vinyl, Take That was replaced with the opening bars of Mr Blobby.
‘Aw shit, I hate this song,’ Roxy moaned.
Ginny sighed with sweet relief. Great. She could go back to just sitting in the corner, counting the minutes until it was time to go home.
Or maybe not.
‘Bugger it,’ Roxy continued, ‘let’s go outside until something decent comes on–I’m dying for a fag.’
Ginny. Day Two, Monday, 9.30 a.m.
Ginny hung up the phone and checked the clock. Nine thirty. Bliss–another two and a half hours before she had to be at work. Or, had to be at Roxy’s work, technically speaking. She picked up her mobile and tried Darren’s number again, hoping to catch him before the class started–nope, no reply. Never mind, she’d try to catch him later, in between Bums & Tums and his afternoon Tai Bo class with the Perky Pensioners.
She turned the TV volume back up, then burrowed back under the duvet with a smile on her face. Goldie Gilmartin, the glam forty-something darling of Great Morning TV, was gliding effortlessly from a feature about the current grooming trends for metrosexual males (new discovery–testicle waxing at breakfast-time puts you right off a marmalade bagel) to her standard superficial waffle as she closed the show. Ginny groaned at the naffness of it. Yes, the nation would have a good day. Yes, we’d be good to one another. And yes, you’re a patronising, condescending cow.
Good grief, what was happening to her? She’d been in Roxy’s world for one night and already she was adopting bitchy mannerisms and coming over all judgemental.
And she was even enjoying it! Yes, she could definitely get used to this. It was just a shame that Darren wasn’t here to share it with her. Maybe a romantic break was exactly what they needed to jolt them out of the rut they’d slipped into. But then, didn’t all couples go through this? Wasn’t this what love was all about–taking the sickness with the health, the poor with the rich, and the exciting with the bored-so-rigid-you-want-to-weep?
She wondered if he was missing her, and then chided herself–she’d been gone for less than a day! She was beginning to sound like one of those reality-show contestants who crumbled in a heap and wailed about missing their families after twenty-four hours in a psychedelic house in East London. And anyway, didn’t Roxy say that he’d taken it well? That he didn’t mind? That’s what she loved about him–he was so supportive, and if he was rooting for her then she could do this. She could. And she was only a tiny bit scared. Okay, she was bloody terrified. She’d never been on the tube on her own, let alone set foot in a brothel, and she just knew that all the girls at the Seismic would be like Roxy–cosmopolitan, switched on and fearless.
But how hard could it be? She could be cosmopolitan, she could be switched on, and although fearless might be a stretch, she could probably hit the middle of the apprehension scale, halfway between mildly nervous and hyperventilation.
In the meantime, a bit of shameless pampering would be nice. She padded into Roxy’s en suite and marvelled at the opulence. Travertine walls, polished marble floor, a huge vanity unit in natural oak with a square white sink perched on top. And the sink taps–wait for it–were those ones with the infrared beam which came on automatically when you waved your hand in front of the sensor. The glistening porcelain toilet gave the impression that it was floating in midair and the bath came complete with a remote control for the complex computer panel located between the taps. She wasn’t sure if she should bathe in it or attempt to contact the Starship Enterprise.
The prospect of an hour of glorious relaxation made her opt for the former. No wonder Roxy always looked so bloody gorgeous with all this time in the mornings to prepare. Ginny’s normal routine didn’t quite hit this level of luxurious self-indulgence–three women plus one bathroom equalled a five-minute shower, deodorant fumes that made your eyes water and a monthly visit from Dyno-Rod to clear the unidentified hairs that were choking the drains.
She turned on the tap on the spa bath. Oh, the decadence. She was thinking candles, she was thinking soft music, she was thinking bubbles, she was thinking…strange farting noises! Shit, wrong tap. She spun it back off then opened the other one, letting water cascade into the gleaming ceramic. Note to self–water in first, air in second.
She spotted the candles that were nestled in groups at the top corners of the bath. Jo Malone, grapefruit-scented. She’d never heard of them–she usually went for whatever was on offer in Sainsbury’s–but she was sure they’d be lovely. Bugger it, she’d light them all, Roxy wouldn’t mind. And if she did, Ginny would pick up some more for her next time she was doing the grocery shopping.
Finally, bubbles. She checked out the bottles on the shelf. Chanel. Bvlgari. La Prairie. So, Body Shop coconut bubble bath was out of the question then.
Ginny added a little of everything then slipped into the warm water before opening the air tap just enough to add a gentle, undulating flow. Monday morning, ten a.m.–Ginny was on the Bliss Highway, heading for Heaven. She took a wild stab in the dark and pressed the? button on the remote control, and smiled as the intoxicating tones of Usher’s ‘Burn’ filled the room.
And as her eyes drooped and she fell into a blissful slumber, the Young Catholic Mothers’ arses were the furthest things from her mind.
‘Ginny. Ginny! Time to go!’
Glug.
Three things happened at once: Ginny’s eyes flew open, her mouth followed suit, and the shock-induced loss of her equilibrium sent her shooting under the water.
As she performed a whole choking/retching/lungs-filling-with-fluid panic, she fleetingly wondered if anyone had ever drowned in Chanel bubble bath. It wasn’t an appropriate end for Ginny Wallis from Farnham Hills. It was the kind of demise more befitting of, say, Brigitte Bardot. Or Anna Wintour. Or Elton John.
Just as she surfaced and regained the use of her cardiovascular system, the door opened and Jude’s gorgeous head popped round.
‘You okay?’
Ginny shrieked with embarrassment and squeezed her eyes tight shut.
‘Can you see any inappropriate naked bits?’ she squeaked.
‘Only if you’re a really strange person who gets their rocks off at the sight of an erotically exposed elbow.’
Phew. Gingerly, she opened one eye and checked for herself. What a relief, he was right–the few bubbles that were left had congregated to preserve her modesty so there wasn’t a nipple in sight.
Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. Jude was wearing nothing but a faded pair of jeans and a smile.
Was that mandatory in this house? Was it a condition of the tenancy?
Clause 1(a): I will pay the rent on time every month.
Clause 1(b): I will refrain from causing damage to the house or contents.
Clause 1(c): I will at all times wander around looking like I belong in a Calvin Klein advert.
‘Sorry, I must have…erm…fallen
