Shari Low - My Best Friend’s Life

She spotted the candles that were nestled in groups at the top corners of the bath. Jo Malone, grapefruit-scented. She’d never heard of them–she usually went for whatever was on offer in Sainsbury’s–but she was sure they’d be lovely. Bugger it, she’d light them all, Roxy wouldn’t mind. And if she did, Ginny would pick up some more for her next time she was doing the grocery shopping.

Finally, bubbles. She checked out the bottles on the shelf. Chanel. Bvlgari. La Prairie. So, Body Shop coconut bubble bath was out of the question then.

Ginny added a little of everything then slipped into the warm water before opening the air tap just enough to add a gentle, undulating flow. Monday morning, ten a.m.–Ginny was on the Bliss Highway, heading for Heaven. She took a wild stab in the dark and pressed the? button on the remote control, and smiled as the intoxicating tones of Usher’s ‘Burn’ filled the room.

And as her eyes drooped and she fell into a blissful slumber, the Young Catholic Mothers’ arses were the furthest things from her mind.

‘Ginny. Ginny! Time to go!’

Glug.

Three things happened at once: Ginny’s eyes flew open, her mouth followed suit, and the shock-induced loss of her equilibrium sent her shooting under the water.

As she performed a whole choking/retching/lungs-filling-with-fluid panic, she fleetingly wondered if anyone had ever drowned in Chanel bubble bath. It wasn’t an appropriate end for Ginny Wallis from Farnham Hills. It was the kind of demise more befitting of, say, Brigitte Bardot. Or Anna Wintour. Or Elton John.

Just as she surfaced and regained the use of her cardiovascular system, the door opened and Jude’s gorgeous head popped round.

‘You okay?’

Ginny shrieked with embarrassment and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

‘Can you see any inappropriate naked bits?’ she squeaked.

‘Only if you’re a really strange person who gets their rocks off at the sight of an erotically exposed elbow.’

Phew. Gingerly, she opened one eye and checked for herself. What a relief, he was right–the few bubbles that were left had congregated to preserve her modesty so there wasn’t a nipple in sight.

Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. Jude was wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans and a smile.

Was that mandatory in this house? Was it a condition of the tenancy?

Clause 1(a): I will pay the rent on time every month .

Clause 1(b): I will refrain from causing damage to the house or contents .

Clause 1(c): I will at all times wander around looking like I belong in a Calvin Klein advert .

‘Sorry, I must have…erm…fallen asleep. What time is it?’

He consulted his TAG Heuer. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘Noooooo! I’m late, oh shit, Roxy will kill me.’

In a blind panic, she levered herself out of the bath.

‘Whoa…inappropriate naked bits overload.’ Jude laughed and shut his eyes as Ginny shrieked again, hands flying to cover her vital anatomy.

‘Jude, you need to help me! I should have been on the tube fifteen minutes ago. And I don’t have anything to wear. And my hair looks like an explosion. And…I…can’t…breathe.’

She grabbed a towel from the vanity unit and wrapped it around her.

‘Okay, you can open them now.’ Did he ever drop that cute grin? Aaaargh–why was she contemplating the merits of a stripper’s dimples when she was late for her first day at work? Roxy’s work. Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘Don’t panic,’ said dimple man.

‘I’m already bloody panicking!’ she shrieked, grabbing a can of deodorant and spraying under her arms.

‘Stop!’ he yelled. The sheer force of his voice made her freeze–apart from her bottom lip, which was trembling, and her tear ducts, which were threatening to burst their dam.

‘Okay, here’s the plan. First of all, drop the can–that’s Glade air-freshener and you now smell of Alpine hills.’

Ginny flushed with mortification and placed the can back on the vanity unit.

Jude pressed on, kindly ignoring her beaming face. ‘Okay. Good. Now, forget the tube–there’s a car waiting outside for you. That’s why I shouted to you that it was time to leave.’

Ginny shook her head. ‘What car?’

‘Roxy came to some arrangement with the local taxi company–think she gets the boss a discount at the Seismic. Anyway, a car comes every morning to collect her and take her to work.’

Of course! What had Ginny been thinking? Roxy would rather set fire to her Jimmy Choos than enter the sweaty, over-populated tunnels of the London tube system.

‘And he always waits because Roxy’s never ready either. So you’ve got about fifteen minutes to get ready.’

Ginny felt the rising panic again. Fifteen minutes? To go from someone with the face of a jalapeño pepper and the hair of Crystal Meth Barbie, to the kind of cool, groomed perfection required at the Seismic? She’d need a fucking miracle.

The dam burst, tears and snot commencing flow. Now Jude was the one with the terrified expression.

‘Hello my darling, it’s just me!’ came a voice from the hallway, followed by a slamming door.

‘In here! And we need your help,’ shouted Jude, his tone one of palpable relief.

Ginny wiped her forearm along her nose to stem the snot.

Clicking heels announced the arrival of a figure in the shadows of the doorway.

‘Mmmm. My boyfriend, half-naked, strange woman, completely naked, and yet this doesn’t seem in the least strange or awkward. What does that say about our relationship, my sweet?’

Ginny sniffed and sighed at the same time, causing a delay in her brain registering the word ‘boyfriend’. Even in her over-emotional, frantic, ears-filled-with-Chanel-bubble-bath state, she was cognisant of the fact that the voice bore no resemblance to the dulcet tones of Cheska, attorney at law.

Jude turned to the new arrival.

‘It says that you trust me implicitly,’ he replied, teasing gently.

‘It says I’m fucking mad,’ countered the girlfriend, with an unmistakable smile in her tone. ‘Okay, explain…’

‘This is Ginny, she’s Roxy’s friend, she’s got fifteen–nope, make that ten–minutes to transform from…erm…’

‘I’d go with “tragic disaster”,’ Ginny offered ruefully.

‘…erm, lovely but fairly tragic disaster to groomed perfection, sitting in the back of that cab out there. Honey, think you can do it?’

The heels clicked forward. And in that split second, Ginny’s perception of a national icon changed forever.

‘Are you kidding me? I’ve already waxed some bloke’s crack on national television this morning–a ten-minute makeover will be a fucking doddle.’

And indeed, ten minutes later, Ginny Wallis, makeup flawless but subtle, hair swept back into an elegant chignon, dressed head to toe in cutting-edge black Prada, emerged from the doorway of a Knightsbridge building and headed towards a waiting cab.

As she pulled the cab door open, she looked back up at the flat’s window to see the silhouette of Jude and Great Morning TV ’s Goldie Gilmartin snogging the faces off each other.

She smiled, turned and tripped into the car, landing spread eagled on the back seat.

Well, there were only so many miracles that Goldie Gilmartin could perform.

Now this was the way to go to work in London–no stress, no hassle, just sit back, relax, and watch the frantic bustle of the metropolis go by…Oh, and text your pal while you’re doing that.

2 grlfrnds? & 1 is GG. Thnx 4 wrning!

Roxy’s reply came back in seconds.

All hail da sex God. PS: re-arrngd ur filing systm.

Ginny felt a flush of anxiety creep up her neck. No! That system was her pride and joy, her baby. She’d planned it meticulously, she’d worked late, she’d even bought coloured card from the stationer’s up the High Street with her own money, and now–she couldn’t even bear to think about it–now, Roxy had gone and…