Friday Night With The Girls: A tale that will make you laugh, cry and call your best friend!

by Shari Low

  Now, sitting in the toilets at the reception, I was glad I’d sworn off any form of alcoholic beverage all day, given that the hangover from last night was still lingering. Lizzy was clearly suffering the same after-effects of overindulgence. She was sitting on the sink unit, in full wedding dress and veil, holding an ice pack to her forehead with one hand, clutching a cigarette in the other, while steeping her feet in a basin of cold water. The only blessing was that after having sunbeds every day for the last month, we were all so tanned that it disguised what would undoubtedly be our nauseatingly grey pallor.

  ‘Where’s Ginger?’ she asked.

  ‘Still sulking because you made us wear these bloody peach meringues,’ I retorted. ‘I can’t believe you sprung these on us this morning.’

  ‘Look, it was my gran’s dying wish to see me married in her dress with my friends in the same bridesmaid dresses that her two best friends wore.’

  ‘Lizzy, your gran is still alive.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she won’t be if Ginger finds her. Peach is definitely not her colour scheme.’

  She winced as our laughter made her head hurt all over again.

  ‘It was OK, though, wasn’t it? The wedding?’ she asked.

  ‘Lizzy it was beautiful.’ I wasn’t lying. The sun had shone, the guests were enthusiastic, the priest threw in a few jokes and the vows were beautiful. Despite the fact that I still felt my friend was far too young to be marching up the aisle, I couldn’t deny that the day had been breathtaking.

  I’d almost shed a tear at the church, until I got distracted by Ginger throwing evils glances at Dominic the Draughtsman. She hadn’t seen him since she resolutely thumped him then dumped him on Valentine’s night and I’m sure the poor bloke had absolutely no idea what he’d ever done wrong.

  None of us, especially Lizzy, had seen the proposal coming, but in hindsight it was meant to be. Lizzy and Adam were completely devoted to each other. He adored everything about her, relished her quirky ways and didn’t mind taking regular trips to A&E when she inadvertently injured herself after falling off bar tops, dancing on tables, or wearing shoes with eight-inch stiletto heels.

  ‘God, I love him so much,’ Lizzy said with a wistful sigh.

  ‘I know. But we’ll miss you.’

  ‘I’m only moving next door and you can still hear every word I say.’

  As a wedding present, her uncle, the dentist, had gifted her the other flat above the surgery and the walls were so thin we could speak to each other without raising our voices.

  ‘True. But I’ll still miss you. And so will Ginger.’

  ‘You think?’

  Much as Ginger knew that our version of the St Valentine’s Day Massacre wasn’t Lizzy’s fault, there was no denying that it had caused an unspoken tension between them.

  Just at that, the door flew open and in strolled Ginger, carrying a glass in one hand and a wine bucket, complete with ice and full bottle of champagne, in the other.

  ‘Hey, there you are! Please tell me I can get out of this dress now. Seriously. I look like a consumption victim from the nineteenth-century.’

  ‘Wow, that history O level wasn’t wasted,’ I teased, grateful that Ginger’s alcohol level hadn’t tipped her from ‘happy-go-lucky’ to ‘brooding and maudlin’. Lately, it had been a crapshoot as to which version we ended up with at the end of any given night.

  With much negotiation of frills and bustles, Ginger leaned over and enveloped Lizzy in a huge hug. ‘Sorry I’ve been a cow sometimes lately,’ she said. Oh bugger, here it comes. ‘It’s not your fault, I swear. It’s just that . . . Do you ever get the feeling that there must be more to life than this?’

  Well, hello maudlin, we’ve been expecting you.

  ‘Do you ever think that something has to happen to get you out of the life you have? I mean, I look at feet all day. Feet. Why did I do that? That careers guidance woman who talked me into a job involving feet should be sacked. Or shot.’

  I empathised. I did. Neither of our current paths was setting the world alight and lately I’d been having the same thoughts.

  Before anyone could reply, a piercing shriek cut through the conversation.

  ‘Oh fuck, no! No!’ Lizzy jumped down from the sink top and dashed towards the door. ‘I warned them! I told the guy in the band that if he let my mother sing he wasn’t getting paid. Oh fuck, Adam will have this marriage annulled before she gets to the end of the song.’

  Out in the smoky function suite, Lizzy’s worst nightmare was indeed coming true. There was Saint Carla of the Holy Screech up on stage, resplendent in a blue and gold sequined frock that may have been borrowed from the wardrobe of Shirley Bassey for the occasion, murdering ‘I Never Promised You a Rose Garden’. With actions.

  ‘Tell me this isn’t happening,’ Lizzy gasped, just as the band, looking traumatised, launched into a big finish. Carla lapped up the claps from the few members of the audience who weren’t frozen by the trauma of what they’d just been subjected to. ‘Oh, no – she’s going to do another one. Ginger you’ve got to get her off of there before . . . Before . . .’

  ‘“Jolene”?’ I gasped with horror.

  Lizzy nodded, eyes wide with terror.

  Noooooooooooo. We’d had ‘Jolene’ at Lizzy’s twenty-first party and it was no coincidence that there was a snippet on the news the next day saying that the RSPCA had reported a sudden leap in the number of sudden dog fatalities in our area.

  ‘OK, I’m going in,’ Ginger announced, taking a deep breath and then launching into a manoeuvre that can only be described as storming the stage. In a smooth yet determined motion, she managed to subtly wrestle the microphone from Carla’s hands, and then escort her to the side of the platform, whispering in her ear the whole time. Carla then slapped her hand to her mouth in horror and made a mad dash to the fire exit.

  ‘Car on fire?’ I asked Lizzy.

  ‘Yep,’ she replied.

  It was Ginger’s fallback ruse for getting rid of anyone causing us problems in a crowded situation. Over the years, dozens of innocent men, three pub managers, twelve bouncers and a male stripper dressed as Elvis had been advised that their vehicle was on fire, forcing them to make a swift departure.

  Meanwhile, Ginger returned to the centre of the stage to hand the microphone back over to the lead guitarist.

  ‘Give us a song, doll!’ someone shouted from the audience.

  This wasn’t unusual. Even at weddings in posh venues like this Glasgow hotel, the singer in the band generally took a break in the set, and was frequently replaced by family members keen to ‘do a turn’.

  ‘Yeah, go on, give us a wee tune!’

  The crowd was getting into it now and even a deafening blast of feedback from the speakers didn’t dampen their enthusiasm.

  ‘Go on, love – do you know any Lulu?’ shouted someone else.

  Well, they were barking up the wrong tree. I’d been with Ginger almost every day of her life since we were toddlers and I’d never, ever heard her sing. Never. She’d be out of there in a flash, over to the bar for a top up and then back to deliberating the general shiteness of life.

  ‘We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ll!’

  If Saint Carla of the Holy Shriek had at that very moment walked back into the room dragging Lulu behind her, I couldn’t have been more astonished.

  ‘You know you make me want to shout!’

  Ginger. On stage. And that noise, that absolutely fantastic, incredible sound was coming directly from her lungs. The band quickly got their act together and caught up with her, the crowd jumped to their feet, Lizzy and I removed our chins from the floor and the whole place went completely, absolutely and resolutely mental.

  She was brilliant. Magnificent. The most stunning voice I had ever heard.

  And as Lizzy and I roared with laughter while doing a wild approximation of our very best 60s dance moves, we didn’t notice that over at the entrance to the function suite, a man had stopped, leaned against the do
or frame and was now staring at Ginger, transfixed at the sight of a consumption victim from the 1800s, wearing a peach meringue, giving the performance of a lifetime.

  That man, and what he was about to do next, would change everything.

  Thirteen

  Ginger

  The St Kentigern Hotel, Glasgow – Friday night, midnight

  Now it was my turn to trot out the ‘feels like yesterday’ clichés. But it really did.

  ‘I thought it was a wind-up, you know. I thought that at any minute one of those camera crews would appear from behind a plant pot and the bloke claiming to be Ike Stranger from Edge Records would actually be Cedric Veal, a bit part actor from Slough. Then they’d all laugh and disappear and I’d see my face on You’ve Been Framed one Saturday night.’

  ‘When did you actually start to believe it?’ Lou asked. I struggled to absorb the question because I suddenly realised how exhausted she looked. Shattered. But then, I suppose it would be more surprising if she looked any other way. That was why I’d dug my heels in and refused to cancel this trip. She needed it. I made a mental note to tell her at some point this weekend how damn, fucking incredible I think she is. I know she’ll be mortified and she won’t believe it but that’s just Lou. She doesn’t have a single clue how amazing she is.

  Oh, bloody hell, I couldn’t get maudlin again now. I just couldn’t. I had to fight my natural urges and keep this in the upbeat manner that it had to remain in.

  ‘Somewhere after the first blow job and before the first gig.’ I announced, sending the mood soaring back to hilarity. ‘I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I offered to have sex with him that night and he refused. Refused! He was a middle-aged bloke confronted with a drunk, lustful virgin . . .’

  Lizzy and Lou howled with laughter and I had the self-awareness to switch to slightly sheepish. ‘OK, well I was drunk and lustful – and he refused. I think I probably suspected then that he meant business. God, could you imagine if Cassie came home and said some guy wanted to take her to London and make her a star? He’d have to get through the three of us first.’

  The others nodded. It was true. Perish the thought. We’d have her chaperoned on a twenty-four hour basis by the three of us and several large men with weapons.

  ‘Back then though,’ I continued, ‘it was different. My parents were OK about me going and they were right. Ike did everything by the book at the start. Got me vocal lessons, booked small gigs, helped me put a cool image together, brought in a PR team, worked on getting me some brilliant songs. It really was a dream come true.’

  I suddenly realised that this was the kind of stuff that magazines used to pay me good money for: An Interview with Ginger – The Early Years.

  ‘And do you know what the best thing about that whole early period was?’ I asked.

  Lizzy and Lou were hanging on every word. Oh yes, Rolling Stone magazine, shake in your rock star boots because they were about to get an exclusive. Something hot. Juicy. A stunning revelation.

  ‘The fact that I’d never have to look at a pair of old lady feet ever again.’

  Still laughing, Lou nipped off to go to the loo.

  ‘How do you think she’s holding up?’ I asked Lizzy. Her brow immediately furrowed in the middle, sending another mental note to my cerebral diary to remind me it was time for my Botox top up. I sometimes have difficulty focusing on one thing at a time. Yes, I’m a little self-absorbed. I blame having fame at an early age and I’ve come to terms with the fact that this means my chances of getting to heaven are slim.

  ‘I think she’s feeling like crap and determined not to show it,’ Lizzy replied. As she spoke, she reached across the table and put her hand on mine. ‘This was a good thing that you did, Ginger. A really good thing.’

  Maybe there’s an outside chance of a day pass to heaven after all.

  I’d only just composed myself when Lou slipped back into the seat beside Lizzy.

  ‘I was just thinking . . .’ she said.

  ‘While you were on the loo?’ I asked her.

  She smiled as she nodded. ‘Yes, while I was on the loo . . .’

  ‘Another mental picture for the recycle bin.’

  She ignored the jibe.

  ‘I was just thinking that was probably the most pivotal time in all our lives and we each found what we’d dreamed of when we were growing up. Lizzy, you got married. Ginger, you found fame. And I . . .’

  I couldn’t help but put a tiny pinprick in her bubble of perfect logic. ‘You almost earned yourself six to twelve months at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.’

  Fourteen

  Lou

  1994 – Aged 24

  ‘OK, it’s time to get serious,’ Lizzy announced. ‘You know, like philosophical and all deep and stuff.’

  ‘Who are you and what have you done with my friend Lizzy?’ I asked her. Not that she wasn’t always deep. Compared to, say, the fluid in my contact lens pods.

  She didn’t even look up from the magazine in front of her.

  ‘All right. So you have to choose one bloke to shag, one to marry, one to avoid – the choices are Gary Barlow, Michael Hutchence or Marti Pellow.’

  ‘And welcome back, Lizzy. I’d avoid Marti Pellow, shag Gary Barlow and marry Michael Hutchence.’

  Lizzy required further clarification. ‘Why would you avoid Marti Pellow?’

  ‘Because I’ve already had one local superstar singing about me being a crap shag, I couldn’t risk a second one. And the ten thousand three hundred and forty-nine times that I’ve heard “Love Is All Around” this summer has driven me to the bloody brink of madness.’

  Nancy Drew had the decency not to comment on either point as she continued her interrogation. ‘Shag Gary Barlow?’

  ‘Even if I really am rubbish he’d be too nice to say.’

  As Lizzy pondered this, I tried not to roll my eyes, but they slipped on to a spin cycle anyway. ‘Are we really having this conversation? It’s six thirty, everyone will be here by seven, and we’re not even nearly ready. Don’t know if you noticed but it’s getting just a little frantic around here,’ I said, with a definite overtone of ‘frantic’ thrown in to demonstrate my point.

  ‘But that’s why I’m asking you philosophical questions – to take your mind off the stress. Ouch! Bloody hell, that was almost an Aliens moment there – you know the bit where the creature bursts out of that bald woman’s stomach?’ She took a deep breath, placed a hand on top of one side of the space hopper she appeared to be concealing under her silver, off-the-shoulder, lurex jumper-dress, paused for a few seconds, then smiled and carried on like nothing had happened.

  ‘OK, so why do you want to marry Michael Hutchence?’

  ‘Gorgeous, sexy, bit dangerous and I reckon we’re the same size so I could borrow his leather trousers.’

  ‘Great basis for a lifelong commitment.’ Lizzy’s thoughtful nod was cut short by a painful wince. I was caught between concern, worry and the residue of frantic from a few moments before. ‘Babe, I love you. But if you give birth tonight I will eradicate you from my life and deny ever having known you. I’ll walk past you in the street. I’ll remove your number from my Rolodex. I’ll . . .’

  As she giggled, two hands went round the belly again and she crossed her legs at the knees. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Lou – honestly, my bladder is not to be trusted.’

  The very obvious reality of this situation didn’t escape me.

  I bet this never bloody happened to Vidal Sassoon. I could almost categorically assert that when he was opening his first salon, Twiggy wasn’t there, heaving around a large stomach, threatening to pee on his floor.

  Yep, I was definitely living the high life. But not even the threat of a brush with incontinence could suppress my excitement. My own salon! I was all dressed up in a gorgeous orange, spandex mini-dress, set off to a Mediterranean tee by the copper head-to-toe tan that had taken a week of exposure to UV tubes to achieve, and I was about to embark on the most exciting n
ight of my life. The opening of my own salon. Mine! And for the purposes of this moment of thrilled, giddy glee, I would overlook the fact that it was actually owned by the bank and obtaining their co-operation and funding may have involved a very, very slight manipulation of the truth, which could loosely be interpreted as fraudulent activity.

  You see, here’s the thing. All those bloody yuppies from the 80s are now away rejecting capitalism and finding themselves, banging on bongo drums and meditating in spirituality camps in the Outer Hebrides – easy to do when you have squillions of cash to fall back on – and all that’s left from the decade of excess are some very nervous bank managers who only want to give out loans to people who don’t actually need them. So when I went to sixteen different banks with my business plan to take over the salon they all rejected me, because, according to sixteen different gentlemen in suits, I’m skint.

  Well, yes, Mr. Bank Manager, that’s why I’m in need of your services. If I wasn’t impoverished then I wouldn’t be asking for a fecking loan.

  In the end, the equivalent of my own personal superhero saved the day.

  ‘I’ll be the guarantor on your loan,’ Aunt Josie offered. I knew she was only doing it because I’d been sitting with my head on her kitchen table for an hour and she wanted to get the dinner out.

  I slowly prised my head up and squinted in her direction. ‘Thanks, Aunt Josie, I appreciate it. I do. But they don’t accept repayments in caramel logs.’

  She took advantage of my brief head levity to slide a plate of fish fingers and chips under my chin.

  ‘Look, don’t you worry about a thing. Just set up the appointment and I’ll sign to guarantee the payments.’

  ‘But you’re even poorer than me. And anyway, the guarantor has to be a property owner so thank you, really, but that won’t work.’

  A bread basket in the shape of a chicken hit the table and I absent-mindedly pulled at the French loaf that was inserted where no God-fearing chicken would allow.