My Best Friend's Life

by Shari Low

‘Darren,’ leered Saffron.

  ‘Hot!’ A unanimous decision among the girls. Roxy watched him as he handed out cans of Coke to a group of guys who were huddled around TV monitors, all engrossed in saving the planet from invasion, nuclear attack or a four–nil defeat at intergalactic football.

  ‘He’s totally lush! Just a shame he’s so ancient.’

  ‘He’s twenty-seven!’ Roxy exclaimed.

  The other three nodded dolefully in agreement. ‘Exactly–totally ancient. Probably needs Viagra to get it up,’ Saffron added to the amusement of the others.

  Ancient?! Roxy put her hand to her forehead. Bad idea–she was sure she felt a new wrinkle. There she was thinking she was still in the prime of her youth and these three had her down as approaching end of shelf-life.

  And although it was a cast-iron rebuttal of their misconceptions, she thought it probably best that she didn’t enlighten them on Darren’s capacity for drug-free erectile function.

  She watched the girls checking out the other talent on offer. Juliet was actually quite sweet when she wasn’t attached to her boyfriend and commando-crawling into public toilets. Lindsay seemed pretty switched-on and sharp. Carrie was shyer, a little more reserved than the other three. And Saffron was definitely the gob of the group: Lily Allen on E-numbers.

  Roxy was developing a sense of dislike there, but then implications that you should be researching the pros and cons of burial, cremation or cryogenic preservation could have that effect.

  ‘What about Mitch?’ suggested Juliet.

  ‘Hot!’ her ageist coven crowed.

  Okay, so now Roxy knew they were officially insane. She looked over at Mitch, strumming an Arctic Monkeys’ song on a guitar while about twelve youngsters sat around him nodding their heads in time to the beat.

  He was cute. He was sweet. He was funny.

  He also looked like he’d got dressed by wrapping himself in double-sided tape then streaking through Ashton Kutcher’s wardrobe–the one he hadn’t opened since 1999.

  ‘Definitely hot. He’s, like, totally channelling Orlando Bloom.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing?’ asked Roxy. Frankly she’d never seen the appeal of Mr Bloom–too young, too baby-faced, too named after a holiday resort. She preferred men who looked like they were old enough to shave.

  ‘Like, duh!’ offered Carrie. Right then. Nods all round.

  Mitch must have sensed their stares because he chose that moment to turn around and meet her gaze. He grinned and gave her a wink, invoking an amused chorus of ‘Oooooooooooohhhhhhh’s from her new VBFs.

  ‘Uh-oh, uh-oh, I think he likes you,’ Juliet chanted, with accompanying drum-rolls on the table.

  ‘Piss off,’ Roxy replied, then realised to her absolute horror that her face was turning a mild shade of Johansson. Ooh, get her–she was making up her own slang now. Although that happy thought didn’t detract from her general pissed-off disposition. ‘He does not!’ she muttered. ‘I mean, he does, but not in that way. We’re friends.’

  All four were now thumping their hands on the table and joining in the chorus of, ‘Uh-oh, uh-oh, I think he likes you. Uh-oh, uh-oh, I think he likes you. Uh-oh, uh-oh…’

  ‘Very mature,’ said Roxy dryly, an insult that had the perverse effect of making them sing even louder.

  ‘Shut up,’ she hissed as she simultaneously snatched off her shoes and grabbed Juliet’s handbag. She held the heel above it in a threatening manner. ‘One more word and the vodka gets it.’

  The music changed now, the smoky tones of Paolo Nutini’s ‘Last Request’ filled the room. Obviously the youth-club funds still only stretched to new records on a biannual basis. The title was definitely apt, though. She briefly wondered if the judge would show leniency if she could demonstrate that she’d been subjected to undue provocation.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Juliet capitulated, fighting valiantly to rein in her ear-to-ear grin. She eased the bag out of Roxy’s hands and placed it in a safe position beyond breaking distance. ‘We won’t say another word. We promise.’

  It was an official ceasefire. Roxy’s hackles slowly returned to their normal position, until…‘Not another thing about him luuuuuurvin you!’ teased Juliet in the voice of a Clueless character, while swinging her arms from side to side in some kind of teenage victory ritual. The other three creased into laughter again, and it was so contagious that Roxy’s ire gradually melted.

  A memory of herself and Ginny, dressed in off-the-shoulder mini-dresses (although the effect of Ginny’s outfit was somewhat spoiled by the jeans that she refused to remove), shaking their bits to Oasis’s ‘Roll With It’ in this very building twelve years before flitted into her mind. They’d been inseparable then, in a time before distance, diverse lives and her boyfriend’s wayward penis had forced them apart.

  ‘So what joke did I miss then?’

  She’d been so distracted that she hadn’t noticed that Mitch had broken away from his worshipping audience and wandered over to their table.

  ‘Oh, Juliet here was just saying how she thinks that you are absolutely adorable and you’re her very first crush on a male whose voice has broken.’

  ‘I did not!’ screeched Juliet, outraged and mortified.

  Roxy winked at her as her girlfriends swapped any trace of loyalty for uncontrollable hilarity.

  ‘She did,’ continued Roxy deadpan. ‘She said she plans to wait until she’s twenty-one and then track you down and tell you she–what was it again?–she luuuuuuuuurves you!’

  Mitch looked suitably abashed as he bowed in front of a teenager so excruciatingly embarrassed that she now had her handbag in front of her face, screams of outrage wailing from behind it.

  ‘Juliet, I think you’re lovely, and I can of course understand that you find me irresistible–if I was a girl I’d adore me too,’ he joked. ‘But I’m afraid I have a golden rule.’ He turned to look at Ben, all six foot two inches of him.

  ‘If the boyfriend is big enough to cause life-threatening injuries then it’s probably not a good idea. Forgive me?’

  The sight of four swooning teenagers–well, three swoons and an ‘Oh my fuck, I’m mortified’–made Roxy strangely exhilarated. Either there was something dodgy in that vodka or she was actually warming to this lot. Freaky.

  Mitch switched focus back in her direction. ‘Come on you, breaktime and you’re on burger duty. I’ve already put the hospital admissions desk on standby.’

  He took her hand and pulled her out of her seat. In fact, she realised, she was warming to a few things around here.

  She pondered the back of Mitch’s head as she followed him across the hall. Okay, so his dress sense was tragic. And yes, he needed a haircut. And no, they had nothing in common. And yes, she’d rather chew off her own arm than take him on a night out in London with her usual circle of friends.

  But there was no denying that he made her smile.

  She could hear a drumroll starting up behind her as the girls restarted their chant of, ‘Uh-oh, uh-oh, I think he likes you. Uh-oh, uh-oh, I think he likes you. Uh-oh, uh-oh…’

  Putting her hand up behind her back, she flicked them the V-sign, making them sing even louder.

  Bloody teenagers. But as he opened the kitchen door and stood back to let her go in first, she realised that maybe they had a point. He’d been so lovely, so supportive since she’d got here. She’d only known him two weeks, yet it felt like months. He was always popping in to see her for a chat. And making suggestions for things they could do at night. She had never, ever made such a good friend this quickly. At least, not one who didn’t have a trust fund, a discount card for Selfridges or a great line in Moroccan weed.

  He was holding up a large packet and a grill pan. ‘This is a grill–it’s a cooking implement commonly used in modern-day Britain. And this mysterious package contains burgers, the nutritional staple of the teenager. Do you think you’ll cope or shall I send in reinforcements?’

  She took the grill and returned it to the cook
er, then snatched the packet.

  ‘Okay, but you’re buttering the rolls.’

  ‘Deal,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to leave in case you go into some kind of cooking-induced catatonic shock. I’m qualified in First Aid, so you’re safe with me.’

  Safe with me. The phrase resonated in her head as she sliced open the packet and began the danger-fraught task of separating frozen burgers using nothing but a knife and brute force. Why had no one ever invented a way to freeze food without it sticking together?

  Safe with him. That was so true, Roxy suddenly realised. She did feel, well, kind of safe with him. Bang! One burger flew off the counter and landed on the floor. She picked it up and put it on the grill pan, confident that any germs would be annihilated in the cooking process.

  Safe with him. And he liked her. Was this…Was there something here that she hadn’t noticed? She thought back to the night they’d had dinner at her house, what was it he’d been saying? Argh, she couldn’t remember it–the shock of the whole tits out/Felix fiasco was blanking out everything that went before. Think. Think. Something about a…Okay, it was coming back now. He was in love with someone. Someone new. ‘Love at first sight,’ he’d said. And he hadn’t told her yet, because…because…The astonishment took her mind right off the fact that she was making such an arse of the cooking prep that they had every chance of boarding the gravy train to Botulism Central.

  ‘Mitch, can I ask you something?’ she stuttered.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, while continuing to work his way through buttering an Everest of rolls.

  How had she not seen this? Of course, it made total sense! She’d been so wrapped up in her own life and her own problems that she hadn’t spotted the thing that was blatantly, bloody obvious.

  ‘The other night, when you were at my place…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And we were talking…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And you said that you’ve met someone…’

  Pause. ‘Yes.’

  He put the knife down and turned to face her.

  ‘Recently…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was love at first sight.’

  Another pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you still feel the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you love someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone special?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mitch…?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you in love with me?’

  The Daily Globe

  27 October 2007

  Mr Donald Davies, MP for Chippenham West, was today admitted to London’s Priory Clinic as rumours of alleged infidelities gathered pace.

  The outspoken politician has built his political career on his controversial views espousing the importance of marriage, religion and moral fortitude within society. However, it would appear that the sanctimonious Davies has not been practising what he preaches.

  A source close to Davies revealed today, ‘It’s been known in certain circles for many years that Donald has been living a lifestyle that is in direct contradiction to his public stance. It wasn’t a matter of “if” he’d get caught out, only a matter of “when”.’

  It seems that time has come, with reports that a downmarket tabloid will tomorrow be publishing the memoirs of a celebrated London madam. Among her many high-profile clients there are rumoured to be celebrities, high-ranking police officers and politicians, among them one Donald Davies.

  While the legalisation of brothels last year removes any criminal consequences of these revelations, it is clear that Davies–if he is indeed implicated–will become yet another elected representative whose career has fallen on the sword of hypocrisy.

  Representatives of Mr Davies were contacted but refused to comment.

  FOURTEEN

  Do That to Me One More Time

  Ginny. Day 18, Wednesday, 2 p.m.

  The sweet musky smell of sweat permeated throughout the room as the two breathless figures caressed each other. Ginny’s hand, having apparently disconnected the synapse that led to the area of the brain marked ‘inhibitions and restraint’, had developed the power to work autonomously and was tracing a circle around Destiny’s nipple. She leaned over and licked the delicious peak, her fingers moving downwards now, delicately touching, probing every curve and valley. She found Destiny’s pussy and slipped her fingers inside those warm, soft lips. A thrill bubbled up inside her as Destiny arched her back, panting, wanting more. Ginny pushed herself off her side and moved on top of her lover, their lips touching, their hips touching, their breasts touching. Destiny’s hands weaved their way into her hair as Ginny lowered herself downwards, her hand still gently kneading the delicious softness. Her tongue found Destiny’s other nipple and flicked it gently, then circled it. She let her lips fall on it, sucking it while Destiny whispered, ‘Harder, harder.’

  As their breathing deepened even further, Ginny bit softly down, causing Destiny to moan in ecstasy.

  ‘Go down,’ Destiny begged. ‘Baby, go down.’

  Ginny released the nipple from her mouth and, balancing on her free hand, she raised herself above the most glorious sight she’d ever seen: Destiny, her every curve illuminated by the dim light that was seeping through the window, the heat of her body causing her skin to glisten like ice on a dark winter’s morning.

  She gently eased Destiny’s legs apart and moved between them, pulling up her own knees so that she was on all fours, head down, like a leopard devouring its prey. With her tongue, she traced a line from the centre of Destiny’s breasts down, down towards a place that she never thought she’d ever go. And as she moved backwards on her knees, every inch taking her closer, closer, she knew this was it. She was finally going to go there, to…

  ‘Earth calling Ginny, come in please. Earth calling Ginny.’

  The shock intrusion made Ginny lurch up, knocking her glass of fresh orange juice flying across the granite worktop and sending it crashing to the floor. She jumped off her stool and grabbed some kitchen roll, hoping the frantic dabbing would give her some excuse for having a flushed face and pupils the size of olives.

  Jude watched her with both concern and amusement.

  ‘Hey, hi,’ she stuttered–dab, dab, dab–‘I, er, didn’t hear you come in. And I’m, er, sorry, about the juice, and the, er, glass, and I’ll…’–dab, dab, dab–‘replace the glass and…’

  ‘Stop.’

  Her eyes closed as she froze, mentally chiding herself for being caught out daydreaming yet again. The only bonus was that the interruptions generally came from either Jude or Sam–and neither of them were too shabby on the eyes.

  Jude sighed mournfully. ‘Oh, Gin, I was worried that this would happen. The other night was amazing, but I told you it would make things complicated. And the thing is, I don’t want it to. I don’t want you to feel jumpy around me, or nervous, or anxious, or jealous, or all those other things that happen when you bring sex into a friendship. I don’t want you sitting here, wound up, waiting for me to come home. I’m sorry, Ginny, I’m really sorry, but we shouldn’t have done it and I never would have if I’d known you’d react like this, because…’

  Ginny bit her lip to stop herself smiling. The gorgeous man was so sweet, so sincere, and she could see that his concern was absolutely genuine.

  ‘Jude, I wasn’t thinking about you…’ she blurted.

  He folded her into his arms. ‘That’s okay, honey, you don’t have to say that. It’s okay. We’ll work it out. We’ll…’

  ‘No, really! Jude, I really wasn’t thinking about you. Or waiting for you to come home. I just sat here to have a glass of juice and then found myself daydreaming and, and…that’s when you came in and you startled me.’

  He was perplexed now.

  ‘And the daydream was about…?’

  She grimaced and shru
gged her shoulders.

  ‘Er…not you. Sorry.’

  He took a step back, finally putting down the holdall that was slung over one shoulder. This was the first time she’d seen him since their lustfest the week before, and, despite the embarrassment and mortification thing, her stomach gave a little lurch of delight. He was wearing his standard uniform of vintage Levis and a white Calvin Klein T-shirt. His hair was loosely pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His skin was tanned (St Tropez), buffed (Dermalogica) and plucked to perfection, yet he’d still fit in just as well on a building site as he would on the pages of Playgirl.

  And his voice, husky, sexy, would definitely fit in on those chat lines that began with 0870. Although it would be ludicrous to suggest that she’d repeatedly played back the message he’d left on the answering machine saying that something had come up and he was going to stay in Leeds for a few days. She had, of course, deleted it. Oh, okay, maybe she had listened to it a few times, but not many–definitely not triple figures.

  He was grinning now as he pulled up another bar stool and sat facing her across the kitchen island.

  ‘Ah, well. Ego crushed.’ He paused for a second. ‘Okay, I’m over it. So tell me all about it–who is he and what were you doing?’

  She tutted indignantly. ‘Who said it was about anybody? It was just a harmless, innocent daydream about…er…’ She glanced around her, searching frantically for inspiration. She spotted the vase of tulips on the opposite counter. ‘About Amsterdam. Going to Amsterdam. For a holiday. Yep, I was dreaming about taking a weekend break.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Uh-huh. Well, babe, I’m guessing that you were at the red-light district because your shoes have been kicked across the room, your blouse is open, you’re wearing very sexy underwear, and unless I’m pretty much mistaken, vital parts of your womanly charms are, er, prominent.’

  She glanced down and gasped when she realised that he was right–her headlights were definitely on full beam. She groaned as she re-buttoned her blouse over her, yep, curl those toes, peephole bra. No wonder he’d got the wrong impression.