My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

  ‘It’s the world–Roxy’s world. It’s always like this.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, how come she doesn’t look fifty because I swear all this drama is ageing me by the minute.’

  They locked eyes and Ginny realised that they were holding a perfectly normal, buddy-type conversation while there were still arms clutching opposite anatomies.

  And they were still staring…still staring…and–breathe, breathe, breathe–his face was coming down closer to hers.

  When their lips locked she could have sworn blind that the earth moved, but that may have been caused by him lifting her from the ground and moving her back against the huge American-style fridge freezer. They kissed slowly, seductively, devouring each other, and thankfully–Ginny realised with a wave of relief–they didn’t bang teeth once.

  He took her hands and pushed them up above her head, all the while kissing and licking and nibbling at her neck, her face, her ears. And then back to her mouth, his lips pressed hard against hers now, his breathing deep, his tongue embracing hers in a frantic tonsil dance. One of his hands held both of hers above her head, while the other one came back down, gently opening the buttons on her aquamarine silk Chanel blouse to reveal a balconette bra that made her normally insignificant cleavage look like two bald men caught in a hammock. She gasped with something between desire and relief.

  Suddenly, he stopped. Noooooo, not again! No more stopping!

  He pulled back and looked at her searchingly, tenderly. ‘Are you sure? Really sure?’

  ‘Don’t. Ever. Stop.’ She replied with unequivocal assertiveness. ‘Ever.’

  He leaned in and kissed her again, his free hand moving around to the back of her bra and unhooking it. He clasped her hands over the top of the fridge freezer.

  ‘Leave them up there,’ he whispered, and she had no intention of arguing.

  Both of his hands in action now, he moved down her body, caressing her as he took one nipple in his mouth and then moved over to the other. She clenched her teeth to stop the screams that were desperate to escape. Never, never had she felt anything like this in her life before. It was indescribable, it was the ultimate rush, it was…orgasmic.

  Her legs shook as the first waves ripped through her. Fuck! Normally with Darren it took twenty minutes of grinding and the intervention of manual stimulation–now she was climaxing before she even got the rest of her kit off.

  A point that Jude seemed to have taken upon himself to rectify.

  He was kneeling in front of her now, his glorious blond head licking the soft skin just below her waist as his hands reached around and unzipped her skirt. He pulled it down, his lips tracing the top of the fabric as it passed over her hips. She made a mental note to thank Destiny for the gift–the translucent red thong and suspender set that matched the bra that was now dangling from the top of the banana rack on the opposite worktop.

  He slipped the thong off, leaving her naked, except for the red suspender belt, holding up sheer black stockings.

  He opened her legs and then moved in, licking every inch of the inside of one thigh, then the other. She was trembling, gasping, and she could no longer feel her arms, but who cared? His head was buried in her now, his tongue tracing its way round the inside of her before focusing on her clitoris, gently but quickly darting back and forward. He pulled one of her legs over his left shoulder, then another over his right, so that she was sitting on him, allowing him to angle her pelvis and let his tongue go even deeper, harder. As he brought her to another climax, the screams wouldn’t stop. And neither, it seemed, would he.

  He pulled his head back as he moved downwards, allowing her to put her feet back on the floor. Then he rose up, his hands pulling off his jeans before he got to a standing position.

  ‘You’re still okay?’ he asked tenderly. Ginny reached up, put her hands into his hair and pulled his face down to hers, surprising herself with her urgency. She kissed him, their tongues probing around each other’s mouths, their hands pulling and kneading each other’s skin. She tore her mouth away, pulled his head down further until her lips were devouring his earlobe. Then Ginny Wallis did something she thought she’d only ever encounter in novels: she removed a stripper’s earlobe from her mouth, reached down and grabbed his gorgeous, huge dick, pulled it towards her and whispered, ‘Fuck me now. Hard.’

  And after reaching to a nearby cupboard to extract a condom (yes, it would later cross her mind to wonder at the generous dispersion and location of condoms around the apartment) he pushed inside her. And just when she thought he couldn’t have any more, he pushed in even further. Her legs came up around his waist, her hands were now tangled in his hair, as he thrust inside her again…and again…and again…until…when the liquid came there was so much that it splashed on the floor, soaking everything within distance.

  Ginny wasn’t sure who was more surprised–Jude or her. She’d been so immersed in her own bliss, so high on the best ride of her life, that she hadn’t even realised that he was getting to that point. But hold on…the condom. The condom meant that there shouldn’t have been any…

  ‘Ginny! Ginny, stop!’

  She opened her eyes, confused at the levity in his voice. Surely he should be panicking and making a beeline to the nearest chemist for the morning-after pill?

  But instead he seemed to find the whole situation highly amusing.

  ‘Ginny!’ he repeated. ‘You’re pressing against the water dispenser.’

  She turned around to see that, yes, sure enough, in the midst of passion she hadn’t noticed that one of her buttocks was wedged against the dispenser on the front of the fridge door, causing rivers of ice-cold Evian to flood the kitchen.

  The two of them dissolved into fits of giggles, until Ginny realised the most important conclusion to be drawn from this–he wasn’t finished yet.

  She grinned as she pushed his hair back off his stunning face. ‘Then get me over to that dishwasher and finish what you started,’ she ordered.

  ‘Are you always this demanding?’ he teased, as he lifted her, his magnificent penis still tucked inside her, and walked across the kitchen and deposited her on the requested electrical appliance.

  ‘Never! But I think it’s working for me–what do you think?’

  His left hand moved round behind her neck, his right hand moved down to tickle her overworked and ecstatic clitoris, and his dick resumed its exploration.

  ‘Honey, it is definitely working for you. And for me.’

  WHAT CAREER?

  INDEX–L Page 234

  LABORATORY TECHNICIAN

  LABOURER

  LANDLORD

  LANDSCAPE GARDENER

  LANGUAGE TEACHER

  LANGUAGES ASSISTANT

  LAW CLERK

  LAW ENFORCEMENT

  LAWYER

  LEARNING ASSISTANT

  LECTURER

  LEGAL ASSISTANT

  LEGAL PA LEGAL SECRETARY

  LIBRARIAN

  LIBRARY ASSISTANT

  LIFEGUARD

  LIFT OPERATOR

  LIGHTING ENGINEER

  LINGUISTIC TEACHER

  LOCAL GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL

  LOGISTICS ADMINISTRATOR

  LUMBERJACK

  ELEVEN

  Blowing in the Wind

  Roxy. Day 12, Thursday, 8.14 a.m.

  ‘Indeed you will not take the day off, young lady. Now get your clothes on and be downstairs in ten minutes or you’re grounded.’

  Vera Galloway was a fearsome sight. Black patent court shoes, the only token elegant item in an outfit that included a purple calf-length floaty linen skirt and a wrap top so kaleidoscopic that the local primary school could use it for their next production of Joseph. Added to that, her hands were on her hips, her face was flushed, and she looked about as happy as George Bush on a two-week package tour to Kabul.

  ‘Mother, stop being ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven years old–you haven’t been able to ground me for the last eleven years.’

  Roxy p
ulled the duvet up around her neck a little tighter, giving her mother her very best defiant stare. ‘I feel ill, my head is pounding, and I’m not going to spend all day standing in a library surrounded by deadbeats.’

  ‘You’re letting Vi down, you know.’

  Roxy could feel her blood pressure rising by the second. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mum, stop being so dramatic. All I’m doing is taking the day off! The way you’re acting you’d think I’d been stopped at customs with ten pounds of coke up my jacksy. I’ll be back tomorrow–I’m sorry–okay?’

  Vera sniffed the air. ‘Roxy, have you been smoking in here?’ she asked, astonished.

  Roxy looked at her like she was crazy. ‘Mother, if you’d even been remotely paying attention to my life you’d have noticed that I don’t smoke. You’re making my headache even worse, so can you just go now, please?’

  Vera’s face contorted and it was all Roxy could do not to pull the duvet right over her head in horror. She knew that look. It was the first sign that Vera was about to…

  3-2-1…Houston, Space Shuttle Ranting-Vera has lift-off.

  ‘Roxy Galloway, God knows why I love you because you haven’t been the easiest of children: spoiled, demanding, self-centred, all traits that you did, of course, inherit from your father. And that whole mortifying episode the other night–well, I didn’t know where to look. I’d never have let that Felix one in if I’d known that you…well, good riddance, anyway. I never did take to him. If there’s one thing I know about it’s unfaithful men and that Felix had all the trademarks: flash clothes, flash car, and he wore aftershave that could suffocate you at ten yards. Oh yes, if ever there was a man who would go through life being directed by his willy, he was it.’

  Vera then performed her unique and brilliantly coordinated master talent: ranting while reversing out of a doorway and plodding several steps downstairs. By this time Roxy had conceded defeat and disappeared under the duvet, an action that caused her to miss Vera’s dramatic encore.

  ‘Well, all I can say is Thank God you’ve found a nice boy now–you and Mitch make a lovely couple. Oh, don’t think you can kid me, young lady. Spilt water? Huh, do you think I’m buttoned up the back?’

  Back in the bedroom, Roxy counted to a hundred, checked the coast was clear and emerged from under the covers with her Marlboro Lights. She lit one, then reached under again and pulled out a dish in the shape of a hand that Ginny had made in fifth-year art. The memory brought a pang of sadness. Art was one of the subjects that Roxy and Ginny had done together and they’d laughed so much when the dishes came out of the kiln, when Mr Stevens, the doddery old Art teacher, had finally realised that Roxy had deviated from the standard cupped-hand and made hers a fist with a defiantly raised middle finger.

  She felt a tingling sensation across her sinuses. No, she would not bloody cry. She wouldn’t. Even if she felt like her heart had been pummelled to death by a Jimmy Choo in the hands of the one person she never, ever thought would betray her.

  Not Ginny. Never. A lifetime of friendship and now…How could that nasty, two-faced slapper have done this to her?

  She flicked the ash from the end of her ciggie into the palm of the hand and gritted her teeth as another burst of anger replaced the sadness. This was hell. Unadulterated, bloody hell. Her best friend had committed the ultimate betrayal, her career was shite, her love life was shite, her mother was driving her nuts, she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do with her future, she hadn’t had sex for weeks, and now she was sneaking ciggies behind her mother’s back. This wasn’t just one of life’s little blips, it was a full-scale regression back to some time around 1997.

  She heard a door slamming downstairs and the unmistakable sound of four heels clicking their way down the path. She stubbed out the cigarette and got out of bed, pulled Westlife around her shoulders and went downstairs. In the living room, she flicked on the television, only for Fiona Phillips’s cackles to permeate the silence. She snapped it back off again. She was already feeling suicidal–ten minutes of Fiona’s grating witterings and she’d be heading for the nearest high-rise.

  The phone rang but she ignored it–unless that was Fiona phoning to tell her she’d won a fortnight in Antigua, there was honestly not a single person she could think of that she wanted to speak to.

  Could life get any worse? Felix and Ginny. Ginny and Felix. The thought of them kept turning over in her mind, again and again, making her stomach turn and the veins in her neck pop. Thank fuck her Botox was holding up or there’d be a permanent ridge in the space between her brows.

  Why? Why would Ginny do this to her? Felix, she could understand–after all, he had previous convictions, but sweet, angelic, innocent little Ginny? What. A. Cow.

  She’d never forgive her–never. Not that her former best friend even seemed to care–about half an hour after she’d hung up on Ginny she’d called her back and no one answered. She’d even tried the mobile but it just diverted to the answering service. Ginny had probably been on the phone to Felix, planning their next sordid little rendezvous and having a good old laugh behind Roxy’s back. Bastards.

  She flicked the telly on again–Jeremy Kyle now–and marvelled at the dregs of society sitting there in their tracksuits, full of attitude and malice.

  Then she caught the tagline running along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘My best friend stole my boyfriend and I want him back.’

  Well, forget that–Ginny was welcome to him. She hoped they had a long and happy relationship, punctuated by weekly episodes where he shagged everything in sight.

  She lit up another cigarette, but stubbed it out after two drags. She couldn’t stand this. Her anxiety and anger levels were rising by the minute. This wasn’t the way her life was supposed to turn out. She should have tracked down her perfect man by now, the one who would love her, cherish her and take her to a Sandals resort at least three times a year–not one whose cock deserved an ASBO.

  She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the couch. She should go and pack, head back to London and toss Ginny out on her arse. She should call Felix and abuse him in every way imaginable. She should kick-start her life by spending the rest of the day online looking for a new job. She should blow the cobwebs out of her pounding head by going for a long walk, perhaps down along the riverbank where she and Ginny had played as kids. She should call Jeremy Kyle.

  But she didn’t feel like doing any of those things. She would not be a victim. Kate Moss would have middle-aged spread before Roxy Galloway would ever, ever let those two see how devastated she was.

  It suddenly came to her that there was only one thing that would make her feel better, one person she wanted to call, wanted to speak to, wanted to see.

  She reached over to the phone table for her mother’s address book and flicked through the pages, desperately hoping that the number would be there. Bingo. She picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Hi, it’s me, Roxy. Look, I know this might be a bit weird, but something awful has happened and I need to talk to someone. No, I don’t want to explain on the phone–would you come over? I’m at home. Okay, erm, thanks, I’ll see you then.’

  Half an hour later the doorbell rang and a showered, made-up Roxy with long, flowing locks, a gleam in her eye and minty-fresh breath opened the red-gloss door.

  She took a deep breath, psyching herself up. She was ready. Step one: open door. Step two: adopt suitably sweet and grateful expression.

  ‘Hi,’ she said tentatively. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m really glad you did.’

  He pushed back the sleeve on his Nike sweatshirt and checked his watch.

  ‘Yeah, well, I had a spare half an hour–although I can think of a million places I’d rather spend it. So what’s so important that you wanted to speak to me–is Ginny okay?’

  ‘Oh, Ginny’s fine. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about–just how absolutely, spectacularly fine your little darling really is.’

  Roxy took a s
tep back, and motioned for him to come in. Darren Jenkins, surprised, intrigued, and in the presence of the closest thing in his mind to the Antichrist, walked straight past her.

  On the discomfort scale it was somewhere around the level of being caught naked while shoplifting in Tesco’s and having the whole scene played to the nation on Crimewatch.

  He hadn’t said a word for a whole ten seconds, since right around the moment that he’d finally accepted the evidence was irrefutable.

  Roxy hadn’t been sure how to break it to him so in the end she’d gone for the approach that she’d have appreciated most: blunt-force trauma.

  And she’d done it right in between giving him a coffee and offering him a Garibaldi.

  ‘She’s what?’ he’d gasped, before immediately reverting to his standard default setting whenever Roxy was around: unadulterated hatred.

  ‘You’re lying. It’s another of your fucked-up little games, isn’t it? Another classic Roxy attempt to sabotage lives and wreak havoc on everyone around her.’

  ‘I swear I’m not! Look, Felix told me, I called her and she admitted it. Not at first, but then her answer went something along the lines of “Okay, I suppose I did…” And I’m not telling you this to hurt you, Darren, I swear, I just thought you should know.’ Her voice had softened, and for the first time since second-year woodwork she’d spoken to him with compassion. She’d even managed to force out a tear, and this action had a double advantage, as not only did it make her look vulnerable but she’d had to squeeze her buttocks to do it, giving her a killer arse.

  ‘Look, I know how it feels to be treated like this–when I found out about Felix I thought I’d die. But at least I know. I couldn’t bear not knowing, everyone laughing behind my back, gossiping about me, relishing the scandal. And much as we’ve had our differences…’

  ‘Understatement of the millennium,’ he’d interjected with a hint of resignation.

  ‘Okay, our huge differences, I couldn’t live with myself if I did something intentionally cruel like leaving you in the dark about this. Let’s face it, Darren, they’ve fucked us over. And if I’m going to be in the “Rejected Twat” boat then it would be nice to have some company.’