by Shari Low
The pre-pubescent hormone switch flicked to ‘SAD’.
‘I just…I just go there sometimes. When I…need someone to talk to.’
Roxy’s emotional barometer flicked to ‘AW, FUCK’.
She’d almost made it. Almost. Like the prison escapee who gets to the perimeter fence before the floodlights flash on and a hoard of guard dogs attach themselves to his bollocks. Like the comedic marathon runner who gets to twenty-five and a half miles before the heat of his badger suit causes him to faint on national telly. Like the gigolo who avoids an unexpected meeting with a homicidal husband by climbing out the bathroom window. Of a forty-fourth-floor penthouse.
Yep, she’d almost got away.
She let her bag slump to the floor and shrugged her cardi back off.
‘Do you know what you need, Juliet? Apart from a bath and some really strong mouthwash?’
She was met with a questioning stare.
‘You need me–your fairy fucking godmother.’
Two days later and she was still there. In fact, she’d moved in now, lock, stock and Fendi Spy, after making a trip home for clothes, toiletries and essential supplies, which–according to her mother–consisted of three packets of chocolate digestives and a crate of PG Tips. She’d spun them a story about Juliet’s mum being called away on a medical emergency for a few weeks and asking Roxy to keep an eye on her daughter.
Juliet slurped her soup and flicked the telly onto the Hollyoaks omnibus on Channel Four.
‘By the way, I had a new one this morning: combine harvester, a total, like, bloodbath, with the leftover body-parts squashed by cows.’
‘Oh, I’ve taught you well, Luke Skywalker.’
‘Luke who?’
Roxy chuckled as she draped another G-string on the radiator’s temperature knob.
‘Never mind. But I still think I prefer the parachute that doesn’t open, followed by the fatal landing in a sewage plant. Thought that one was a bit classier.’
‘Probably right.’ Slurp.
It was their favourite game–slow and painful death scenarios for erstwhile friends and boyfriends. Ben had phoned twice–once to beg forgiveness and the second time to find out if Roxy really did intend to put posters all over the village saying he was a two-timing twat.
Saffron hadn’t even had the decency to grovel yet. The devious slut: aeroplane, thirty thousand feet, flushes the toilet and is sucked out, arse first, and scattered over Slough.
The doorbell rang, and Juliet’s immediate reaction was to look at Roxy with a panicked expression. She’d spent so long living there on her own that she was finding it strange adjusting to having other people in her space. In saying that, it wasn’t all bad. Roxy had pretended to be her aunt (her second fictional relative of the week) and had phoned the school yesterday to say she was laid up with a stomach bug (semi-true–her digestive system was still half-pissed) and they’d spent the whole day slouched in front of the telly watching old Friends videos. And somewhere between series three and four, they’d agreed a solemn pact that Juliet would not touch another drop of alcohol until her eighteenth birthday.
‘Keep your knickers on, it’s just Mitch,’ Roxy chided her. ‘I asked him pick us up some food that doesn’t come in a package with a list of E-numbers on the front. Shit, shoot me now before I turn into Gwyneth Paltrow.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
Mitch staggered in the door, struggling to carry eight plastic bags, a large box of wine and a multi-pack of six-litre bottles of Evian.
‘Oh, and the wine’s for me, Oliver Reed,’ she reminded Juliet.
‘Who?’
Mitch laughed as he rushed through to the kitchen, the weight causing his legs to buckle so that he was almost walking on his knees by the time he got there.
Roxy followed behind him. ‘Oooh, I love it when you flex your muscles,’ she teased.
‘And that’s exactly the kind of insincere, sarcastic disparagement that will have me at your beck and call,’ he jibed back light-heartedly.
Roxy thought again about how much she liked him. He was absolutely, positively the most easy-going, good-natured bloke she’d ever met in her life. If he was a food he’d be chocolate. If he was a drink he’d be Irish coffee. If he was in love with her he’d be…Doh! Why did that one keep creeping back in?
After shaking out his arms so the blood started to flow through the hands that had been strangled by plastic-bag handles, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘How’s the patient?’
‘She’s moody, sullen and bitter, interjected with moments of sarcastic brilliance. I think she’s fabulous.’
‘It’s like a meeting of soul mates. Back in a minute, need to pee.’
‘Okay, I’ll unpack this lot. And Mitch? Too much information there, pet.’
He was still chuckling when he went into the loo. He wasn’t chuckling when he came out five minutes later.
Roxy and Juliet were both in the kitchen, surrounded by open cupboards.
‘Do you know the toilet is blocked?’
‘Noooo,’ wailed Roxy. ‘Oh, crap!’
‘Thank you for that summary of the situation. Juliet, have you got a plunger?’
‘Dunno. There might be one under the sink–I think that’s where the DIY stuff is kept. I’ve never had to use it.’
‘And it definitely wasn’t me who blocked it. Definitely not,’ Roxy protested. Too much. The others rounded on her, eyebrows raised, looking at her questioningly.
‘I mean,’ she blustered, ‘it definitely wasn’t me who used four baby wipes to take my make-up off last night and then flushed them down the toilet, even though it says on the packet that you shouldn’t. I’d never do that. Never. Okay, okay, it was me–I’m really sorry.’
Mitch located the plunger and pulled it out, playfully brandishing it six inches from Roxy’s face and moving it from side to side in a pendulous manner.
‘Toilet. Your gob. Toilet. Your gob. God, sometimes life’s big decisions are really hard. Right, if I’m not back out in ten minutes, call the coastguard. And after this there’d better be a whole lot of lovin’ and chocolate biscuits coming in my direction. After I’ve washed my hands, that is.’
And off Plumber Pat went, plunger thrown over his shoulder in a laissez-faire fashion.
Roxy tried to conjure up an image of Felix, dressed in work boots and a very fetching boiler suit, doing the same. Nope, not happening. However, several other scenarios involving him and the plunger did come to mind, although they were rapidly followed by a custodial sentence at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Over the next few minutes there was banging, several expletives and much swooshing of water.
Then there was silence. And more silence.
And just when Roxy was considering checking the Yellow Pages for the coastguard’s number, they finally heard footsteps.
Mitch appeared in the doorway, looking like a man with a dilemma on his mind.
‘So did you find the blockage then, or am I going to have to call the trading standards office and report your substandard plumbing skills?’
He hesitated. Then, realising that there was no way out of the drama he was about to cause, he ploughed on nervously.
‘Er…I did. And it wasn’t the baby wipes.’
Silence.
‘Okay, we’re talking about toilet functions here and I’d like to eat soon, so can we hurry this one up?’ Roxy heckled.
‘Erm, well, I think it was caused by this.’
And there, in the doorway, was the nicest man in the world, clutching a plunger in one hand, and in the other, the very unmistakable long white stick of a pregnancy test–one that he’d already ascertained had a little blue line on both windows.
Roxy froze, Juliet froze, both of them unable to tear their eyes away from the stick in front of them.
After a few moments of deathly, incredibly tense silence, Mitch was the first to speak. ‘So…who should I congratulate?’
The Sunday
Globe–Lifestyle Supplement
28 October 2007
WHY I’M HAPPY ALONE–GOLDIE
GILMARTIN ON LIFE, HEALTH AND WHY
SHE LOVES TO BE ALONE
The first thing that strikes you about Goldie Gilmartin (46) is her smile–it may have been perfected at the hands of the country’s leading cosmetic dentist, but the sentiment behind it is contagious. Goldie, as those of you who are devoted fans of her morning show will know, is pure sunshine. Her eyes are bright, she radiates health, and if you could bottle happiness this ebullient star would be its source.
So just what is the secret of Goldie’s physical and spiritual glow? The answer might surprise you. ‘I’ve discovered that for me the most important thing at this stage of my life is to nurture my mind, body and soul,’ Goldie tells me when we meet at her elegant West London home. ‘It’s important to keep life simple,’ she continues. ‘Gone are those stressful days of my twenties ands thirties when I was intent on having the perfect relationship, the perfect career and the perfect lifestyle. Now I know what works for me, and that’s living alone and dedicating myself to work, friends and health. I read, I eat well, I exercise and I avoid late nights.’
So, no handsome beau to share those long winter evenings by her romantic log fire?
‘It’s difficult to find the right person,’ admits Goldie. ‘What’s important to me in a relationship is that there is a deep emotional connection, that is a meeting of intellect and interests. I’m sure that person will come along one day, but in the meantime I’m happy with just my cat to keep me company.
‘To be honest with you,’ she reveals, flashing those pearly whites, ‘these days I much prefer an early night with a good book and perhaps a small glass of my favourite red wine. In my job it’s important to put the viewers first, and by taking good care of myself I’m ensuring that they get the very best performance out of me every morning on the very best show. And, forgive me if I sound too boring, but it’s all worth it to be given the privilege of doing what I truly think is the best job in the world.’
And one final question–surely she must have one little vice?
After a few moments of consideration, Goldie flicks back those glorious copper locks and prepares to confess all. ‘I do,’ she admits. ‘Every now and then I have a little nibble at something I shouldn’t. Sometimes it’s chocolate, sometimes perhaps a tiny taste of caviar. But then, wouldn’t life be terribly boring if one didn’t have a secret indulgence?’
Well, I’m sold! As Goldie and I part I can’t help but reflect that if moderation, self-control and celibacy are the key to looking as great as she does, maybe we should all give it a try!
EIGHTEEN
I Got You, Babe
Ginny. Day 21, Saturday, 1 p.m.
The hammering on the front door was incessant. Ginny opened one eye and squinted against the sun that was squeezing in around the perimeter of the window blind. The door-knocker was rapped again.
Ginny swore under her breath. If this was the postman again she was reporting him to his supervisor. Sure, he was young, sure, he was gorgeous, and sure, Roxy had once snogged him in a fit of petulance during one of her many fallouts with Felix, but that didn’t give the guy the right to bang on their door every morning in the hope of a replay.
She staggered to her feet and checked her pyjamas to make sure she was decent. That’s when she realised she wasn’t wearing any. The tingle started at her toes, rose to her lurching stomach and turned her face scarlet when it reached the top.
Oh. Lord. Oh good Lord. Her hand flew to her mouth, embarrassment paralysing her. What had she done? All right, she knew exactly what she’d done, but…What had she done? Or, rather, who had she done?
She closed her eyes. Mortified! Her heart was racing, her toes were curling and she’d gladly faint only she didn’t want to get carpet burns when her buttocks hit the floor.
She had had sex with Goldie Gilmartin. And Jude. Together. At the same time.
Was twenty-seven too young to have a stroke, because she could swear her peripheral vision was going and she felt a sudden need to hyperventilate into a paper bag.
Sex. Goldie. Jude. Together.
Breathe, breathe…
And this was the girl who used to think a ménage à trois was a triple-fruit yoghurt.
Well, so much for the detox of her mind, body and lady bits. As far as she knew there wasn’t a spa in the world that could offer a night of shagging one of the country’s national treasures as a therapeutic escape from the stresses and strains of everyday life.
The knocking stopped. Fabulous, the postman had obviously given up and gone on to solicit intimate relations from another household. Okay, so what next? Ginny stood absolutely still, unsure of whether she wanted to go back to bed, go into the kitchen in search of intravenous caffeine, or just wait and hope that the shag-pile would part like the Red Sea and the ground would indeed ingest her whole.
She listened for a second–no sound. Did that mean Jude and Goldie had gone out? It was Saturday morning so Goldie didn’t have a live show but she did sometimes pre-record features over the weekend.
She was so glad they hadn’t slept in her room.
During that couple of hours of naked acrobatics she’d done things that were fairly unremarkable…if you worked as a full-time porn star. In Ginny’s case, they were remarkable. Definitely remarkable.
And when it was over and they’d all collapsed on the floor, exhausted, spent, euphoric, she’d been overcome with a huge wave of…giggles. Yep, giggles. Snot coming down her nose, sides splitting, jaw aching, tears-streaming giggles.
It was another moment of indignity. But then considering she’d sat on the face of a major TV star while said TV star’s boyfriend’s cock was tickling her tonsils, she supposed dignity had probably already left the building.
The mirth had been contagious. The other two had joined in and it was a good ten minutes before any semblance of normal conversation could take place. And even then, that’s only if the banner of ‘normal conversation’ encompassed, ‘Ginny, babe, you were sooooo good.’
And her own personal favourite from Goldie. ‘Fuck, honey, I could just lick you all over again. With cream on top.’
It was Jude who’d eventually moved proceedings on. They’d lain in silence for a few moments, Jude in the middle, Goldie snuggled into one side of him, Ginny lying perpendicular with her head on his abs, when he’d whispered, ‘Do you want us to sleep here with you?’
Ginny had shaken her head. ‘No…er…thanks. I’m fine. But thanks anyway.’
They’d peeled off each other, and Jude had kissed her softly on the lips. ‘See you tomorrow, babe. You really were amazing.’
‘Erm, right then. Thanks.’
Then Goldie had repeated his actions, finishing with, ‘Incredible. Goodnight, my darling.’
‘Er, ’night then.’
As she’d pushed herself off the shag-pile–nope, the irony wasn’t lost–she’d listened to their feet padding through to Jude’s bedroom. Still in some kind of post-bliss euphoric trance, she’d wandered into the bathroom, slipped into the now cool bath, and closed her eyes. It had been so surreal. It almost felt like she had been detached from the whole thing, the perfectly behaved, boring Ginny levitating somewhere up above Porn Ginny, watching the action in utter astonishment. After a five-minute soak, she’d dried off and slipped between the sheets, the prospect of looking for pyjamas and putting them on seeming like bolting the door after the slapper horse had bolted.
She should have stared at the ceiling for hours. She should have tossed and turned. She should have spent what was left of the night fretting about the consequences of what had just happened.
But she hadn’t.
She’d slipped into a blissful, dreamless sleep. Right up until Postman Pat had almost battered her door down.
‘Ginny! Ginny!’
She gasped, as her surreal existence moved on to a whole new level of absurdity. Had someon
e slipped something in her drink last night? Only, she was standing in the middle of her room, utterly naked, and all she could hear was her mother’s voice.
‘Ginny! Ginny! Open the door!’
Ginny grabbed a robe from the back of the door, threw it on and dashed into the hall. And there, in a definitely non-hallucinatory scene, were her mother’s eyes, clearly visible through the letterbox.
‘Sorry, Mum, sorry!’ She dived to the door and threw it open, revealing her mother and Auntie Vera, both radiant in coordinating boot-leg jeans, polo-neck jumpers (Vera’s blue, Violet’s pink), fake fur gilets (Vera’s pink, Violet’s blue), huge grins and sparkling eyes.
‘Sweetheart!’ her mother screeched, falling on her and enveloping her in a hug so tight she could floss her teeth on the gilet. ‘It’s so lovely to see you–oh, we’ve missed you, haven’t we, Vera?’
Vera joined in, turning the scene from a tender embrace into a team hug.
Two threesomes in one morning, Ginny reflected.
‘I’ve missed you too! Come in, come in. I’m sorry I’m not dressed, I was having a bit of a lie-in–late night last night.’ She gave her mother another squeeze, realising for the first time just how much she had actually missed her. Life just wasn’t the same without her mother’s eccentricities, her overwhelming affection and her…
‘Right, love, let’s get the kettle on, shall we?’
Yep, her beverages.
Ginny held the door open as they paraded in past her, carrying an assortment of plastic and canvas bags, then slammed it shut before the fashion police SWAT team could storm the flat.
‘Mum, how long are you here for?’
‘Oh, we’re not staying, love. We’re on the eleven o’clock train home tonight–just popped in on a theatre break. Our Roxy arranged it for us. We just thought we’d come to see you for a couple of hours, and then we’re off for afternoon tea at the Ritz and on to the theatre.’
‘Evita?’ she asked, knowing that her mother had a particular fondness for singing ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ at ASBO level while in the shower.
