My Best Friend’s Life. Shari Low
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spread in Hello!. Roxy had to admit it–the job was wearing down her trust in men and turning the loving act of sex into a business transaction. Did you enjoy your ejaculation, sir? Oh, lovely–now would that be Visa, MasterCard or American Express?
She just wanted to be like normal people (porn stars and penile-implant specialists aside) and experience a daily life that wasn’t controlled or influenced by actions of the male reproductive organ.
She could probably have struggled on for another couple of months, but the latest devastation in her love life had tipped her over the edge. She winced. She still couldn’t believe that after two years of devotion Felix was history. Gone. Past tense.
But after spending three days submerged in hysterical mourning she had decided that no man was worth a forty-five per cent increase in wrinkles caused by perpetual sobbing–even if he was the first and–penis-embargo withstanding–last love of her life.
She would never, ever mention his name again.
Ever.
Except in a blatant ploy to get help and sympathy from a bored, indifferent best friend…
‘God, Ginny, you’re so self-absorbed. Since Felix betrayed me I’m experiencing such an overwhelming trauma that I’ve put off having my roots done, I can’t face going out and I’m so bitter that my karma has gone all to fuck. I mean, how would you feel if you were not only unemployed, but you’d caught the love of your life shagging the local florist?’ she wailed. ‘And he didn’t even have the decency to send me a bunch of bloody flowers.’
Ginny nodded in what she hoped vaguely resembled a sympathetic expression. It lasted about three seconds before the truth made a break for freedom.
‘He was a twat anyway.’
‘He was not!’ Roxie protested.
‘Was.’
‘Was not.’
Ginny sighed. ‘You do realise that we’re twenty-seven? Apparently we should have given up on childish, petty, pantomime dialogue somewhere around puberty. Remind me again why we’re friends?’
She had a point. Almost thirty years of friendship, based on having absolutely nothing in common other than the fact that they were born on the same day and their mothers were distantly related. Speaking of which…
‘Hellooooooooooo, girlies.’ The sing-song shriek came from downstairs and was accompanied by a slamming door and the smell of chow mein.
Said girlies groaned. ‘How can you be related to someone who sounds like that? You know, you really have to move out of your mother’s house, Gin–it’s obscene that you still live here at your age.’
‘And is my favourite girlie still up there too?’ screeched another voice, which to the untrained ear sounded very like the first one.
Roxy sighed. ‘And how can I be related to someone who sounds like that?’
Then, louder, ‘Yes, Mum, I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘I’ve got your favourite here, sweetie–prawn crackers and crispy chicken. We thought we’d all have dinner together.’
‘Gin, do you think our mothers are having a lesbian affair? I haven’t seen them apart since about 1974. Urgh, mental image, my mother muff-diving…don’t think I can face those prawn crackers now. And I’m not buying that my mother moved in here just for the companionship.’
Gin giggled. ‘You have a sex-obsessed, twisted mind. They’re not lovers, they’re cousins.’
‘About third cousins, four times removed. I’ve met people in public toilets who are closer relations than that. But think about it. Since your dad popped his clogs and my dad popped Mrs Fleming from the fish shop, they’ve been joined at the hip. Urgh, another mental thought that I could live without.’
‘They’re cousins!’ shrieked Ginny, smacking Roxy with a threadbare, heart-shaped pink pillow, and still her perfect hair didn’t move an inch out of place.
‘There should be a law against parents having sex. Come on then, let’s go join them. But when we’re finished you have to help me update my CV and find a new job, Gin–you know I’m hopeless at that kind of stuff.’
‘And what am I, a careers officer?’ Ginny replied indignantly.
‘You work in a library! There are loads of job information advice thingies in there.’
‘There are also several editions of the Kama Sutra and a whole bloody shelf on the menopause, but I know sod all about those either.’
Objection overruled.
‘Come on, hon, please. I really need you to help me decide what I’m going to do. Maybe I should take a year out and travel a bit. Or go back to university. I only had one year left to do, before…well…before…’
‘Before you got caught giving the philosophy professor a blow job. Under a podium. During a lecture.’
‘Girlies!!!’ came another shriek from downstairs.
Ginny groaned. ‘You know, Rox, you’re right–I have to move out of here. I need to stop wearing clothes with “sweat” in the title, and I need to shred the apron strings.’
Suddenly, a rousing chorus of ‘Hey Big Spender’ filled the room.
‘Rox, either your arse is singing or that’s the naffest ringtone I’ve ever heard.’
Roxy ignored her and checked the screen.
‘Shit. Shit. Bloody shit. It’s Sam at the Seismic.’
‘What did he say when you resigned?’
‘Actually I just left a note. Couldn’t face them.’
To Ginny, this didn’t exactly come as a newsflash. It was vintage Roxy. Roxy, who couldn’t face up to life’s un-pleasantries if her Miu Miu mules depended on it. It had been the same their whole lives. Roxy couldn’t tell a boy she didn’t like him any more so she sent Ginny. Roxy never did her homework, she just copied Ginny’s. Roxy didn’t want to tell her mother she was leaving home, so she did a midnight flit. Ginny carried the bags. Crazy, impetuous, dramatic, spontaneous, endlessly fucking irritating Roxy.
But then…
Wasn’t that the same Roxy who had poured a can of Vimto down the front of Kevin Smith trousers in primary school because he’d put chewing gum in Ginny’s hair? The poor guy was probably still in therapy trying to eradicate the nightmare of spending the next ten years with the nickname Pisspants.
And wasn’t that the same Roxy who’d bought Ginny her very first box of tampons? Actually, she’d stolen them from a fifth-year prefect’s gym bag, but the thought was still there.
And that was definitely the same Roxy who had invented the care package that got Ginny through every teenage moment of doubt, insecurity or low self-esteem: two Mars Bars, a packet of Silk Cut, a bottle of Diamond White and the Dirty Dancing video.
Ginny’s face reverted to pensive-slash-wasp-chewing as she grudgingly conceded that, despite all Roxy’s faults, she was more than a friend and general irritation: she was the closest thing Ginny had ever had to a sister. One who was insanely annoying, spoilt, demanding, high maintenance, yet still managed to make Ginny laugh more than anyone else on earth. And, if she was totally honest, sometimes she admired Roxy’s spirit. At least Roxy had taken chances in life, she’d broken the mould and experienced a bit of excitement and danger–although that police caution for flashing her baps at a bus full of American tourists travelling down Farnham Hills High Street had been a jolly jape too far.
Nope, at least Roxy would never be boring, Ginny conceded dolefully.
Unlike her chum, no one would ever call Ginny spontaneous. Her life’s CV could fill one paragraph: Same job