Hens Reunited (16 page)

Nan nodded and made a noise that might have been yes. She took Georgia’s hand and pressed it to her face, then kissed it. Definitely a yes, loud and clear.

‘Thanks Georgie, that was lovely of you,’ her mum said now, sitting down and stroking the old lady’s hair. ‘Shall we give this mop a brush, then, eh, Mam?’

Georgia felt choked as her mum did her nan’s hair for her, gently and tenderly. With her nan’s incoherent speech and inability to do these things for herself now, it was as if she had slipped back into a toddler existence, dependent on her descendants. And there were still so many conversations Georgia wanted to have with her, so many things she wanted to ask – about her nan and granddad falling in love, her nan’s experiences in the war, her hopes and aspirations as a young woman, her take on the feminist revolution . . .

Tears stung her eyes. Already it was too late. Short of a minor miracle where her nan’s powers of speech came back, Georgia had missed her chance.

Her nan was patting her skirt, trying to say something. ‘Ni-i-i eh,’ it sounded like.

‘Nice dress?’ Georgia guessed.

Her nan nodded, her mouth curving at one side to form a saggy smile.

‘Thanks, Nan,’ she said. ‘It’s a great colour, isn’t it? I’ll look out for some flowers that shade of red to bring you next time, if you want?’

Next time?
Why had she just said that?

But her nan was nodding again and mangling another word through her slack, sloping lips. ‘Ow-er.’

‘Flowers, yes. I’ll do that. I’ll bring them in tomorrow, yeah? Brighten this place up a bit.’ What was she saying? She was meant to be back at work tomorrow, she’d said as much in her email to Polly last night. But another glance at the happy light in her nan’s eyes told her she had done the right thing.

Oh well. It was only a day. She’d phone Isabella, the editor, later and spin her a story about having to stay up north in an attempt to nab a big interview with the new Corrie starlet. Or she’d ring in sick; Isabella would never need to know.

There was a movement behind them then and Georgia turned to see Owen approaching. Ahhh. Yep. That was definitely a once-over he’d given her, eyes flicking over her dress, a small smile on his lips. He gave her a meaningful nod, then assumed a professionally brisk air and turned his gaze to his patient. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hatherley! You’re looking cheerful. I’m just here to do your obs, if that’s all right. Won’t take a minute.’

Georgia watched him as he chatted away to her. She was intrigued as to what – if anything – Owen would say to
her.
Surely it would be naff of him to ask her to have coffee with him while she was sitting at her grandmother’s bedside? In front of her parents, too! Would he have the bottle?

Owen finished his observations and jotted them down in the folder that was kept at the end of the bed. Then he smiled at them all and tucked his pen back in his jacket pocket. ‘Everything’s stable,’ he announced. ‘Is there anything anyone wants to ask me while I’m here?’

Cheeky bugger. Was that for her benefit? Was he passing the buck, expecting her to put her hand up and ask, Please, Doctor, may I buy you a drink at the coffee bar?

He could dream on, if so. She wished she hadn’t worn this dress now, if he thought she was an easy target! It was almost laughable, how wrong a man could be.

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Her mum, meanwhile, launched into a series of probing questions about her nan’s mental health which Owen was now obliged to answer. Ha! Served him right.

Finally the lengthy Q-and-A session came to a close. ‘Right then,’ Owen said, trying to catch Georgia’s eye. ‘I’ll be off.’ He hesitated for a moment, but Georgia deliberately ignored him. Let him sweat, she decided. She wasn’t going to have any bloke thinking they could have her, just like that.

‘Thanks very much, love,’ Georgia’s mum said to Owen, bestowing a bright smile on him.

With one last, puzzled look at Georgia, he walked away.

Georgia rose to her feet with an unhurried air after a few moments. ‘I’m just going to stretch my legs,’ she said. ‘Anyone want anything from the café?’

With orders for two teas and some biscuits, Georgia sauntered down the ward. Now then. Where was Mr McIntosh? Was he loitering, or had he given up?

She smiled to herself as she went through the swing doors and saw him studying a noticeboard nearby.
Pretending to study it, more like
, she thought, for he turned almost immediately and smiled at her. ‘Hello again,’ he said. ‘How are you doing today?’

Oh, like that, was it? Doctor and patient? She’d always liked a game of doctors and nurses as a kid, but this was a new one on her.

She took pity on him, gave him a bit of encouragement. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a coffee. I don’t suppose you fancy one, do you?’

She half-expected him to say,
What, a coffee?
, like she’d been offering anything else, but he merely winked. ‘Love one,’ he said. They started walking along the corridor and he laughed. ‘Well, I say “love” one, but the coffee in this place . . . There’s not much about it to love, if you know what I mean.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Georgia said. ‘Where I work, the canteen is so dire, we’re forced to leave the building and get our coffees from the Italian place down the road.’

‘Where do you work, then?’ he asked. ‘In Stockport?’

She nearly scoffed contemptuously – as if! – but remembered at the last second that
he
worked in Stockport. ‘London,’ she said airily. ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He didn’t seem as impressed as she thought he might. ‘Muckraking and gossip-spreading, that kind of thing?’

She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘No, I’m the current affairs editor, actually. Hardline politics and Westminster diaries, if you must know.’

Now he was impressed. ‘Really?’

She smiled. ‘No. Not quite. Maybe next year.’ And maybe never, if she was being strictly truthful. She wasn’t going to have her job dissed though, so said no more. People were quick to turn their nose up at what Georgia did. She didn’t want to give Owen the opportunity.

They’d reached the coffee bar now. Georgia had a precautionary flick round for Michelle, but the place was practically empty. Behind the counter there were two elderly ladies, a huge silver urn of tea and a nasty-looking coffee machine. ‘Hmmmm,’ Georgia said, considering the choice
. ‘
Maybe I’ll just have a sparkling water.’

‘Spoken like a true Londoner,’ Owen teased. ‘I can’t stand that stuff.’

‘What are you having then, a mug of Bovril?’ she flashed back. ‘Or perhaps a can of Irn-Bru?’

He grinned. ‘Touché,’ he conceded. ‘The tea’s not bad, here. If you like it well-brewed, that is.’

‘Well, you know what us soft southerners are like with our delicate palates,’ she replied tartly. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss, thanks, and stick with my water.’

He held his hands up. ‘All right, all right!’

‘I’ll inflict the tea on my parents instead,’ she said. ‘Hi,’ she went on to one of the silver-haired ladies. ‘Two teas to take away please and a sparkling water. Oh, and some of these biscuits, please.’ She dumped a handful of miniature packets on the tray, then a thought occurred to her and she turned to Owen. ‘Oh, and do you want me to get your disgusting tea, too?’

He grinned again, and the dimple deepened in his cheek. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said.

They sat down at one of the Formica-topped tables and she poured her water into a dishwasher-battered glass. She hadn’t meant to stay long – she had her parents’ drinks cooling, after all – but somehow or other, the conversation flowed from one topic to another – his job, her job, his flatmate, her ex-flatmate horror stories, their favourite TV shows, their favourite books . . .

He was just so easy to talk to. So nice. For the first time since she’d met Harry, she found she was actually hanging on his words, really listening, really wanting to hear about him. It was a strange sensation. Not one she was used to.

‘So what brought you to Stockport, then?’ she asked. He’d already mentioned he’d grown up in Manchester. ‘Don’t tell me . . . the football. No, the nightlife. No – I know. It’s got to be the shopping and culture?’

He laughed. ‘The job,’ he answered simply. ‘It’s a really good hospital, this. Best one I’ve worked in yet. Manchester is great – but it started to feel too in-my-face. I fancied somewhere a bit smaller and quieter.’

Georgia shook her head. ‘And that’s where we differ,’ she told him. ‘That’s exactly why I left. I love London precisely because it’s so in-your-face.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Damn, I’d better go. I’m going to have to get new teas for my mum and dad now – these are stone cold.’

‘I’ll walk you back to the ward,’ he said. ‘Just in case you get lost.’

She giggled, feeling like a little girl suddenly. ‘Owen, it’s only down the corridor,’ she said.

‘Ahh, good point,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’ll walk you the long way round. Then we’ll have more time to chat.’

He was flirting with her, he definitely was. She turned to go up to the counter, trying to hide her smile.

‘Right, off we go, then,’ he said, once she’d bought two new scalding hot cups of tea. ‘The magical mystery tour. This way!’

He led her in the opposite direction from the stroke unit, and through a warren of clinics. She had a brief palpitation at the thought of seeing Michelle somewhere en route, but did her best to block out her former tormentor from her head. No. Don’t let that cow spoil things.

It wasn’t long before Georgia was completely lost. ‘I feel as if I should be dropping a trail of crumbs so that I can find my way back,’ she said. ‘I might have to start crumbling these biscuits up, you know.’

He smiled. ‘Here – we can go outside for a bit,’ he said as they came to a door. ‘It’s a gorgeous day.’

‘Don’t you have work to do?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘It’s my tea break,’ he said. ‘And if you’re going back to London tonight, I’m going to spin it out for as long as possible.’ He paused. ‘You are going back to London tonight, aren’t you?’ he asked.

There was something about his dark eyes that made Georgia feel . . . liquid inside. Or was that all the sparkling water sloshing about? Yes. Must be.

‘Well . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure now. I was planning to, but I’ve kind of promised my nan I’ll come back tomorrow too, bring her some flowers.’

He smiled. A proper smile. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’m in tomorrow too. So maybe . . .’ He hesitated. Was he about to ask her for a drink? Georgia wondered with a hopeful surge inside.

‘Maybe we could do this again tomorrow?’ Owen asked after the briefest of pauses. ‘I’ll take you round the X-ray department if you’re really lucky.’

They were walking in the sunshine now, and she shielded her eyes to look up at him. A handful of witty bantering remarks fizzled on her tongue and she found that she was blushing. No. Not blushing. Just hot in the sun. Should she ask him for a drink instead? Or would that be jumping the gun? ‘Thanks,’ she said in the end. ‘I’d like that.’

Oh God. This was ridiculous. She’d just told a bloke that she’d like him to show her round the X-ray unit of a hospital in Stockport. Get a grip, Georgia! But for a second, it had seemed the most appealing offer she’d had in ages.

She blinked, feeling dazed. Was she coming down with something? This was so unlike her. Was this the first sign of MRSA or some other nasty, that you started getting soft in the head?

She was just about to change the subject to something more neutral and safe, when an ambulance wheeled around the corner, siren wailing. ‘Mind out the way,’ Owen said, stepping back from the A&E entrance.

The ambulance stopped and a paramedic jumped out from the driving seat and flung open the back doors. Georgia could hear a woman crying and another female voice saying, ‘Calm down, Layla. Everything’s gonna be all right, I promise . . .’

Layla?

Georgia’s brain clicked into work mode. She dumped the cardboard tray of tea on the ground and snatched her phone from her bag, just in case. Layla Gallagher and Carlos didn’t live that far from here, did they? Cheadle way, she was pretty sure. Could it really be Layla Gallagher in the ambulance? What a scoop, if so! What a glorious scoop!

One of the paramedics was now assembling a wheelchair. The other stepped out of the ambulance with – yes! – a pale, sobbing Layla Gallagher in his arms.

‘Oh my God,’ Georgia hissed, holding up her phone to get the photo. The stupid paramedic had swung round though, blocking Layla’s face. Georgia willed him to turn back so she could have a clear view of the girl. She had to get those tears in the picture – talk about a money shot!

‘What are you doing?’ Owen asked.

She’d all but forgotten him, so exhilarated was she at this unfolding drama. Was Layla losing the baby? She couldn’t see any blood, but that didn’t mean anything . . .

‘I said, What are you doing?’ Owen asked. His voice was cold – and then he grabbed the phone from Georgia’s hand.

‘Hey!’ Georgia yelped. ‘Give that back!’

He was looking at her with revulsion, as if she were a slug he’d just stepped on. ‘I was right first time about you, wasn’t I?’ he said in that same icy voice.
‘
You’re a muckraker, aren’t you? A tabloid bully, preying on other people’s misfortunes. Well, not here you don’t. Have a bit of respect!’

‘I only—’ Georgia started, but he was stalking away from her, stopping only to toss her phone into a bin.

Chapter Nine

Babe

Tuesday, 17 June 2008

‘Just these please,’ Alice said, putting the wire basket in front of Mrs Smithers. Mrs Smithers ran the village shop and by all accounts considered you a traitor if you went to the Tesco a few miles away, despite stocking the mankiest, knobbliest fruit and veg Alice had ever seen, and glaring gimlet-eyed at any children who dared put their grubby fingers on her pick ’n’ mix selection.

Mrs Smithers rang up the purchases slowly on the old till, a rheumaticky finger jabbing at the buttons. No rush. Nobody ever rushed in this village, Alice was starting to realize.