by Shari Low
‘No, love, Vagina Monologues. Now here’s a ginger slice–brought them specially because I know they’re your favourites.’
In an artfully constructed sequence, Violet filled the kettle, flicked it on, located three mugs, popped a teabag in each, added milk and sugar, found a plate for the cakes, set them in a perfect circle, poured the water into the cups, stirred them, removed and dumped the teabags, handed a cup to everyone and, on the third attempt, managed to lever herself up onto one of the barstools next to the kitchen island.
Vera followed suit, taking five attempts to mount the stool and breathing deeply, face flushed by the time she conquered it.
‘Right then, love, come on,’ she gestured excitedly to Ginny. ‘We want to hear about everything you’ve been up to since you got here–and don’t miss out a single thing! I bet you’ve been up to all sorts! Have you been to a disco yet? Ooh, I hear they get up to all sorts in the clubs here. Thank goodness Roxy’s not one for going out much. I was always worried she’d fall in with a wild crowd. She’s easily led, you know, easily led.’
Ginny took a sip of tea in the fervent hope that it would reach the parts of her that were still aching after last night’s activities.
‘How is Roxy doing?’ Ginny asked, managing to keep the venom out of her voice.
‘Oh, she’s great, just great, isn’t she, Violet?’ Violet nodded. ‘You know she’s moved out?’
Ginny shook her head, dumbfounded. She’s what? Dear God, no–if that bitch had somehow managed not only to get her evil fangs into Darren again but to move in with him, she’d have to kill her.
‘Yes, moved in with young Juliet. Mother’s away–didn’t say why, but I’m thinking hysterectomy, very common these days, you know–and she’s asked Roxy to look after Juliet for her. Isn’t that lovely?’
Ginny hoped she was nodding. Either that or her brain was still swimming in champagne and adrenaline and sliding back and forwards. Her mother took over the story. Jesus, they were like Richard and Judy, but with four breasts and a high-grade Primark habit.
‘Especially now that she’s found love.’ Violet nudged Vera and they both exchanged beaming grins and winks.
‘Found love?’ Love? Already? Darren had only dumped her a few weeks before and already he was in love. Mean, cowardly dickhead–why hadn’t he had the courage to tell her all this to her face? He’d definitely given her the impression that Roxy was a one-time thing, not a candidate for meetings with the vicar and a rousing chorus of ‘Here Comes the Slut’. Okay, she might have made that last bit up but that’s what she would be singing, through a megaphone, at the back of the church.
‘Yes!’ Vera was near giddy with glee now. ‘Her and that nice Mitch have been inseparable, inseparable, since the minute they met. Of course, they haven’t announced it officially yet, but then you know how shy our Roxy is about these things.’
Ginny’s mug was frozen in thin air as she wondered if Vera had two daughters with the same name: Nice Roxy, and her evil twin, Satan Roxy, the one that Ginny had had to suffer since childhood.
How could a mother know so little about her own flesh and blood? Vera wasn’t wearing rose-tinted spectacles; she was wearing a balaclava backwards.
But…Roxy and Mitch? Where the hell had that come from? And what about Darren, then? She presumed that Roxy had actually left Mitch’s side when she was sucking off her ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Unless of course they’d gone to the Goldie Gilmartin School of Conjugal Behaviour.
None of this made sense, and now her head was starting to really, really hurt.
She took a huge gulp of tea as she psyched herself up to attempt to unravel the threads of the story. ‘So let me get this straight: Roxy is going out with Mitch…’
‘Unofficially,’ interjected her mother, with a simultaneous tap to the side of her nose and a wink.
‘And she’s living at Juliet’s, in the role of babysitter, because Juliet’s mum is away for a hysterectomy.’
‘Correct.’
‘Oh.’ Unclear as to the appropriate response to any of these revelations, Ginny took the sensible approach and drank more tea.
‘Anyway, we want to hear all about you, dear. Have you enjoyed working at Roxy’s office? What are all the staff like? I bet they’re dead posh. And have you met any celebrities on the tube or anything?’
‘It’s been fine. Roxy’s workmates are all really nice and, yes, very posh. But no celebrities yet–although I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for Daniel Craig on the District Line.’
Vera and Violet chortled. ‘Maybe we’ll meet a celebrity at the Fanny Show tonight, Vera,’ said Violet with a nudge.
‘Mum! I hate that word–don’t say that!’
Ginny’s face was burning. How provincial was she? Apparently it was fine to have intimate relations with that part of the female anatomy, but actually saying the word invoked deep embarrassment and moral outrage.
The older women ignored her, too enraptured at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with the glitterati. ‘I read somewhere that Sharon Osbourne goes all the time,’ Vera revealed conspiratorially.
‘I love her hair. Do you think I’d suit those burgundy highlights, Vera?’
‘You would! I can just see it–it would really bring out your eyes. Although I’m not sure it would go with your green mohair jumper–might have to donate that to the Cancer Research shop.’
And off they went, veering off onto a tangent, their conversation gliding along on a plane of mutual affection, joint interest and dual fixations on life’s little irrelevancies. Ginny had absolutely no idea what they were on about, cared even less, yet could think of nothing nicer than sitting here all afternoon, drinking tea, listening to the familiar burr of their voices in the background.
This living a cosmopolitan life was all very well, but there was no denying that she missed the warmth and comfort of these two eccentric creatures.
She wondered if this was what she and Roxy would have been like in thirty years if neither of them had ever left the village. She doubted it–Roxy would be on her seventh unsuspecting husband by now, having shagged and drained the bank accounts of every man with competent bodily functions within a ten-mile radius. Meanwhile Ginny would probably be married to Darren and would have slipped into a boredom-induced coma that resulted in twenty-four-hour medical care and a serious gin addiction.
Either that or she’d be in jail after catching Roxy sucking Darren’s dick behind the tombola stall at the annual summer fair and beating them to death with Mrs Robinson-Smith’s prize-winning marrow.
Actually, right now that could still be a viable option.
Roxy. And Mitch. She’d no idea why but the prospect of that happy coupling had her hackles in a vertical position. At the risk of sounding like Ginny Wallis aged eight and three quarters, why did Roxy have to take everything? Mitch was her friend. He was the person she spent most mornings with, chatting over the newspapers and setting the world to rights. He didn’t belong with Roxy, he was too nice. Roxy should be with…with…There was never a serial killer around when you needed one.
Vera’s shrieks of hilarity cut through her thoughts. ‘Could you imagine! It would be like throwing a sausage up the Dartford Tunnel.’
Both women were near purple with giddiness, her mother reaching for a re-infusion of tea to calm herself down. Ginny didn’t even contemplate working the joke back from that punch-line–there were some things in life she could live without knowing.
And, she mused, there were some things that she could definitely live without her mother knowing.
She had to bite her bottom lip to stop a smile forming as she imagined what Vera and Violet would think if they’d seen her just a few hours before. She was guessing there’d be shock, surprise, and an emergency call to Father Murphy requesting urgent Catholic intervention. Nah, they’d never believe it. If they thought Roxy was so angelic then they must think that Ginny was barely a step or two away from canonisation.
&nbs
p; ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind hearing the rest of that story,’ came an amused voice from the doorway.
Ginny’s last thought before the chaos started was, ‘Oh dear God, here we go.’ Because there, in the doorway, wearing a thigh-skimming, cleavage-bearing purple silk robe, ruffled hair, and the unmistakable general messiness of someone who’d been ravished in recent hours, was Goldie Gilmartin, the woman Ginny’s mother revered to such an extent that she had, on several occasions, called the Great Morning TV show to demand that Goldie run for prime minister.
‘Vera! Vera! It’s…’
‘I can see, Vi, I can see, it’s…’
‘Morning, ladies, I’m Goldie,’ sang the sunny voice. Which would have been fine in itself if Goldie hadn’t followed it by strolling across the room, kissing Ginny on the cheek and murmuring, ‘Morning, babe, how’re you this morning?’ in a very friendly manner.
Many times in life Ginny had read stories in the papers about people who reached adulthood only to die suddenly from a genetic heart defect that had been laying dormant waiting for some kind of extreme exertion or shock to deal a fatal blow. She had a feeling that if the same applied to her she was just seconds away from mourners and an extended chorus of ‘Ave Maria’.
Shock Number One: she’d had no idea that Jude and Goldie were still here.
Shock Number Two: Goldie was half-naked and clearly just out of bed.
Shock Number Three: Her mother’s mouth had been open for a good ten seconds, yet for the first time in, well, ever, she was apparently mute.
Shock Number Four: Her mother’s tea was spilling down her faux-fur gilet and she hadn’t noticed.
Ginny blustered the introductions then watched in awe as Goldie broke the ice like a pro, completely put her two biggest fans at ease and managed to sign their handbags with a hastily conjured-up marker pen while drinking fresh orange juice, slicing bananas, toasting two bagels and gracefully refusing an invitation to join them at ‘The Fanny Show’. By the time she retreated back into the bedroom, Violet and Vera considered her family and had wangled an invitation to tour the studios on their next visit to London. Their lives were officially complete.
Ginny’s was officially flashing before her eyes. What if they suspected? Did they know? Could they sense something?
Then she remembered that when it came to their daughters, these women had the insight and awareness of the average houseplant.
‘Jude’s girlfriend,’ Ginny explained as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Is that right? You know what I think, don’t you, Vera?’
‘What’s that, Vi?’
‘That woman should be prime minister.’
‘Right, Vera, let’s get going then.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come back and stay here tonight, Mum? You two can have Roxy’s bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. I promise it’s not a bother.’
‘Not at all, love, we need to get back. We’re on a course tomorrow at the sports centre–something to do with cleansing your chapras.’
‘Chakras, mum, chakras,’ Ginny laughed.
‘Exactly, dear. So…’ she enveloped her daughter in a huge hug, ‘we’ll see you next week then. And Ginny, honey, we’re really sorry about Darren. You know if you want to chat about it just call us…or give Roxy a bell–it’s always been such a blessing that you two are so close.’
Ginny chose not to disillusion her. She’d deal with Roxy in her own way and in her own time.
She’d been so moved by their concern when she’d given them the sanitised version of her break-up–going out with each other for too long, grown apart, wanted to try other things, no one else involved, amicable on both sides, part as friends, etc., etc. They were surprised that neither Darren nor Roxy hadn’t let the news slip, but she’d told them that was at her request. After all, if Violet was losing her reason for living, aka The Wedding Plan, then she thought it only fair that she break the tragedy personally.
Violet had given her a long, tight hug.
‘That’s okay, sweetheart, we just want you to be happy.’
Ginny knew her mother was only saying that to console her–there was no way that a woman who’d sent the personalised napkin prototype back to the printers eleven times for adjustment, booked seven bands in case an outbreak of bird flu decimated the country’s ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’-singing musician pool, and visited every bridalwear shop south of Manchester could be this un-bothered.
They were in the hallway when Ginny realised that her eyes were welling up. This was ridiculous! She’d see them again in a week, yet she suddenly had the urge to throw her arms around her mother and beg her to stay. They could lie on the sofas watching old movies the way they used to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon before her mother and Vera decided that they were going to venture down the path to spiritual enlightenment and inner calm.
‘Hang on, Vi, hang on, did you give her the parcel?’
‘I thought you had it.’
‘No, you had it.’
‘Didn’t you have it?’
They dropped their array of bags and started to rummage.
‘You’re right, Vera, I’ve got it. Here you go, love.’
Ginny looked apprehensively at the brown square package. It was about twelve inches long, ten inches wide, two inches thick, and tied up with string. She leaned closer in a bid to ascertain whether or not it was ticking.
‘Who sent it?’
‘It was Mitch, love–dropped it in this morning for you.’
‘Oh.’ She took it, then lurched as she realised how heavy it was. Why would Mitch send her a present? Hold on, it could be a ploy–maybe Roxy had asked him to deliver it. She held it up to her ear. Nope, still no ticking, so she was probably safe.
‘And this one’s from us.’ Vi handed over a small square box tied with a bright pink ribbon. ‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, love.’
Ginny was momentarily speechless. Her birthday. She’d forgotten all about it. Well, how about that? Serial shagging could obviously induce temporary amnesia. Who knew?
And since it was her birthday, that also meant it was Roxy’s birthday too. Before she could stop it, a pang of sadness engulfed her. This would be the first birthday they’d ever spent apart. And somehow, given that they were on the same volatility level as, say, the average civil war, she didn’t think it would be the last.
As soon as Vera and her mother were out of sight, she closed the door and then headed back to the kitchen for coffee. She’d only been in there a few minutes when Jude appeared, clutching two empty mugs.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ she replied warmly.
‘Freaked out about last night?’
That was the thing about Jude–he always knew how to cut straight to the important stuff and say the right thing.
‘You know, I probably should be but I’m not. Although, incidentally, I can’t promise that my mother won’t climb on stage tonight and announce that she’s sending round a petition for Goldie to enter politics. What about you?’
He was obviously thinking through what he was going to say. ‘Ginny, I just don’t want you to get hurt. If you’re okay with all of this then that’s great, but I just don’t…’
‘What?’
‘I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable here, or want anything to spoil our friendship, because I…er…like that bit. Really like it. Will you tell me if it all gets too weird?’
‘Jude, I think we passed weird about a fortnight ago.’
Her quip lightened the reflective mood. He gave her a huge squeeze, then grabbed the refilled coffee cups. ‘We’re just going to hang out here today, watch a couple of movies. Do you want to join us?’
Ginny laughed. ‘Tempting, but if you don’t mind I’ll pass. Feel like a lazy afternoon just chilling out by myself.’
‘Okay, but if you get bored…’
Aaaah, the man was gorgeous. Gorgeous. Even now as he wandered out of the room, her eyes automatically fixated on his buttock
s.
But not today. Today she wanted another couple of hours’ sleep then she was going to find a bookshop and a bakery. Nothing but nothing was going to spoil that or tempt her to do otherwise. Nothing. Absolutely–
‘Jude, you and Goldie aren’t planning on taking a bath today, are you?’
He turned at the doorway, shaking his head while his face cracked into a cheeky grin. ‘Wasn’t in the plans…unless…’
‘No! No baths! Deal?’ she jested.
‘Deal.’
She grabbed her coffee and both parcels and headed back to the bedroom, where she swapped her robe for a pair of fleecy tartan pyjamas then crawled back into bed. Mitch and Roxy. Aaargh! She shook off the irritation and diverted her attention to the present from her mother. She pulled the ribbon and opened the box, emitting a small gasp as she pulled out an exquisite gold chain. It took her a few seconds before she realised what the pendant hanging from it was–one perfectly crafted half of a heart, engraved on one side with her name.
As she clipped it around her neck she resisted the urge to phone her mum’s mobile to thank her and tell her just how much she loved her. She’d do it later–her mum had a tendency to shout on the mobile phone, and if they were in a crowded place it could cause mass panic.
Next, Mitch’s parcel. Chocolates? Nope, too heavy. Okay, she was stumped.
She peeled off the brown paper, astonishment overwhelming her when she reached the contents.
Crossing the Line, by Mitch O’Malley.
Underneath the title on the front page he’d written a note.
Hi Ginny,
Happy birthday! Hope you’re doing great in the
city. You said that you wanted to read this when it
was finished, so here it is. Hope you enjoy. And if
not, please lie to me because I prefer to be
humoured. Give me a call sometime…
Love, Mitch. Xxx
He’d done it. He’d actually done it. And she’d…oh, shit, she’d spilled her coffee on it. She quickly brushed the brown stains off the page with Roxy’s 800-thread-count Egyptian-cotton pillowcase. Sod her, she’d got the guy so she’d just have to get over the bedding.
