My Best Friend’s Life. Shari Low
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‘Er, I’m Ginny. Erm, Ginny Wallis. I’m working here today.’ She somehow managed to stop short of adding, ‘Which is a really, really bad idea and I’ve changed my mind so can you please phone my mum and beg her to come and collect me.’
The door swept open and Ginny crossed the line. That was it–no going back. She followed the shiny walnut floor along the hallway, barely registering the striking primary-coloured canvases that punctuated the lush ivory walls.
The end of the corridor opened into a reception area that–wow–was so far from her expectations that she was temporarily stunned. She’d anticipated pink walls, red sofas, porn posters and glass tables dotted with Playboy magazines and penis-shaped cigar holders. Where were the girls in red chiffon baby dolls and Perspex platforms the size of Fiat Puntos? Where were the red glass bowls filled with an international selection of condoms?
This room wouldn’t be out of place at the HQ of any large corporation. Welcome to Hookersville Inc.
It was an eclectic mix of old and new. The stunning glass and chrome reception desk juxtaposed against beautiful antique lamps. The original wooden flooring was an exquisite contrast to the thick, cream rugs. And the modern-art pieces were the epitome of clean lines, yet somehow didn’t clash with the three more traditional large bronze life-form statues–although that may have been because the statues demanded full attention on account of the fact that they were all males with their extremely generous appendages dangling in the breeze. Cancel that last statement. Ginny’s eyes widened as she took in the full view of the third statue–which, going by the evidence, was probably called something like Man in State of Arousal.
So at least now she knew where to hang her umbrella.
‘He has that effect on everyone. What I wouldn’t give to get stuck in a lift for two hours with the real thing. I’m Jennifer.’
Ginny automatically smiled at the stunning girl sitting on the cream leather chair behind the desk. Flawless skin, two sheets of perfect blonde hair hanging from a middle parting, a cream roll neck and cream crepe trousers. She was Roxy in negative.
‘Hi, I’m Ginny.’
The muted ring of a telephone cut into the conversation. Jennifer immediately turned her attention to the state-of-the-art switchboard and gesticulated in the direction of a door on the opposite wall.
‘Great–go through that door, turn right, along to the end of the corridor and it’s the room that says Eden Suite on the door.’
Okay, not quite the reception she’d been hoping for, but then at least she’d been expected so Roxy had obviously phoned and cleared everything as promised. Phew. After last night’s encounter with Jude and the Amazonian, she’d had visions of arriving to puzzled expressions.
A wave of dizziness overtook her; a sharp reminder that she’d been holding her breath for so long that there was a distinct lack of oxygen reaching the brain. Breathe. Breathe. She could do this. She was Roxy’s lifelong friend, she’d been styled by Goldie Gilmartin and she was borderline premenstrual–a combination that should give her enough balls and determination to get through anything.
She followed Jennifer’s directions and crossed the reception, then turned right into a sumptuous corridor of pale gold walls and a deep olive carpet so thick that she started to wobble on her heels. She passed several solid wood-panelled doors and a small elevator, and then just as the effort of staying upright was beginning to bring on a tension headache, she reached the door at the very end of the corridor: the Eden Suite.
Human Resources department, perhaps? Or Sam’s office? Staffroom? Or where they provided the brown paper bags for her to hyperventilate into?
She tentatively knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ replied a very posh female voice.
‘Confidence, Ginny, confidence,’ she whispered to herself as she made the necessary last-minute adjustments–hair flicked back, bag pulled up onto shoulder, sweaty palms wiped on trousers–then clutched the brass doorknob and turned it.
The door swept open and in the ten seconds it took for Ginny’s brain to process the scene in front of her, there was a quizzical look, a muffled groan, a massive gasp, a rush of blood to the ears and paralysis of the limbs. The last three belonged to Ginny–apt, as she was apparently in the right place to receive medical attention, having stumbled onto the set of Holby City. Or, rather, the porn version–Holby Titty.
The room itself was remarkable only in its luxury. One wall was partially covered by a huge brass mirror that must have been at least six foot square. Directly opposite was a beautifully upholstered gold headboard framing a super-king bed dressed in crisp white sheets. To the side was a rustic Chesterfield sofa in gleaming brown leather, and next to it stood an antique side table topped with a bottle of Krug and two crystal champagne glasses, half-filled with the bubbling liquid.
But that’s where any semblance of normality ended, because standing at the foot of the bed, one eyebrow still raised, was a female doctor dressed in a uniform that Ginny was guessing hadn’t been passed by any NHS committee: six-inch steel heels on black platform pumps, a white coat that was wide open, revealing a cupless black leather bra, perfectly pert pink nipples, black suspenders and stockings. And Doctor Decadence may have had her auburn locks secured in a very efficient chignon, her black-framed glasses perched on her perfectly formed nose, subtle make-up and an air of authority, but she appeared to have forgotten her knickers.
Not that her patient was in a position to remonstrate about her omission. Lying prone on the bed, his identity concealed by the white bandages that covered him from head to toe, was a groaning man. Yes, definitely male–the only part of his anatomy that appeared to have escaped mummification was the massive erect penis that was pointing at the ceiling. And it appeared a rigorous medical examination was taking place as the doctor was tickling the red, throbbing end of his organ with her stethoscope.
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