street and no cocaine crumbs on her handbag after she’d propped it on top of a toilet cistern while peeing in a nightclub. Ew, she hated it when that happened–why couldn’t people clean up after themselves? She really didn’t get the whole cocaine thing–why snort up all that cash when it could be used to finance a high-grade Marc Jacobs habit instead?
Maybe she should just view this whole episode as a city detox. She would de-clutter her life and her mind, and get herself back on track to the glorious existence she deserved. She would take bracing walks that would leave her with the complexion of Heidi Klum after a week in a Swiss spa. She would heal her tortured heart and soul by reconnecting with those less fortunate than herself (and, let’s face it, in this backward land that time forgot that was just about everyone). She’d embrace the slower pace of life and use it to recharge her batteries and catch up on all those things she didn’t have time for in the city: reading, exercising, eating healthily, plotting Felix’s death.
She wiped her eyes with Shane’s hair. Yep, this was going to be fine. Great. Perhaps not in the same league as a night in Pangaea knocking back champagne with minor (and occasionally major) royals, but she’d cope.
She let her eyes droop and her breathing settle into a steady rhythm.
Roxy Galloway was a survivor and she was going to be okay. It was her last thought as she fell asleep…just missing the strange buzzing noise that started in the next room.
Excerpt from an old journal belonging to Daisy Davenport
Daisy’s Diary 2006
22 December 2006
Dear Diary,
It finally happened! Six months stuck behind the counter in that bloody florist’s shop and finally he noticed me–you know, Ivy League Guy. Except he’s not from America–I’d say no further west than Chiswick but that’s only a guess. Anyway, I’ll find out soon because HE ASKED ME OUT!
Okay, okay, I’m going to start at the beginning because I never, ever want to forget this. I’d just been on the phone to the agency again (STILL no jobs lined up–can’t believe I’m over the hill at twenty-five–I could definitely still pass for twenty-one and Yasmin bloody Le Bon is still working and she’s so ancient). I was just thinking maybe I’d try Paris (Kelly told me she’s getting loads of knicker work over there and she’s, like, thirty) when he came in, bang on time (every Friday, three o’clock). He smelled as gorgeous as ever, although I do wonder if Paco Rabanne isn’t taking the whole retro thing a bit too far. It was the usual: a dozen red roses for some bird called Roxy, to be delivered to her home Saturday a.m., with a card that says ‘Endless Love, from Felix’. You’d think he’d have used a bit of imagination and varied the message every once in a while, but then when you look like he does you don’t have to make much of an effort to get your leg over. So I reach out to take his credit card and bam! Our hands touched, our eyes met and he smiled this adorable smile. Ten minutes later we were in the back having coffee, and one thing led to another and before long we were doing it on top of a pile of hydrangeas that will have to be binned before the boss sees them. I know, I should have held out, done the whole hard-to-get thing, but it was truly love at first sight. Well, about twenty-fourth sight really, but this was the first real meeting of eyes and minds. And other parts. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeee! (And, incidentally, he’s built like a horse down there and went at it for ages–thank God I remembered to put the CLOSED sign on the door.)
The important thing, though, is that putting out so quickly wasn’t a bad idea because he loved the fact that I was so adventurous. He says that he’s never met anyone like me before and it was meant to be, and that’s why he just had to have me right there and then. I could definitely tell he’s not the kind of guy who normally pulls stunts like that because he was so embarrassed afterwards that he got all shy and left really quickly to get back to work. But–and here’s the really great bit–I’m seeing him again tomorrow night. And, even better, he told me to forget sending the flowers to that Roxy girl–says from now on the only girl he’ll be sending flowers to is me. Except, I don’t really need them since I’m allowed to take home the ones that are about to go on the wilt, but I didn’t want to tell him that–thought it might spoil the moment.
This is it. I’ve got a feeling about him–I finally think I’ve found the one decent straight bloke left in London…
Just hope the girlfriend doesn’t take it too hard when he breaks it off with her tonight…FOR ME! Yasmin Le Bon, eat my pants! Dxxx
Ginny. Day One, Sunday, midnight
Ginny pushed the key into the door, thumped it open with her shoulder, then hobbled through, dragging the trolley case behind her. Style was all very well but you could go off a fashion item really quickly when you had to lug it up a flight of stairs late at night while balancing on one shoe. And, naturally, she’d managed to get the only cab driver in London who didn’t want to talk, wasn’t in the least bit helpful, and ejected her at such speed that she’d left the broken heel on the seat. That was the superglue plan scuppered then.
None of this would ever happen to Roxy. Roxy could walk a tightrope in six-inch heels, the cab driver would have been falling over himself to help her, and he’d probably have been so enraptured by her divine sodding goddess-ness that he’d have carried her case to her door.
As she stepped into the hall a barrage of sounds accosted her. She vaguely recognised the music–it was that bloke…the weird-looking one…erm, Beyonce’s boyfriend…what’s-his-name? She racked her brains. Crazee. Lazyee. Note to self: brush up on contemporary music artists–there was more to life than those collections of number-one hits that Woolies sold for a fiver.
She dumped her handbag and the trolley case on the hardwood floor, careful not to scuff the sheen on the cream silk walls. She’d always loved Roxy’s place. On the floor were rich, thick planks of glossy solid oak, the walls were lined with a light vanilla suede, and hanging from the ceiling was a stunning, simple crystal and chrome chandelier that struck the perfect balance between class and contemporary. The light, the space, the beautiful pastel prints on the walls, there was something so uncluttered and simple about it–especially when juxtaposed against the chaos that was Roxy’s perpetually melodramatic existence.
And it was clean. Spotless. Although that probably had less to do with Roxy’s domestic skills and more to do with Bogna, the Polish cleaner who charged fifteen pounds an hour and came complete with an overwhelming aroma of Eau de Domestos.
‘Hi. Are you…okay?’
Ginny snapped her head around to see a blonde with Rachel Hunter’s legs and Dolly Parton’s mammas staring at her like she didn’t know whether to scream or dial the emergency services.
‘Erm, yeah, hi. I’m Ginny, Roxy’s friend. I’m, erm, staying here tonight,’ she stuttered, toe-curlingly aware that she was windswept, dishevelled, her hair was sticking to her contraband lip-gloss and she was only wearing one boot.
But at least she had manners, she thought, as she haltingly held out her hand to shake Miss Amazonian Breastfest 2007.
Her action was met with a shrug, and only then did Ginny notice that the blonde’s hands were full. One tub of strawberries, one aerosol can of whipped cream, one bottle of champagne, two glasses. Didn’t anyone just go to bed with a cuppa and a good book any more?
‘Hey, Ginny–what are you doing here?’
She did her best not to gasp out loud as Jude, Roxy’s flatmate, appeared from his room with only a towel covering his modesty. He threw his arms around her and lifted her up in a bear hug. Big mistake. When he plonked her back down she lost her balance and folded like a sofabed. ‘One shoe,’ she explained weakly, getting back on her feet. ‘It’s a long story–I’d tell you but