LITMIR.BIZ

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wiped her forearm along her nose to stem the snot.

      Clicking heels announced the arrival of a figure in the shadows of the doorway.

      ‘Mmmm. My boyfriend, half-naked, strange woman, completely naked, and yet this doesn’t seem in the least strange or awkward. What does that say about our relationship, my sweet?’

      Ginny sniffed and sighed at the same time, causing a delay in her brain registering the word ‘boyfriend’. Even in her over-emotional, frantic, ears-filled-with-Chanel-bubble-bath state, she was cognisant of the fact that the voice bore no resemblance to the dulcet tones of Cheska, attorney at law.

      Jude turned to the new arrival.

      ‘It says that you trust me implicitly,’ he replied, teasing gently.

      ‘It says I’m fucking mad,’ countered the girlfriend, with an unmistakable smile in her tone. ‘Okay, explain…’

      ‘This is Ginny, she’s Roxy’s friend, she’s got fifteen–nope, make that ten–minutes to transform from…erm…’

      ‘I’d go with “tragic disaster”,’ Ginny offered ruefully.

      ‘…erm, lovely but fairly tragic disaster to groomed perfection, sitting in the back of that cab out there. Honey, think you can do it?’

      The heels clicked forward. And in that split second, Ginny’s perception of a national icon changed forever.

      ‘Are you kidding me? I’ve already waxed some bloke’s crack on national television this morning–a ten-minute makeover will be a fucking doddle.’

      And indeed, ten minutes later, Ginny Wallis, makeup flawless but subtle, hair swept back into an elegant chignon, dressed head to toe in cutting-edge black Prada, emerged from the doorway of a Knightsbridge building and headed towards a waiting cab.

      As she pulled the cab door open, she looked back up at the flat’s window to see the silhouette of Jude and Great Morning TV’s Goldie Gilmartin snogging the faces off each other.

      She smiled, turned and tripped into the car, landing spread eagled on the back seat.

      Well, there were only so many miracles that Goldie Gilmartin could perform.

      Now this was the way to go to work in London–no stress, no hassle, just sit back, relax, and watch the frantic bustle of the metropolis go by…Oh, and text your pal while you’re doing that.

       2 grlfrnds? & 1 is GG. Thnx 4 wrning!

      Roxy’s reply came back in seconds.

      All hail da sex God. PS: re-arrngd ur filing systm.

      Ginny felt a flush of anxiety creep up her neck. No! That system was her pride and joy, her baby. She’d planned it meticulously, she’d worked late, she’d even bought coloured card from the stationer’s up the High Street with her own money, and now–she couldn’t even bear to think about it–now, Roxy had gone and…

      Her phone bleeped again. Roxy. She opened the text.

      Ha! Kidding.

      Why? Why were they friends? Ginny sighed, trying to get her heart rate back to a state that didn’t suggest cardiac arrest was imminent–a task that was immediately undone when she turned her thoughts to the Seismic.

      On the plus side, Sam was obviously okay about her coming, as Roxy had promised to warn her if he had any reservations about it.

      On the negative side, her body slipped into a mild panic attack at the very thought of the day ahead. Let’s face it, it wasn’t even noon and so far that morning living Roxy’s life had involved near drowning, indecent exposure, and being dressed by a woman who earned in excess of a million a year. If this was normality then she’d hate to get a taste of crazy.

      She tried Darren’s mobile again–still no answer. Maybe she should just go home and stop this ridiculous charade before the stress caused permanent damage to her major organs.

      Why was she doing this? She could be sitting in the library right now, drinking tea, eating a Penguin and trying to stop the fifth-year study group from the local high school from smoking hash and shagging in the toilets. It wasn’t the actual activity she minded so much as the fact that in the last month they’d broken two towel holders and a soap dispenser off the wall. It was just wrong on every level that sixteen-year-olds should be having hot, frantic sex when she was suffering from acute boredom of the genital department.

      She frowned–had that thought really come into her head? There was nothing wrong with her and Darren’s sex life! Okay, so it was fairly perfunctory–missionary, doggy, and if they were feeling really wild, a spot of oral sex just to get things going–but at least it was regular: Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturday nights and Sunday mornings (except when Mrs Jones from next door had PMT because then she booked Darren for a Sunday-morning five-mile run to work off the aggression).

      No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their sex life and the only reason she resented Team Delinquent was because the library didn’t have a maintenance budget to repair the damage in the loos. That was definitely her only issue. Well, that and the fact that the noise sometimes reached the members of the Perky Pensioners in the poetry corner nearby and she wasn’t sure their pacemakers were up to the strain.

      Anyway, it was time to push the shenanigans of Farnham Hills out of her head and concentrate on psyching herself up for the shenanigans of Mayfair.

      She tried to remember the tips in the best-selling self-help book that had come in the month before: Stress Overload? Take the Steps to Serenity. Although she wasn’t sure the book was up to much since the author had recently taken the steps to the Priory after a road-rage incident involving a truck, a milk cart and a thirteen-mile police chase.

      She shook out her shoulders, exhaled, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

      Okay, step one: Picture the situ—

      ‘Excuse me, love, but we’re ’ere.’

      And that’s why self-help books were a load of tosh–if you had the time to read the bloody things then you obviously didn’t need them in the first place.

      She pulled her purse out of her bag.

      ‘What do I owe you?’

      ‘Nothin’ love, it’s on account.’

      She pulled out a fiver and slipped it through the slot in the glass.

      ‘Cheers, darlin’. Same time tomorrow?’

      Well, would it be? Would she be coming back? Or would one day in a place where the activities would make Team Junior Delinquent look like spokespeople for conservative values be enough for her?

      ‘Definitely. Same time tomorrow.’

      Ginny Wallis had come–now she just had to conquer.

      Or should she leave that kind of stuff to the sadomasochism department of her new place of employment?

      Ginny stood and stared at the tree-lined street, with a row of luxury vehicles bordering each pavement. Porsche. Mercedes. Porsche. Bentley. Another Porsche. Mercedes. BMW. There wasn’t even a complementary Corsa thrown in as an ethnic minority. This was where people of serious dosh flashed their cash. And their privates, apparently.

      She switched her gaze to the building in front of her–a Georgian terraced townhouse, sandblasted walls, restored windows, petunias in the planters on either side of the entrance, a glossy green door and, beside it, a very subtle gold plaque, announcing in black italics that this was the home of The Seismic Lounge.

      Class. Sheer class. If you overlooked the whole ‘get your knockers out for the boys’ stuff that took place inside. Inside. Ginny took a deep breath and steeled herself for movement. Who. Dares. Wins. If that motto could motivate the SAS to storm foreign embassies then surely it could get her past the front door of a knocking shop.

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