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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 nip 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 andthe 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.
Ginny Wallis, visiting London on a one-month sanity visa, wore lip-gloss.
Oh yes, her pucker was going to teach her lady bits a thing or two about adventure.
As she stepped off the train and pulled the trolley behind her, a familiar figure caught her eye. Weird. She was sure that woman had got off the train a few stops back.
Curiosity forced her to crane her neck around. Yep, it was definitely…upside-down. The world was upside-down. She’d been in London for approximately thirty seconds and she’d fallen at the first hurdle. Literally. She winced as she took in the damage to her sprawled limbs. Her thighs, knees and ankles were fine but–whoa–her footwear was terminal. Shit, Roxy would kill her.
Ginny’s next thought wasn’t one she had ever imagined would run through her brain.
So exactly how many shifts would she have to work in a brothel to buy a new pair of Gina boots?
Summary:
Roxanne shows a keen interest in all areas of the expressive arts. She is currently a member of the netball team, the hockey team and the athletics team and is especially committed to her roles in the Lower School Mixed Volleyball Team and the Lower School Mixed Swimming Team. It was regrettable that Roxanne’s positions in the latter two teams came under threat due to the breach of school rules that was brought to your attention last month. This has, as advised, been noted on her school record, and she will in future be supervised when travelling to outside events with male members of any sporting squad.
She continues to excel in Drama and will play the role of Mary Magdalene in the forthcoming production of Jesus Christ Superstar.
Personal Skills:
Roxanne continues to be a challenge in areas of discipline, structure and responsiveness to authority. Her attendance score was 72 per cent this year, although that is expected to improve after our joint discussions with the amusement arcade and village café. She is, as agreed, now barred from both within school hours.
She is often resistant to direction and is easily distracted when charged with using her own initiative. She is prone to rambunctious behaviour and often displays a tendency to manipulate her peers and defy school rules and regulations.
However, it should be noted that, as her superior grades demonstrate, Roxanne is capable of achievement, especially in the subjects that she enjoys. It is perhaps unfortunate that she achieves these grades without any discernible effort or endeavour. Needless to say, should Roxanne apply herself to her schoolwork, it is the opinion of the teaching staff that she would excel in all subjects.
Challenges/Development Needs:
As discussed during our frequent contact this year, Roxanne must improve her general conduct and commitment within the school. She continues to flout authority, often initiating forbidden activities–as witnessed by the smoking incident earlier in the year. Her behaviour must improve if she wishes to remain at Farnham Hills High School.
Signed:
THREE Don’t Go Changing (#ulink_847a3f47-5bb8-5041-a880-a700a4582e50)
Roxy. Day One, Sunday, 11 p.m.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Roxy stared at the ceiling as the hands ticked round on Ginny’s alarm clock. Her anxiety levels rose with every sound. It was bloody ridiculous–I mean, who even had ticking bloody clocks these days? Hadn’t Ginny realised that Europe now imported almost the whole of the national export quota of LCD tat from China? Well, at least now Roxy knew what to buy her for Christmas.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Urgh! She put her head under the pillow. After a few seconds she realised that this caused a slight problem with the respiratory functions necessary for maintaining life. She stuffed the alarm clock under the pillow instead. Finally, silence! She heard a creaking coming from further down the hall and her eyes widened. She bloody knew it! Her mother was sneaking into Auntie Violet’s room for some naked duvet wrestling. She should have known when her mother joined Weight Watchers that she was up to no good. Why was the thought of middle-aged parents having sex so hard to deal with? Still, she supposed she should be grateful–her mother and Auntie Vi having a tickle she could just about cope with, but the mental image of her mother being rogered over the sofa by some burly, hairy bloke would traumatise her for life.
Her ears strained as she craned to hear the Marks & Spencer’s thermal slippers padding along the Axminster.
Nope, it was too much–there were some times in life that oblivion was the preferred option. She needed a diversion and fast. She pulled the clock back out from under the pillow.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
This was a living hell. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t on the same scale as, say, civil war, famine or disease, but then, at least there was official aid for those situations. Who did she have to help her? Bloody no one. Her one stalwart, the only person she could depend on, had buggered off on the last train to London.
If it weren’t for the fact that the only things that could make this situation worse were puffy eyes, she’d have cried.
She missed Felix. She’d given him the best two years of her life, and how had he repaid her? With a betrayal that had devastated her to the very soul.
The lying bastard. The cheating, lying, arrogant, cold, condescending, mendacious scumbag. God, how she missed him.
She clenched her teeth to stop the tears. If she succumbed to a full-blown sobbing session she’d have to go to the bathroom for tissues, and the risk of what she’d meet on the way there was enough to quell the waterworks.
She had a sudden feeling of almighty dread. Didn’t her mother tell her that she’d been to an Ann Summers party in the village hall last month? A mental picture of two middle-aged women in PVC bondage gear only six inches away through a plasterboard wall flooded into her head. She pulled the alarm clock closer to her ears to drown out any sound effects. If she heard a buzzing noise coming from the next room the therapist bills would leave her bankrupt.
This wasn’t supposed to happen to her. She’d had her whole life planned out. Go to London. Fall in love with wealthy bloke. Marry in big castle with Mariah Carey singing ‘Ave Maria’ as she swept up the aisle.
Oh, she knew she was being unrealistic. Mariah didn’t do private functions–she’d have to settle for Charlotte Church.
But she’d really thought Felix was the one, because here was the thing: she really had loved him. After a lifetime of dispensing her love and affection towards the opposite sex in direct proportion to their wealth/status/power/generosity (if she ever met Bill Gates, he was in for the time of his life), Felix had totally ambushed her in the emotional department. They’d met in the underwear section of the gents’ floor in Harvey Nicks. He was stocking up on new Prada pants, while she was searching for trendy boxers for her latest fling: a fifty-five-year-old with a saggy arse and a penchant for thongs that was putting her off her food. Although the fact that he owned half of Buckinghamshire was a huge consolation (and, in all honesty, her very favourite thing about him).
But despite her devotion to her current man’s portfolio, she couldn’t help but admire Felix’s merchandise. He was over six foot (she checked out his shoes–nope, no lifts) and his shoulders were as broad as his hips were narrow. He was wearing cream chinos, moccasins, and the kind of preppy shirt that made him look like he belonged in one of those old black and white films of the Kennedy family playing touch football on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard.
The moment they made eye contact and he smiled at her across a Y-Fronts for the Older Man display, she realised to her utter astonishment that all that Mills & Boon ‘love at first sight’ mush that Ginny used to read really did have a basis in fact. If she’d been wearing a corset, she’d have whipped it off and made a dive for his throbbing loins right there and then.
Instead, she smiled back, said hi, and ten minutes later they were having coffee, two hours later they were having sex, and within the month they were talking long-term relationship with the prospect of a city flat and a house in the country, four kids (all at boarding school) and a month every summer in Barbados. She’d absolutely adored him. Her knees went to jelly when he walked into a room. Her stomach flipped when he grinned at her. Okay, so he was sometimes a bit on the arrogant side. And yes, he could be abrasive, self-centred and ruthless. But then, weren’t those common attributes in most successful men? She loved his confidence, his strength, his certainty, and from that first orgasm in the fifth-floor toilet of Harvey Nichols, she’d known without a single doubt that he was her soul mate and that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him–in sickness and in health, till death (or his unfaithful cock) do them part.
Roxy bit her lip and swallowed back a sob as she had a sudden astonishing thought: She would have loved Felix even if he were poor.
She let that magnanimous sentiment float in her mind for a second, before taking an imaginary baseball bat and battering it to death. Who was she kidding? She was in love, she wasn’t Mother Teresa.
And while Felix wasn’t exactly Donald Trump, he did work in the City (something to do with liquid assets) and earned a six-figure salary–enough to provide them with a comfortable future. Sadly, it was also enough to provide some tart from the florist with a second-hand Micra and reduced rental in one of the flats in Felix’s property portfolio. Daisy, that was her name. Bloody Daisy, working in a florist–you couldn’t make it up. Sometimes, in painful moments (eyebrow plucking, bikini waxing), she took her mind off her agony by torturing herself about how long it had been going on. Days? Weeks? Surely it couldn’t have been more than a couple of months without her spotting the signs? After all, it would surely have affected his behaviour. Unless…Her heart tightened. Could it be that this wasn’t the first time? Was his wandering dick the reason that he’d always blocked her suggestions that they move in together? Had he been shagging everything in sight since the moment they met?
How could he have been? She had never even contemplated being unfaithful to him. Well, apart from the time she’d snogged his brother in the coats cupboard at the family Christmas dinner. Oh, and the time she’d let his mate grope her to orgasm in the back of a taxi. But alcohol was to blame on both those occasions, and anyway, neither of those incidents counted because there was no exchange of body fluids. After all, a girl had to have her standards.
His mate had been rather cute, though…What was his name again? Nope, it was gone.
But the point was, she had never breached his trust, even when she had really wanted to. Hadn’t she had a raging crush on Sam since the minute she had started working in the Seismic? But had she once acted on it? Absolutely not. And that was only partly because a) she realised that he wasn’t interested in her in the least, and b) as previously ascertained, the man ran a brothel for God’s sake–not exactly the type of career that you’d be happy to disclose on passport applications.
A buzz cut through her thoughts.
Dear God, no. Please no. She clenched her eyes shut and wondered if she could remember the phone number for the Samaritans.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.
Nooooooooo. Mental instability beckoned and she saw her future–rocking back and forth in the foetal position and recoiling at the notion of sexual relations.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
She suddenly realised that the buzzing noise was a bit closer to home. Or, rather, to her single bed and Mark, Kian, Shane, Nicky and Bryan.
Her hand grappled across the bedside table and snatched her vibrating phone.
It would be Felix–well, he could bloody well rot for all she cared. She would never forgive him. Never.
Actually, since her feet were sticking out the bottom of the duvet and hypothermia was slowly setting in, she was beginning to realise that a fortnight at the Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados would probably heal her shattered heart.
But she’d never tell him that. Let him come begging, the bastard–preferably with Expedia vouchers in hand.
