My Best Friend's Life Read online

  Nope, at least Roxy would never be boring, Ginny conceded dolefully.

  Unlike her chum, no one would ever call Ginny spontaneous. Her life’s CV could fill one paragraph: Same job since she left school almost a decade earlier, same boyfriend for twelve years, still lives in the same village she’s lived in all her life, with her mother, in a bedroom that she hasn’t decorated since before the millennium. Ginny was so ponderous that she took two weeks to decide to order something out of a catalogue, and that was with the safety net of a money-back guarantee.

  Boring? Check. Restrained? Check. Dead? It was pretty close…

  Ginny pulled at a thread at the bottom of her sleeve and half the cuff unravelled. Fabulous. She hastily shoved the sleeve halfway up her arm to conceal the demise of a sweatshirt that had given her years of loyal service.

  She glanced at Roxy and guessed that Roxy probably didn’t have a single thing in her wardrobe that was more than six months old. Urgh, sometimes Ginny really felt like the bland, wardrobe-challenged poor relation. But then, this was the life she’d chosen. This is what made her happy. Content. Satisfied with her lot. Condemned to a lifetime of mediocrity. Ouch, where had that come from?

  It was just that sometimes…Well, just sometimes she’d like to know what it felt like to get dressed up to the nines in designer togs, in a bra and pants that weren’t matching shades of grey, in shoes that didn’t lace up and come in three different shades of boring, and spend just one day where she couldn’t predict–down to the last second–everything that would happen.

  She shrugged off her melancholy. It didn’t matter if she had the odd moment of regret–she’d already chosen her path, and her ship hadn’t so much sailed as sprung a leak, capsized, and plummeted to the bottom of the local pond. And anyway, who was to say that any other life would make her happier than the one she had here with her mother, long-standing boyfriend and steady job, in the village she’d always lived in, with the same people she’d been seeing every single day of her life? This was it. And it was as good as it was going to get. Wasn’t it?

  Over on the bed, Roxy was blustering into the phone. ‘But I don’t know anyone who can cover it! Okay. Okay. I understand. Okay. I’ll get back to you. Sorry, Sam.’

  She snapped the phone shut.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Ginny climbed out of the pond and rejoined the drama. ‘Problem?’

  ‘He says I can’t just walk out–something about a one-month notice period, blah, blah, blah. He sounds really pissed off. Apparently Sascha has gone off with herpes and Tilly has been barricaded in a hotel by the News of the World because she’s doing a kiss-and-tell on some MP this week, so they’ve got no one to cover for me. He says I’ll lose my holiday pay and my salary and, oh, I don’t know, a bloody kidney if I’m not at the desk tomorrow. So much for turning over a new leaf.’

  Roxy looked at her watch. ‘The new, penis-avoiding me lasted for a whole eight hours…’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘…and now Felix will know where to find me and he’ll come begging me to take him back.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘…And I tell you, if he pitches up with a bunch of petunias I’ll shove them up his…What?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Cover your shift at the Seismic. Sam’s the guy I met at your birthday party, right? The one who helped me fill the vol-au-vents?’

  Roxy groaned. ‘Still can’t believe you brought vol-au-vents to my party. Thank God Gordon Ramsay couldn’t make it or you’d have had his stroke on your conscience.’

  ‘Can we just focus on Sam? He was nice. Your type actually–how come you didn’t go for him instead of the dickhead?’

  Roxy’s lip pouted even further than usual. ‘Thought about it, he fits all the criteria, but the man works in a brothel–could you imagine the dinner-party conversation? “Hi, I’m Jeremy, I’m in hedge funds, and you?” “I’m Sam–vaginas.”’

  Ginny shrieked with laughter, but Roxy barely rose from her morose state. ‘Anyway, Sam, party, so?’

  ‘Well, he was nice. Vaginas aside, obviously. Said if I ever decided to move into the city I should check in with him to see if there were any vacancies. Of course, I was wearing your clothes, your jewellery and your shoes at the time, so he probably thought I was Miss Cosmopolitan Girl about Town. Anyway, if it’s only for a month, surely he wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘But even if it was okay with Sam, what about your job? Where will you live? You can’t commute, the hours are too irregular.’

  ‘I’ll move into your place.’

  ‘And I would live…?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  Ginny’s inspiration was gathering speed. Suddenly this seemed like the best idea she’d ever had. Spontaneous? She could be spontaneous. Her enthusiasm bubbled. Spontaneous was her middle name. Actually, it was Violet, after her mother, but that wasn’t the point.

  ‘I’m not. Come on, Roxy–it totally works! That gives you a month to sort out what you’re going to do with your life and heal that devastated soul. Should be ample time. You can live here and you can take my job in the library. You said it yourself, it’s the best place to research your future options.’

  ‘But they’d never let me.’

  ‘Course they would. Hold on, I’ll ask the manager.’ Ginny opened her bedroom door.

  ‘Muuuuum, is it okay if Roxy takes my place at the library for a few days?’

  ‘Course it is, dear. Now, hurry up, or I’ll have to microwave your hoisin sauce.’

  ‘That’s settled then. Come on, you know what to do there, you covered my holidays.’

  ‘That was in 1998!’

  ‘Trust me, nothing’s changed. What shift are you supposed to be on tomorrow?’

  ‘Er, noon till eight,’ replied Roxy tentatively. She had a horrible feeling that for the first time in her life she was being outmanoeuvred. The library. One month. God, she could smell the boredom.

  But then, she couldn’t face London again. She needed a break. She needed to be away from the Seismic, away from memories of Felix, away from the constant pressure to be nice to grown men who paid for women half their age to attach probes to their testicles.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it. On one condition…’

  ‘Name it,’ said Ginny.

  ‘I’m changing that duvet. If I’m going to sleep with Westlife, then I want them to have working parts.’

  Summary:

  Ginny shows little or no interest in PE, Drama, Art or Music. Her only focus in the arts is in the field of literature, where Ginny shows a voracious appetite for all genres.

  This was reflected in her achievement of second place in the county short-story competition with her splendid entry, ‘The Day My Cousin Stole My Bike’.

  Ginny should be encouraged, however, to broaden her interests to encompass other disciplines and areas.

  Personal Skills:

  Ginny’s behaviour and conduct within the school this year has, as always, been exemplary. She has achieved a 100 per cent attendance record and a perfect punctuality score.

  She is articulate, pleasant, diligent and always keen to help others.

  She works well under direction, but is equally capable of using her own initiative.

  Ginny has a keen analytical mind and excels in her ability to absorb and process information.

  Ginny has now assumed her new role in the school library, where she is responsible for the efficient management of the record systems and the inventory. She is handling this position with efficiency and enthusiasm.

  Challenges/Development Needs:

  Ginny continues to lack confidence and finds it difficult to assert herself, especially in the presence of authority or stronger characters. As a consequence of this, she can occasionally be easily led–as witnessed by the smoking incident earlier in the year.

  Shyness also continues to be a challenge, and this often prevent
s Ginny from participating in class or group discussions or projects.

  It is hoped that as Ginny matures her confidence will improve, allowing her interpersonal skills to develop to the same level as her intellectual abilities.

  Signed:

  TWO

  I Feel the Earth Move

  Ginny. Day One, Sunday, 9 p.m.

  It was hard to tell what was thumping louder: the wheels of the train, Ginny’s heart or the adrenaline that was making her toes tingle. Actually, the latter two may have been caused by the fact that she was wearing Roxy’s Gina boots and they were a size and a half too small. But bugger it, she was done with playing it safe, being sensible and pitching camp in her comfort zone–now, for war, hostage situations, life and fabulous footwear, she was adopting the motto of the fearless: Who Dares Wins.

  As long as the blisters didn’t turn septic and kill her first.

  And anyway, she was hardly going to start her windswept glamorous month in the UK’s metropolis in a pair of Hush Puppies that she had fished from the Shoerite sale bin.

  She spotted the middle-aged woman in the beige padded mac sitting across from her, eyeing up her faux leopardskin trolley-case: flashy, trashy, and guaranteed to make Jackie Collins weak at the knees with lust. She’d had to prise Roxy’s fingers off it one by one. It was one thing taking her job, her flat and her life, but apparently her luggage was connected to her soul by an invisible umbilical cord and could only be freed by two hours of persuasion, vast amounts of grovelling and the promise of a blood donation should Roxy ever require it.

  This furry suitcase on wheels was the personification of the new Ginny: bold, outrageous, completely out of character with its environment. Her stomach flipped with a surge of excitement, an emotion that up until that afternoon she’d thought twenty-seven years in Farnham Hills had knocked out of her. Ten miles from Chipping Sodbury, almost two hours west of London by train, population 3,453, Farnham Hills should have an official disclaimer at the village gates.

  WARNING: Residence in this area can induce feelings of intense lethargy, boredom and, in extreme cases, a sudden and irrevocable fusion of the buttocks to the nearest couch.

  Ginny grinned and a giggle escaped her as she allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. She felt bold! She felt fearless!

  The woman opposite, however, just felt mildly disturbed that Ginny was laughing for no evident reason and hatched a plan to pretend to disembark at the next station then jump back on into another carriage. But Ginny was oblivious, too busy revelling in the astonishment that she had finally plucked up the motivation for a long-overdue break from monotony. She was on a mission to walk on the wild side–although she might want to shop for comfortable footwear first. Never in her life had she behaved in such an irresponsible manner, and she was determined that nothing or no one was going to stop her. Ginny Wallis was finally going to start living!

  ‘S’cuse me, dear, is this your phone under there?’

  The woman across from her was bent over, peering under Ginny’s seat, her support tights fraying under the strain.

  Her congratulatory contemplation interrupted, Ginny got down on her knees and fished under her seat for the stray ringing device. She checked the phone, then the screen–Darren. So much for her new, independent life. She hadn’t gone three miles from home and she’d already lost her phone, and only a timely intervention by the dual forces of a disapproving stranger and her boyfriend of twelve years had delivered it back to her. Maybe Roxy was right–maybe years of suburban institutionalisation had rendered her unsafe to leave home without a responsible adult.

  She took the call.

  ‘Hi babes, it’s me. I’m just on my way over–I was going to bring a DVD–are you in the mood for Scarface or Armageddon?’

  Ginny pondered the question. Brutal violence in the gutter of humanity or a global cremation? Somewhere deep inside her, her new happy-go-lucky gene was clutching its heart and screaming for a paramedic.

  Suddenly Ginny realised that she couldn’t breathe, and not just because Roxy’s shocking pink Wonderbra was so tight and uncomfortably bosom-levitating that she could rest her chin on her cleavage. Who was she kidding with the whole ‘walk on the wild side’ nonsense? Ginny wasn’t wild, she was sensible. Conservative. Cautious. She was the woman who wouldn’t go out after dark without a mobile phone, a first-aid kit and pepper spray. This whole thing was ridiculous. She wasn’t some flighty eighteen-year-old, she was a grown woman who should know better. Suddenly, she could think of nothing she wanted more than to get off the train and head back home for a familiar night of companionship, affection and violent DVDs. She could just put this whole thing down to friendship-induced diminished responsibility. People would understand–Roxy had been driving everyone nuts for years. But…

  But what about excitement? What about adventure? She put her hand up her back and surreptitiously unhooked her bra, allowing her breasts to deflate and her lungs to regain their normal capacity.

  She inhaled deeply: breathe, breathe, breathe. Okay, here goes.

  ‘Actually, Darren, something’s come up. Can we give tonight a miss?’

  There was a deafening silence as his brain tried to compute this information. In Ginny’s life, nothing ever just cropped up. It was like saying the world was flat or Nicole Ritchie had a high-grade Bakewell tart habit.

  He was stuttering now.

  ‘Sure, babes, so tomorrow night?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to have to tell him. She was a grown bloody woman. She could do this. She could.

  ‘I’m, erm, working. You know. At work. My work. Work. Working. Shit!’

  Okay, maybe she couldn’t.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Okay! But don’t be pissed off. It’s just that I’m doing a favour for Roxy…’

  ‘Are you on a train?’ he blurted.

  ‘And she’s on a penis embargo…’

  Exit one fellow traveller, bustling off at speed with suitcase in tow and a backwards, disapproving glare.

  ‘…so I’m filling in for her at work for a month. Just a month. No biggie. And it’s not as if I’m miles away–only a couple of hours. We can still catch up on my days off. And…’

  There was a deafening noise as the 10.30 p.m. express to Bristol sped past them in the other direction. She wasn’t sure if he’d hung up or the signal had dipped out. A sudden creeping feeling of nausea rose from her stomach. And she hadn’t even been to the buffet car.

  Was she being crazy? Why was she risking upsetting the one thing in her life that was truly outstanding?

  Darren. Darren and Ginny. Ginny and Darren.

  It sounded so right, like the perfect couple. Or the kind of act that wears coordinating costumes and gets nil points at the Eurovision Song Contest.

  They’d met at school. Two pubescent, hormonal souls intrinsically linked by inherent geekdom and the love of biology, physics and orderly conduct.

  Twelve years later they were still together and happy. If you overlooked the whole ‘bored rigid, fleeing to London’ thing.

  She’d miss him. She really would. He was one of the good guys–he’d never cheated, betrayed her, let her down or told her that her arse was massive. Actually, since he’d developed his love of science into a degree in anatomy and a career as a personal trainer to Farnham Hills’s rich and bored housewives, he could probably nip the fat-arse thing in the bud anyway.

  But the firm bottom line was that he was a nice guy. And the six-pack stomach wasn’t exactly a hindrance to his desirability either. But lately…Well, sometimes nice just wasn’t enough. He worked such long hours maintaining the inner thighs of the village that they’d settled into a mind-numbing routine. He’d work all day, then pop over to her house every second night around nine. They’d watch TV, fall asleep on the sofa, and then he’d let himself out when he woke up. At weekends, they’d really live it up and order in a takeaway or n
ip down to the local pub for a few drinks. Just a few. After all, it would border on criminal to deprive the wedding fund of its weekly income.

  The wedding. Or, to give it its official title, ‘Her Mother’s Reason for Living’. They’d been planning it for so long that at least a dozen of the original guests would only be attending with the help of Derek Acorah.

  Every single iota of her being wanted to marry Darren Jenkins–except the ones that watched Sex and the City, realised that there was a big world out there and recoiled at the very thought of only having sex with one bloke for the rest of her life.

  What was she, a Fifties throwback? How many women would go through the whole of their lives and only have intimate relations with one male organ?

  It was obscene. Prehistoric. Pathetic. Her gravestone would read, ‘Here lies Ginny Wallis–woman of morals, traditional values, and the most unadventurous vagina in the free world.’

  The passing of the 10.45 p.m. to Bath caused a thunderous noise that snapped her from her discontented musings.

  She blew her hair off her face and gave herself a swift reality check. She loved Darren. She was going to marry him. This little adventure was not, repeat NOT, some veiled excuse for infidelity and wanton sexual exploits. It was just a bit of fun. A little injection of high-grade joie de vivre to snap her out of the mind-numbingly predictable torpor that she’d slipped into over recent years. One month of new routines, new faces, new sights and new experiences.

  As the train pulled into Paddington Station, the bubbles of adrenaline started thumping through her veins again. She pulled up the handle on the leopardskin trolley case, swung her scarf around her neck and applied some lip-gloss. Roxy’s lip-gloss. She’d found it in the pocket of Roxy’s Zara swing coat, which she’d adopted a few hours before.