LITMIR.BIZ

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Come on my darling, your Shreddies are on the table.’

      Roxy prised open her eyelids. Fuck, what a nightmare. She’d dreamt that she’d chucked her job, caught Felix shagging a florist and spent the night with Westlife. And now she couldn’t swear it but she was sure she’d just heard her mother’s voice. It was definitely time to cut down on the cocktail consumption.

      ‘Roxy!!!!’

      She bolted upright, her eyes wide. Noooooooooooo!

      Of course! Her life was in the sewer–how could she have forgotten? Shane, Kian, Nicky, Bryan and Mark looked at her disapprovingly. ‘And you lot can piss off as well,’ she muttered. She clambered out of bed and gasped as she caught sight of herself in the teak dressing-table mirror–MFI circa 1976. Her pulse raced. Was she too young to have a heart attack? There, covering her lithe frame, were…man-made fibres! She could sense the impending wrath of the gods of Dolce & Gabbana. By fishing pyjamas from Ginny’s drawer in the semi-darkness the night before, Roxy Galloway had been catapulted from the House of Prada to the House of Matalan.

      It was official: her life was in ruins.

      ‘Roxy!!!!’ And now her mother was screaming at her from the bottom of the stairs. It was like she’d been transported back in time and was fifteen years old–actually, that wouldn’t be so tragic: she’d be precociously beautiful, the most popular person she knew, and she’d be allowing Mr Kennedy the Physics teacher to feel her up at lunchtime in return for straight-A passes and bottles of Charlie.

      ‘Your Shreddies are getting soggy!’

      That was Auntie Violet that time. How, in the name of adult independence, had she come to be living with two middle-aged, potential lesbians? She felt like she’d wandered into a Sixties commune. Next they’d all be chanting mantras about vulvas and having their periods at the same time.

      Not for the first time, she considered the theory that females ended up looking like their mothers. In which case, whoever married her had better steel themselves to end up with a peroxide-blonde fifty-five-year-old who had tits like melons, fifty pounds to lose, a fondness for tight pink clothing and who lived by the theory that you could never wear too much lip-liner.

      And the weirdest thing was that although her mother and Auntie Vi were only distant cousins, they looked exactly the same–if you didn’t count a weight variation of about four stone. It was like Christina Aguilera had gained sixty pounds, aged thirty years, and teamed up with her identical but much skinnier twin.

      Roxy slumped back down on the bed.

      Why hadn’t she gone home last night and packed some clothes? Why didn’t she go home right now, reclaim her life, and tell Ginny that this whole thing was bloody ridiculous? Because then…The truth was that then she’d remember how much she’d lost. She’d sleep in the bed that Felix had bought her. She’d wear the clothes that she’d shopped for with him. Or, rather, with his American Express card (the red one–he liked the fact that it made the very attractive shop assistants in Armani think he was compassionate and humanitarianly aware). And she’d have to accept the cold, hard fact that the compassionless tosser hadn’t called her once since she’d caught him in The Palace Grand with that tart.

      No, self-delusion combined with the determination to appear elusive was a much better option. Let him play his little games, and when indeed he did come to beg her for forgiveness he’d realise that she’d moved on, got over him, washed that dick right out of her hair. She felt a wave of resolve return. She was destined to plan a new life, to rewrite her destiny and to spend a few weeks just taking time to find herself.

      ‘Roxy!’

      And apparently herself was to be found eating Shreddies at her mother’s kitchen table. She pulled open Ginny’s wardrobe. She used the term loosely. This cupboard was so dilapidated that she just knew whoever had built it had had loads of unidentified bits left over at the end and had chucked them instead of investigating where they’d gone wrong. One door hung off its hinge, one leg had been replaced by a pile of books, and there were just bare screws where the knobs should be.

      So, what to wear to work? As Ginny had borrowed her boots, the only footwear she had with her was a pair of Louboutin peep-toe platforms that she’d shoved in her overnight bag. She flicked through the rail:

      –Jeans, from a supermarket–she’d rather take her own life.

      –Three gypsy skirts, assorted colours–only useful if she needed an emergency tent while camping, a hobby up there on her enjoyment list somewhere between basket-weaving and piercing her clitoris with a stapler.

      –Two cheap denim miniskirts–definitely handy, if she planned on taking up residence in a trailer in a Southern US state.

      –Three pairs of black trousers of unidentifiable make or fabric. One of those would have to do. She felt the fabric–pure new wool. Kidding. They were of such high-grade polyester that if she went within twenty yards of any type of incendiary device there was a good chance she’d spontaneously combust.

      She pulled a sweater from Ginny’s drawer, then immediately tossed it to one side when she realised it had butterflies on it. Dear God. This couldn’t get any worse. She pulled out another sweater and inspected it: pink wool with embroidered red reindeers. Reindeers. In October.

      She turned back to the wardrobe and dragged a white blouse from the furthest end of the rail. It was probably Gin’s old school shirt, but since it was that or the reindeers, it was going on. She’d leave the top couple of buttons open so that her Agent Provocateur slate-grey silk bra peeped out, giving the whole outfit a small but significant edge of style. She pulled her hair back and gripped it in a tortoiseshell clasp. There was no point even looking for a decent pair of straighteners–she knew without even asking that Ginny thought GHD was a violent offence that carried a mandatory two-year sentence.

      She plodded down to join Rosie O’Donnell and Martina Navratilova. God, she couldn’t even look them in the eye. She knew she was being ridiculous–the chances of middle-aged-woman on middle-aged-woman action even registering on her mother’s radar were about as high as Vera having a part-time job as a stripper. Shit, that reminded her. She’d forgotten to phone Jude to let him know Ginny was coming. No matter, she knew he wouldn’t mind. He was such a sweetheart. Kind, generous, self-deprecating and built like an Adonis–just a shame that he was such a serial shagger, she wouldn’t touch his privates without the protection of antibacterial spray and a pair of marigolds.

      She wandered into the kitchen. ‘Morning, Mum. Morning, Auntie Violet,’ she grumbled as she pulled out a chair and sat down.

      ‘Morning, darling,’ said her mother, Vera, kissing her on her head. ‘Oh, it’s so lovely to have you here, dear. Just like the old days.’

      Roxy tried valiantly to muster a smile as she attempted to masticate soggy Shreddies. The welcome mat at the kitchen door would have tasted better. Urgh, she missed her lightly toasted bagel with organic marmalade.

      She sighed as her mother and aunt bustled off to attend to the rest of their morning routine.

      As soon as they’d left the room she picked up the phone. Ginny answered on the first ring.

      ‘Your life is officially crap,’ Roxy announced.

      ‘And this is a newsflash to you?’ Ginny laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s not crap. There are loads of nice things about my life.’

      ‘Name three without hesitation.’

      ‘Darren, my mother and…erm…’

      ‘Sorry, time’s up! And anyway, the joy of having two people you love is outweighed by the fact that you possess a butterfly jumper. Have I taught you nothing?’

      ‘You know, you are so shallow, Roxy. One butterfly jumper doesn’t make me a bad person…’

      ‘No, but the reindeer one proves you’re a fucking lunatic.’

      Ginny shrieked with laughter. ‘Don’t

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