Shari Low - My Best Friend’s Life

‘Great, thanks,’ she wittered, ‘I will. Thanks. I’ll…do that.’ Jude and Cheska backed into his bedroom, leaving her standing in the hall, sweat patches forming puddles under her arms, her face beaming so brightly it could have guided in ships. Aaargh, she was rubbish at dealing with awkward situations–a great quality for working in a brothel, she thought with a plummeting heart.

She limped into Roxy’s room and flopped down on the king-size, elaborately upholstered, cream leather bed, then leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp. No switch near the light bulb. Her fingers traced along the wire. She was halfway to the plug before she gave up on that possibility.

She turned it upside down. Nothing. She gave it a gentle nudge on the bedside table. Nope. She placed it back down and flicked the shade. Nothing.

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, and then, like a veritable miracle, it flashed into life.

Ah, she had it now.

‘Off!’ she commanded. It obeyed.

‘Tit!’ she declared loudly.

And then there was light.

Ginny lay back on the bed, her illuminating débâcle reinforcing that it was blatantly obvious she didn’t belong there.

She looked around her. The white carpet was so thick and fluffy that it looked like it had been knitted from pure angora wool. Mental note: be careful with contact lenses as they’d be lost forever if they landed on it.

The walls were papered with an ivory water-silk fabric that contrasted perfectly with the gold silk bedding. There were four, five, six, seven, eight pillows of assorted sizes and shapes, all in metallic shades of copper and bronze, scattered across the bed with haphazard panache. To her right, in front of the huge bay window, was a modern, double-ended chaise longue upholstered in white suede (another mental note to self: no sitting on chaise while eating, drinking, or wearing any fabrics that could possibly transfer dye–in fact, just stay beyond a one-metre radius of chaise at all times).

Against the far wall was a stunning cream gloss dressing table that matched the long row of drawer units next to it and the sleek bedside tables on either side of her.

She decided not to turn around to stare at the life-size nude photo of Roxy that hung above the headboard–a gift from an admirer with a love of both art and porn. Instead, she took in the huge plasma television. The pots of cream on the dressing table that would cost her a month’s salary. A stereo system with more buttons than a NASA flight deck. The wall-length wardrobe to her left, bursting at its designer seams.

How the hell did Roxy afford all this? But then, that had been Roxy’s gift her whole life: things just came to her. Never did she have to resort to Ginny’s Christmas-present tactics (Argos catalogue left open at the appropriate page). No, for years Roxy had had life handed to her on a plate…and for the next month, to a tiny degree, Ginny was going to see how it felt.

As she snuggled into the silky bedspread, she mentally bitch-slapped her doubts out of the way. Roxy’s life was one of indulgent luxury and, occasional embarrassing sweat patches aside, Ginny had a sneaking suspicion that she was absolutely, definitely going to enjoy it.

Sadly, that wasn’t a feeling that was shared by her fiancé. As she drifted off to sleep, strangely blissful despite the fact that she was still sporting a Zara swing coat, one boot and hair like a spider plant, her boyfriend was lying awake wondering what the hell had happened to his future wife.

The Palace Grand Hotel, Mayfair, London Security Log

Date: 30/09/07

Security Officer: Desmond Taylor

Duty Manager: Robert Hunter

Details of Incident:

At approximately 2.30 p.m., Anton LeComber, restaurant manager, requested security attend an altercation in the dining room. On arrival, it was found that the dispute was between one newly arrived female and a couple seated at table six. It became clear that said female had encountered her boyfriend dining with another woman and had become irate. A heated argument ensued which culminated in a bottle of Bollinger being taken from a nearby ice bucket and emptied over the head of said male and female. The offending female was removed from the premises. However, at the request of all parties, the police were not called. No further action will be taken, although the female–Roxanne Galloway, photo attached–has been advised that she is now barred from this hotel. Her abusive reply made it abundantly clear that she agrees with this decision.

Roxy. Day Two, Monday, 8 a.m .

‘ROXY!!!!!! Come on my darling, your Shreddies are on the table.’

Roxy prised open her eyelids. Fuck, what a nightmare. She’d dreamt that she’d chucked her job, caught Felix shagging a florist and spent the night with Westlife. And now she couldn’t swear it but she was sure she’d just heard her mother’s voice. It was definitely time to cut down on the cocktail consumption.

‘Roxy!!!!’

She bolted upright, her eyes wide. Noooooooooooo!

Of course! Her life was in the sewer–how could she have forgotten? Shane, Kian, Nicky, Bryan and Mark looked at her disapprovingly. ‘And you lot can piss off as well,’ she muttered. She clambered out of bed and gasped as she caught sight of herself in the teak dressing-table mirror–MFI circa 1976. Her pulse raced. Was she too young to have a heart attack? There, covering her lithe frame, were…man-made fibres! She could sense the impending wrath of the gods of Dolce & Gabbana. By fishing pyjamas from Ginny’s drawer in the semi-darkness the night before, Roxy Galloway had been catapulted from the House of Prada to the House of Matalan.

It was official: her life was in ruins.

‘Roxy!!!!’ And now her mother was screaming at her from the bottom of the stairs. It was like she’d been transported back in time and was fifteen years old–actually, that wouldn’t be so tragic: she’d be precociously beautiful, the most popular person she knew, and she’d be allowing Mr Kennedy the Physics teacher to feel her up at lunchtime in return for straight-A passes and bottles of Charlie.

‘Your Shreddies are getting soggy!’

That was Auntie Violet that time. How, in the name of adult independence, had she come to be living with two middle-aged, potential lesbians? She felt like she’d wandered into a Sixties commune. Next they’d all be chanting mantras about vulvas and having their periods at the same time.

Not for the first time, she considered the theory that females ended up looking like their mothers. In which case, whoever married her had better steel themselves to end up with a peroxide-blonde fifty-five-year-old who had tits like melons, fifty pounds to lose, a fondness for tight pink clothing and who lived by the theory that you could never wear too much lip-liner.

And the weirdest thing was that although her mother and Auntie Vi were only distant cousins, they looked exactly the same–if you didn’t count a weight variation of about four stone. It was like Christina Aguilera had gained sixty pounds, aged thirty years, and teamed up with her identical but much skinnier twin.

Roxy slumped back down on the bed.

Why hadn’t she gone home last night and packed some clothes? Why didn’t she go home right now, reclaim her life, and tell Ginny that this whole thing was bloody ridiculous? Because then…The truth was that then she’d remember how much she’d lost. She’d sleep in the bed that Felix had bought her. She’d wear the clothes that she’d shopped for with him. Or, rather, with his American Express card (the red one–he liked the fact that it made the very attractive shop assistants in Armani think he was compassionate and humanitarianly aware). And she’d have to accept the cold, hard fact that the compassionless tosser hadn’t called her once since she’d caught him in The Palace Grand with that tart.