiles added to the cosy feel, but big enough for a tiny wrought-iron table and two chairs to sit in the centre of the room. Every surface was clean, every corner tidy, so much so that it almost looked uninhabited.

  Roxy caught sight of the pictures on the wall–a blonde woman not much older than herself, arms around a slightly younger Juliet, both of them laughing at something off camera. Pictures of Juliet, aged around four, around eight, around twelve.

  ‘So, no brothers or sisters then?’

  Juliet shook her head as she went on through to the kitchen, only a slight wobble in her walk now. She returned a moment later clutching two cans of Diet Coke, one of which she held out to Roxy. ‘Sorry, I don’t have any tea or coffee.’

  ‘Then don’t ever invite my aunt here because the shock would kill her.’

  Juliet attempted a smile as she sat down on one of the sofas and pulled her feet up underneath her, the dim light of the lamp making her look much younger than her age.

  ‘And Dad?’

  Juliet shrugged. ‘Lives in Manchester. He and Mum split up when I was eight. Haven’t seen him for years.’

  Roxy sat down on the opposite couch. There was a prolonged silence as she tried to make eye contact with her young emergency case and Juliet tried to avoid it.

  ‘So…erm…what time will your mum be home?’

  Juliet shrugged. ‘You don’t have to wait, I’ve told you I’m fine,’ she protested again.

  Roxy was having none of it. ‘Okay, let’s skip the argument and go straight to the bit where I win–I’m not going anywhere until someone else is here with you.’

  And that’s when it had finally happened–the most unexpected thing of all. Miss Hard-Arse Teenager, the girl who, it seemed, had gone directly from puberty to her mid-twenties, had burst into tears.

  ‘You’re going to have a long wait then, because she’s in Tunisia.’

  ‘What? When’s she coming back?’

  Juliet shrugged, much to Roxy’s despair. For goodness’ sake, bloody teenagers these days, they were so self-absorbed they took no interest in other people’s lives at all, especially their parents’. But given that Juliet was sobbing and such stressful activity might encourage a repeat of the whole vomit situation, she tried to remain patient.

  ‘Concentrate, honey, concentrate. Did she go for a week or a fortnight?’

  Juliet sniffed so hard she started to choke.

  ‘A fo—fo—fortnight,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Okaaaay. And when did she leave?’

  ‘A year and a half ago.’

  Roxy choked back her surprise. ‘You’re kidding! So you’ve been living here on your own since you were–’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  Roxy was gob-smacked. Fifteen. Alone. ‘No grandparents, no family around here?’

  Juliet shook her head. ‘She’ll come back soon. She said she would. She met this guy, a waiter in her hotel, and that’s why she stayed, but they’re going to get married and then they’ll come back here. They’re just trying to sort out visas and jobs and stuff. Promise you won’t tell anyone. Promise. I don’t want her getting into trouble.’ She was wailing now.

  Roxy sprang to Juliet’s side and cradled her head, having a mild panic herself at the prospect of comforting someone. What had she been thinking coming here? She was no good at this. She hated other people’s problems. This was exactly why she had a golden rule only to care about her own crap–the minute you got involved with someone else’s you ended up with snot on your shoulder and sick in your hair.

  She put her arms awkwardly round the snivelling wreck, doing her best to minimise the transfer of even more body fluids to her clothing, hands, face or hair.

  ‘Didn’t the neighbours notice? Or school? Or your friends?’

  Juliet shook her head. ‘The neighbours are really old–bed-ridden on both sides. They think Mum just works long hours in two jobs. That’s what she did before she left here. They don’t get suspicious cos I take them in some biscuits every couple of weeks and tell them Mum asked me to drop them in while she was at work.’

  Next she’d be saying she rescued puppies and did meals-on-wheels in her spare time. Roxy felt a strange sensation and mentally gave herself a ki
cking. Do not let this tug on your heartstrings, Roxy, do not! Put the teenager down, back away gently, then run for your life.

  Hold on…some other things didn’t make sense.

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘The CSA make my dad pay up every month–I pay the rent and live off that. It’s not much, but it’s enough.’

  ‘Fair enough. But if you’ve got a permanent empty house, why are you always shagging in the library toilets? Why not bring prick-head back here?’

  Well, at least that one stopped the snivelling. Juliet wiped her eyes, staring at the floor, her voice flat now.

  ‘Because I didn’t want him to know Mum wasn’t here. Didn’t want anyone to know. And anyway, what if she came back, unexpected like, and he was here? She’d go mental.’

  ‘Yep, because she’s a paragon of virtue and responsibility,’ Roxy drawled.

  The switch on the post-pubescent hormonal roller coaster flicked to ‘FURY’.

  ‘Don’t say that! She’s…she’s nice, my mum. She just…she hated it here, always working and no life, and now she’s met someone and they’ll be back soon, they will. Now, please, just go. I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Fine!’

  ‘Okay, Okay.’ Roxy was holding up her hands in surrender. Time for the exit strategy to be activated. As far as she could see, Juliet was no longer in danger of a lethal choking incident or death due to Jack Daniels intoxication. Although, if extreme gobbiness was a life-threatening condition then she was still critical.

  But it wasn’t Roxy’s problem. She rose to her feet. ‘I get it, you’re fine.’ She picked up her bag from the sofa and grabbed her cardi. She’d walk home–it was only ten minutes and if she rushed then there was a chance she’d get there before hypothermia necessitated the intervention of a St Bernard.

  She was almost at the door when another thought came to her.

  ‘So why did you go to the church tonight then? I mean, if no one was here, why didn’t you just get wellied here on your own?’