My Best Friend’s Life

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Why? Why were they friends? Ginny sighed, trying to get her heart rate back to a state that didn’t suggest cardiac arrest was imminent–a task that was immediately undone when she turned her thoughts to the Seismic.

On the plus side, Sam was obviously okay about her coming, as Roxy had promised to warn her if he had any reservations about it.

On the negative side, her body slipped into a mild panic attack at the very thought of the day ahead. Let’s face it, it wasn’t even noon and so far that morning living Roxy’s life had involved near drowning, indecent exposure, and being dressed by a woman who earned in excess of a million a year. If this was normality then she’d hate to get a taste of crazy.

She tried Darren’s mobile again–still no answer. Maybe she should just go home and stop this ridiculous charade before the stress caused permanent damage to her major organs.

Why was she doing this? She could be sitting in the library right now, drinking tea, eating a Penguin and trying to stop the fifth-year study group from the local high school from smoking hash and shagging in the toilets. It wasn’t the actual activity she minded so much as the fact that in the last month they’d broken two towel holders and a soap dispenser off the wall. It was just wrong on every level that sixteen-year-olds should be having hot, frantic sex when she was suffering from acute boredom of the genital department.

She frowned–had that thought really come into her head? There was nothing wrong with her and Darren’s sex life! Okay, so it was fairly perfunctory–missionary, doggy, and if they were feeling really wild, a spot of oral sex just to get things going–but at least it was regular: Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturday nights and Sunday mornings (except when Mrs Jones from next door had PMT because then she booked Darren for a Sunday-morning five-mile run to work off the aggression).

No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their sex life and the only reason she resented Team Delinquent was because the library didn’t have a maintenance budget to repair the damage in the loos. That was definitely her only issue. Well, that and the fact that the noise sometimes reached the members of the Perky Pensioners in the poetry corner nearby and she wasn’t sure their pacemakers were up to the strain.

Anyway, it was time to push the shenanigans of Farnham Hills out of her head and concentrate on psyching herself up for the shenanigans of Mayfair.

She tried to remember the tips in the best-selling self-help book that had come in the month before: Stress Overload? Take the Steps to Serenity. Although she wasn’t sure the book was up to much since the author had recently taken the steps to the Priory after a road-rage incident involving a truck, a milk cart and a thirteen-mile police chase.

She shook out her shoulders, exhaled, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Okay, step one: Picture the situ—

‘Excuse me, love, but we’re ’ere.’

And that’s why self-help books were a load of tosh–if you had the time to read the bloody things then you obviously didn’t need them in the first place.

She pulled her purse out of her bag.

‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nothin’ love, it’s on account.’

She pulled out a fiver and slipped it through the slot in the glass.

‘Cheers, darlin’. Same time tomorrow?’

Well, would it be? Would she be coming back? Or would one day in a place where the activities would make Team Junior Delinquent look like spokespeople for conservative values be enough for her?

‘Definitely. Same time tomorrow.’

Ginny Wallis had come–now she just had to conquer.

Or should she leave that kind of stuff to the sadomasochism department of her new place of employment?

Ginny stood and stared at the tree-lined street, with a row of luxury vehicles bordering each pavement. Porsche. Mercedes. Porsche. Bentley. Another Porsche. Mercedes. BMW. There wasn’t even a complementary Corsa thrown in as an ethnic minority. This was where people of serious dosh flashed their cash. And their privates, apparently.

She switched her gaze to the building in front of her–a Georgian terraced townhouse, sandblasted walls, restored windows, petunias in the planters on either side of the entrance, a glossy green door and, beside it, a very subtle gold plaque, announcing in black italics that this was the home of The Seismic Lounge.

Class. Sheer class. If you overlooked the whole ‘get your knockers out for the boys’ stuff that took place inside. Inside. Ginny took a deep breath and steeled herself for movement. Who. Dares. Wins. If that motto could motivate the SAS to storm foreign embassies then surely it could get her past the front door of a knocking shop.

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.

Seconds later she was pressing the bell and watching as two cameras swivelled in her direction. ‘Good morning, can I help you?’

Ginny leaned over to the chrome speaker above the buzzer.

‘Er, I’m Ginny. Erm, Ginny Wallis. I’m working here today.’ She somehow managed to stop short of adding, ‘Which is a really, really bad idea and I’ve changed my mind so can you please phone my mum and beg her to come and collect me.’

The door swept open and Ginny crossed the line. That was it–no going back. She followed the shiny walnut floor along the hallway, barely registering the striking primary-coloured canvases that punctuated the lush ivory walls.

The end of the corridor opened into a reception area that–wow–was so far from her expectations that she was temporarily stunned. She’d anticipated pink walls, red sofas, porn posters and glass tables dotted with Playboy magazines and penis-shaped cigar holders. Where were the girls in red chiffon baby dolls and Perspex platforms the size of Fiat Puntos? Where were the red glass bowls filled with an international selection of condoms?

This room wouldn’t be out of place at the HQ of any large corporation. Welcome to Hookersville Inc.

It was an eclectic mix of old and new. The stunning glass and chrome reception desk juxtaposed against beautiful antique lamps. The original wooden flooring was an exquisite contrast to the thick, cream rugs. And the modern-art pieces were the epitome of clean lines, yet somehow didn’t clash with the three more traditional large bronze life-form statues–although that may have been because the statues demanded full attention on account of the fact that they were all males with their extremely generous appendages dangling in the breeze. Cancel that last statement. Ginny’s eyes widened as she took in the full view of the third statue–which, going by the evidence, was probably called something like Man in State of Arousal.

So at least now she knew where to hang her umbrella.

‘He has that effect on everyone. What I wouldn’t give to get stuck in a lift for two hours with the real thing. I’m Jennifer.’

Ginny automatically smiled at the stunning girl sitting on the cream leather chair behind the desk. Flawless skin, two sheets of perfect blonde hair hanging from a middle parting, a cream roll neck and cream crepe trousers. She was Roxy in negative.

‘Hi, I’m Ginny.’

The muted ring of a telephone cut into the conversation. Jennifer immediately turned her attention to the state-of-the-art switchboard and gesticulated in the direction of a door on the opposite wall.

‘Great–go through that door, turn right, along to the end of the corridor and it’s the room that says Eden Suite on the door.’

Okay, not quite the reception she’d been hoping for, but then at least she’d been expected so Roxy had obviously phoned and cleared everything as promised. Phew. After last night’s encounter with Jude and the Amazonian, she’d had visions of arriving to puzzled expressions.

A wave of dizziness overtook her; a sharp reminder that she’d been holding her breath for so long that there was a distinct lack of oxygen reaching the brain. Breathe. Breathe. She could do this. She was Roxy’s lifelong friend, she’d been styled by Goldie Gilmartin and she was borderline premenstrual–a combination that should give her enough balls and determination to get through anything.

She followed Jennifer’s directions and crossed the reception, then turned right into a sumptuous corridor of pale gold walls and a deep olive carpet so thick that she started to wobble on her heels. She passed several solid wood-panelled doors and a small elevator, and then just as the effort of staying upright was beginning to bring on a tension headache, she reached the door at the very end of the corridor: the Eden Suite.

Human Resources department, perhaps? Or Sam’s office? Staffroom? Or where they provided the brown paper bags for her to hyperventilate into?

She tentatively knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ replied a very posh female voice.

‘Confidence, Ginny, confidence,’ she whispered to herself as she made the necessary last-minute adjustments–hair flicked back, bag pulled up onto shoulder, sweaty palms wiped on trousers–then clutched the brass doorknob and turned it.

The door swept open and in the ten seconds it took for Ginny’s brain to process the scene in front of her, there was a quizzical look, a muffled groan, a massive gasp, a rush of blood to the ears and paralysis of the limbs. The last three belonged to Ginny–apt, as she was apparently in the right place to receive medical attention, having stumbled onto the set of Holby City. Or, rather, the porn version–Holby Titty.

The room itself was remarkable only in its luxury. One wall was partially covered by a huge brass mirror that must have been at least six foot square. Directly opposite was a beautifully upholstered gold headboard framing a super-king bed dressed in crisp white sheets. To the side was a rustic Chesterfield sofa in gleaming brown leather, and next to it stood an antique side table topped with a bottle of Krug and two crystal champagne glasses, half-filled with the bubbling liquid.

But that’s where any semblance of normality ended, because standing at the foot of the bed, one eyebrow still raised, was a female doctor dressed in a uniform that Ginny was guessing hadn’t been passed by any NHS committee: six-inch steel heels on black platform pumps, a white coat that was wide open, revealing a cupless black leather bra, perfectly pert pink nipples, black suspenders and stockings. And Doctor Decadence may have had her auburn locks secured in a very efficient chignon, her black-framed glasses perched on her perfectly formed nose, subtle make-up and an air of authority, but she appeared to have forgotten her knickers.

Not that her patient was in a position to remonstrate about her omission. Lying prone on the bed, his identity concealed by the white bandages that covered him from head to toe, was a groaning man. Yes, definitely male–the only part of his anatomy that appeared to have escaped mummification was the massive erect penis that was pointing at the ceiling. And it appeared a rigorous medical examination was taking place as the doctor was tickling the red, throbbing end of his organ with her stethoscope.