that you should be sainted for services to friendship. He was fine about it. Absolutely fine…’ Roxy closed her eyes. Good Lord, she had to stop. She had to stop. Sod it–in for a penny, in for a huge big whopper that’ll prevent risk of blind fury from irate best chum.
‘In fact, he said you deserved a break and not to worry about him–you’re just to go and enjoy yourself.’
‘Really? Thank God. See, I’ve told you a million times, Roxy–he’s one of the good guys.’
And there it was–the kind of utter blind devotion and unquestioning adoration that a lifetime relationship required.
And that, Roxy thought glumly, is why I’m single.
School Disco, Farnham Hills
Hall Christmas 1993
‘Come on, Ginny, let’s dance–it’s ‘Relight My Fire’!
Ginny shrugged and shook her head. She hated dancing in front of people. She’d memorised every step in the video, but somehow it was easy to do in her bedroom with only her Take That posters as witnesses.
‘Forget it then! Honestly, Ginny, how are you ever going to get a boyfriend when you’re so boring. Boring. Boring. Boring. Well, I’m sick of boring!’
Roxy stormed off in a strop, leaving Ginny squirming in her chair. Roxy would ignore her all night now as punishment for not doing what she wanted–probably not a bad thing because if she got dragged into another smoking incident her mother would kill her. And no matter what Roxy said, those menthol St Moritz cigarettes were revolting.
She loathed these discos: chairs lined along the walls of the hall, a table outside the toilets selling flat Coke and crisps, and Father Murphy spinning records on a double stereo deck that the local pub had donated after the invention of CDs. And all this was witnessed through the haze caused by the two flashing disco lights attached to the front of the deck. Red. Green. Red. Green. Red. Green.
About a hundred youths had taken hours to plan their big night out, pick an outfit and then get dolled-up to the nines, only to be illuminated to the approximate shade of someone with acute gastroenteritis.
‘Move.’
Even over the volume of Lulu singing her lungs out, the aggression in the familiar voice was unmistakable. Ginny raised her eyes to see Fanny Brown staring down at her (actually her real name was Felicity, but Roxy had nicknamed her Fanny years ago and it had stuck, although obviously no one, other than the blatantly suicidal, said it to her face), along with her two pals Dora and Dorothy (aka Dopey and Daftarse, again courtesy of Roxy).
‘What?’ Ginny replied tentatively, trying to disguise the slight tremor in her voice. There was no denying it, Fanny Brown terrified her. She’d been suspended twice for fighting, once for stealing, once for threatening behaviour and once for kicking Mr Wilkinson, the Art teacher, in the goolies. Ginny made it a point to stay out of Fanny’s way.
‘I said MOVE! Something wrong with your ears?’ Fanny was bearing down on her so that her face was only six very scary inches from Ginny’s, choking her with the intoxicating fumes from the bottle of Diamond White Fanny had necked before coming to the disco. ‘We want to sit there, so move.’
Ginny’s heart was beating so fast that she was starting to feel dizzy–which at least took her mind off her churning stomach and the ever-increasing desire to throw up or faint. Panic overruled her motor skills and she discovered that although her brain was begging her legs to adjust to a standing position they were too busy trembling with fear to respond.
A split second later, Ginny felt a searing pain in her head and a compelling urge to levitate, the result of Fanny’s hands gripping on to her hair and wrenching it upwards. She was going to die. She was definitely going to die, right in the middle of Gary Barlow singing about needing her love.
Suddenly, there was a loud scream, a lurch, and Ginny fell back to her seat. Strange, she was pretty sure that fear had paralysed her vocal cords and the scream hadn’t come from her. So who…?
She pushed her hair back from her face and gasped as she saw Fanny Brown bent so far backwards that her spine looked like it was about to crack, and behind her, clutching her ponytail, was Roxy, who was leaning down, whispering something in her ear.
Fanny went bright red. Green. Red. Green. Aaah–it was hard to tell what colour she was but she definitely didn’t look happy. Without releasing her grip, Roxy whispered something else and then gave Fanny’s ponytail a sharp tug. Fanny wailed with pain then nodded furiously. Roxy slowly pulled the ponytail upwards, allowing Fanny to stand up again, then released it with a flourish.
Ginny suddenly realised that not only was she about to die, but Roxy was too. Fanny threw back her shoulders, went chin-to-chin with Roxy, and then…quickly turned away and made for the door, taking Dopey and Daftarse with her.
Ginny’s eyes were bigger than the disco lights as she watched the retreating gang.
‘But…but…what…what…what…did you say to her?’ she blustered.
Roxy just shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. But I don’t think she’ll be chatting to us again anytime soon.’
Ginny’s wave of nausea was swiftly replaced with relief and a massive dose of love. Roxy might be a nightmare, she might be moody, demanding and annoying, but Ginny knew without an iota of a doubt that Roxy would defend her against the world without a moment’s hesitation.
Now she had Ginny’s hand and was pulling her out of the chair. ‘Come on, you boring moo, let’s dance–or I’ll tell Fanny you want to have a chat with her,’ she added with a mischievous grin.
Just at that moment, Father Murphy’s DJing skills came into play and with the resounding screech of a needle being dragged across 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.