Shari Low - My Best Friend’s Life

‘What?’ Ginny replied tentatively, trying to disguise the slight tremor in her voice. There was no denying it, Fanny Brown terrified her. She’d been suspended twice for fighting, once for stealing, once for threatening behaviour and once for kicking Mr Wilkinson, the Art teacher, in the goolies. Ginny made it a point to stay out of Fanny’s way .

‘I said MOVE! Something wrong with your ears?’ Fanny was bearing down on her so that her face was only six very scary inches from Ginny’s, choking her with the intoxicating fumes from the bottle of Diamond White Fanny had necked before coming to the disco. ‘We want to sit there, so move.’

Ginny’s heart was beating so fast that she was starting to feel dizzy–which at least took her mind off her churning stomach and the ever-increasing desire to throw up or faint. Panic overruled her motor skills and she discovered that although her brain was begging her legs to adjust to a standing position they were too busy trembling with fear to respond .

A split second later, Ginny felt a searing pain in her head and a compelling urge to levitate, the result of Fanny’s hands gripping on to her hair and wrenching it upwards. She was going to die. She was definitely going to die, right in the middle of Gary Barlow singing about needing her love .

Suddenly, there was a loud scream, a lurch, and Ginny fell back to her seat. Strange, she was pretty sure that fear had paralysed her vocal cords and the scream hadn’t come from her. So who…?

She pushed her hair back from her face and gasped as she saw Fanny Brown bent so far backwards that her spine looked like it was about to crack, and behind her, clutching her ponytail, was Roxy, who was leaning down, whispering something in her ear .

Fanny went bright red. Green. Red. Green. Aaah–it was hard to tell what colour she was but she definitely didn’t look happy. Without releasing her grip, Roxy whispered something else and then gave Fanny’s ponytail a sharp tug. Fanny wailed with pain then nodded furiously. Roxy slowly pulled the ponytail upwards, allowing Fanny to stand up again, then released it with a flourish .

Ginny suddenly realised that not only was she about to die, but Roxy was too. Fanny threw back her shoulders, went chin-to-chin with Roxy, and then…quickly turned away and made for the door, taking Dopey and Daftarse with her .

Ginny’s eyes were bigger than the disco lights as she watched the retreating gang .

‘But…but…what…what…what…did you say to her?’ she blustered .

Roxy just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. But I don’t think she’ll be chatting to us again anytime soon.’

Ginny’s wave of nausea was swiftly replaced with relief and a massive dose of love. Roxy might be a nightmare, she might be moody, demanding and annoying, but Ginny knew without an iota of a doubt that Roxy would defend her against the world without a moment’s hesitation .

Now she had Ginny’s hand and was pulling her out of the chair. ‘Come on, you boring moo, let’s dance–or I’ll tell Fanny you want to have a chat with her,’ she added with a mischievous grin .

Just at that moment, Father Murphy’s DJing skills came into play and with the resounding screech of a needle being dragged across vinyl, Take That was replaced with the opening bars of Mr Blobby .

‘Aw shit, I hate this song,’ Roxy moaned .

Ginny sighed with sweet relief. Great. She could go back to just sitting in the corner, counting the minutes until it was time to go home .

Or maybe not .

‘Bugger it,’ Roxy continued, ‘let’s go outside until something decent comes on–I’m dying for a fag.’

Ginny. Day Two, Monday, 9.30 a.m .

Ginny hung up the phone and checked the clock. Nine thirty. Bliss–another two and a half hours before she had to be at work. Or, had to be at Roxy’s work, technically speaking. She picked up her mobile and tried Darren’s number again, hoping to catch him before the class started–nope, no reply. Never mind, she’d try to catch him later, in between Bums & Tums and his afternoon Tai Bo class with the Perky Pensioners.

She turned the TV volume back up, then burrowed back under the duvet with a smile on her face. Goldie Gilmartin, the glam forty-something darling of Great Morning TV , was gliding effortlessly from a feature about the current grooming trends for metrosexual males (new discovery–testicle waxing at breakfast-time puts you right off a marmalade bagel) to her standard superficial waffle as she closed the show. Ginny groaned at the naffness of it. Yes, the nation would have a good day. Yes, we’d be good to one another. And yes, you’re a patronising, condescending cow.

Good grief, what was happening to her? She’d been in Roxy’s world for one night and already she was adopting bitchy mannerisms and coming over all judgemental.

And she was even enjoying it! Yes, she could definitely get used to this. It was just a shame that Darren wasn’t here to share it with her. Maybe a romantic break was exactly what they needed to jolt them out of the rut they’d slipped into. But then, didn’t all couples go through this? Wasn’t this what love was all about–taking the sickness with the health, the poor with the rich, and the exciting with the bored-so-rigid-you-want-to-weep?

She wondered if he was missing her, and then chided herself–she’d been gone for less than a day! She was beginning to sound like one of those reality-show contestants who crumbled in a heap and wailed about missing their families after twenty-four hours in a psychedelic house in East London. And anyway, didn’t Roxy say that he’d taken it well? That he didn’t mind? That’s what she loved about him–he was so supportive, and if he was rooting for her then she could do this. She could. And she was only a tiny bit scared. Okay, she was bloody terrified. She’d never been on the tube on her own, let alone set foot in a brothel, and she just knew that all the girls at the Seismic would be like Roxy–cosmopolitan, switched on and fearless.

But how hard could it be? She could be cosmopolitan, she could be switched on, and although fearless might be a stretch, she could probably hit the middle of the apprehension scale, halfway between mildly nervous and hyperventilation.

In the meantime, a bit of shameless pampering would be nice. She padded into Roxy’s en suite and marvelled at the opulence. Travertine walls, polished marble floor, a huge vanity unit in natural oak with a square white sink perched on top. And the sink taps–wait for it–were those ones with the infrared beam which came on automatically when you waved your hand in front of the sensor. The glistening porcelain toilet gave the impression that it was floating in midair and the bath came complete with a remote control for the complex computer panel located between the taps. She wasn’t sure if she should bathe in it or attempt to contact the Starship Enterprise .

The prospect of an hour of glorious relaxation made her opt for the former. No wonder Roxy always looked so bloody gorgeous with all this time in the mornings to prepare. Ginny’s normal routine didn’t quite hit this level of luxurious self-indulgence–three women plus one bathroom equalled a five-minute shower, deodorant fumes that made your eyes water and a monthly visit from Dyno-Rod to clear the unidentified hairs that were choking the drains.

She turned on the tap on the spa bath. Oh, the decadence. She was thinking candles, she was thinking soft music, she was thinking bubbles, she was thinking…strange farting noises! Shit, wrong tap. She spun it back off then opened the other one, letting water cascade into the gleaming ceramic. Note to self–water in first, air in second.