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 asleep. What time is it?’
He consulted his TAG Heuer. ‘Eleven o’clock.’
‘Noooooo! I’m late, oh shit, Roxy will kill me.’
In a blind panic, she levered herself out of the bath.
‘Whoa…inappropriate naked bits overload.’ Jude laughed and shut his eyes as Ginny shrieked again, hands flying to cover her vital anatomy.
‘Jude, you need to help me! I should have been on the tube fifteen minutes ago. And I don’t have anything to wear. And my hair looks like an explosion. And…I…can’t…breathe.’
She grabbed a towel from the vanity unit and wrapped it around her.
‘Okay, you can open them now.’ Did he ever drop that cute grin? Aaaargh–why was she contemplating the merits of a stripper’s dimples when she was late for her first day at work? Roxy’s work. Shit. Shit. Shit.
‘Don’t panic,’ said dimple man.
‘I’m already bloody panicking!’ she shrieked, grabbing a can of deodorant and spraying under her arms.
‘Stop!’ he yelled. The sheer force of his voice made her freeze–apart from her bottom lip, which was trembling, and her tear ducts, which were threatening to burst their dam.
‘Okay, here’s the plan. First of all, drop the can–that’s Glade air-freshener and you now smell of Alpine hills.’
Ginny flushed with mortification and placed the can back on the vanity unit.
Jude pressed on, kindly ignoring her beaming face. ‘Okay. Good. Now, forget the tube–there’s a car waiting outside for you. That’s why I shouted to you that it was time to leave.’
Ginny shook her head. ‘What car?’
‘Roxy came to some arrangement with the local taxi company–think she gets the boss a discount at the Seismic. Anyway, a car comes every morning to collect her and take her to work.’
Of course! What had Ginny been thinking? Roxy would rather set fire to her Jimmy Choos than enter the sweaty, over-populated tunnels of the London tube system.
‘And he always waits because Roxy’s never ready either. So you’ve got about fifteen minutes to get ready.’
Ginny felt the rising panic again. Fifteen minutes? To go from someone with the face of a jalapeño pepper and the hair of Crystal Meth Barbie, to the kind of cool, groomed perfection required at the Seismic? She’d need a fucking miracle.
The dam burst, tears and snot commencing flow. Now Jude was the one with the terrified expression.
‘Hello my darling, it’s just me!’ came a voice from the hallway, followed by a slamming