Hens Reunited (19 page)

Steve had roared with laughter at the airport in Bangkok when she’d sheepishly produced the plastic wallet she’d packed with maps and tourist information. ‘What are you like?’ he asked, hugging her to him and kissing the top of her head when she fessed up. ‘Katie Taylor, Intrepid Explorer . . . not!’

She’d laughed self-consciously. ‘Sorry,’ she said, burying her face in his new blue holiday T-shirt. ‘I just couldn’t help it.’

He’d kissed her again. ‘So where are we going, then, oh Organized One? Lead me to our destination. I am in your capable hands.’

What had it been called, that place? The New Siam Guesthouse or something. Their room had had a simple wooden bed with white cotton covers, and a view over some back alleys where Katie imagined all sorts of wheeling and dealing took place. And oh yes, there had been that incredible tacky black marble bathroom which had had Steve whooping when he’d first seen it. ‘Hey, it’s like
Hollywood Wives
in here!’ he’d called to her.

Woozy with jet lag, they’d sipped Singha beers in the bar downstairs, stunned by the mid-afternoon heat. Then they’d wandered along the Khao San Road together, marvelling at the tattooists and hair-braiders, the stalls selling tie-dyed sarongs and jewellery, the noodle bars with white paper tablecloths, the hustlers, hippies and total headcases all mingling on one dusty road . . .

Katie snapped the photo album shut. Why was she torturing herself with this? Why was she rubbing her nose in all these lovely memories?

‘Wise up,’ she told herself. ‘It’s over. So get used to it.’

Her phone bleeped at that moment and she snatched it up. A text message from her sister Laura:

Oi slag where r u?

Oh God! It was Monday night, wasn’t it? She always met up with Laura for drinks on a Monday – ‘It’s the shittiest day of the week, only cocktails make it bearable,’ Laura had decided – but somehow or other time must have slipped by. Was it really six already?

She checked her watch. Yes, it was – ten past, even. Oh . . . bollocks. Well, she’d have to blow Laura out. She was so not in the mood for cocktails and chit-chat, much as she loved her sister. Laura would chew her ear off for not going, but it was a small price to pay. Tonight was a night to stay in and cry over old photos. Maybe neck some wine. And definitely scoff through the packet of Bourbons she had in the cupboard. That was if Steve hadn’t packed them with the rest of his stuff, of course.

She dialled her sister’s number and Laura answered after one ring. ‘So where are you?’ her sister asked without even a ‘hello’. ‘There’s a Sloe Comfortable Screw waiting here for you and it’s getting all warm.’ She gave a dirty chuckle. ‘I suppose you could say it’s better warm than – Eww, some pervy minger is looking at me now. Oi, nosy, this is a private conversation, thank you very much!’

Katie held the phone away from her ear as her sister barked at the pervy minger. ‘Er Laur, the thing is, I—’

‘So are you on your way or what? Only I’m really hungry, I was wondering, should I order us some food now, or—’

‘Laura, I’m not coming out tonight.’ There. She braced herself for the response.

‘Oh Ka-ate! You could have let me know! Here I am sitting like Nelly No-mates on me tod, with nosy creeps all round me, and two drinks . . .
and
I nabbed one of the tables out the front, too. So what’s up? Why aren’t you coming?’

Good question. Katie took a deep breath. ‘Because . . .’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Because Steve’s left me.’

There was a shocked silence before Laura replied. ‘NO!’ She sounded incredulous. ‘He’s done what? No, I don’t believe it. He’s madly in love with you, what are you talking about?’

‘Well, he
was
madly in love with me,’ Katie admitted, trying not to sniffle. ‘But now . . .’

‘Oh Kate, no, I’m not having this, I’m not letting you sit in all by yourself getting weepy. This is what I’m going to do, are you listening? I’m going to order you a cab to come and pick you up, and then I’m going to buy you nice drinks and food, and you’re going to tell me all about it. Then we can make a plan. Maybe find a voodoo doll and stick some pins in its bollocks. Yeah? So blow your nose and put some slap on. Taxi is on its way.’

And before Katie could argue, Laura had clicked off.

Bloody hell. Since when did her little sister get so bossy and assertive? Katie tried ringing back but the line was engaged. No doubt Laura would be on to a cab firm already, dishing out her orders.

Katie sighed and looked over at her reflection in the living-room mirror. Pasty-faced, blotchy around the eyes and nose, plus a grid of worry lines etched deep in her forehead. How attractive.

She could always send the cab away again, she told herself. Just because Laura had spun into Emergency Rescue mode, it didn’t mean Katie had to go along with it. And oh, this whole taxi thing was just reminding her of Steve’s proposal at the hotel all over again, that ridiculous farce outside school with the cabbie asking her all those stupid questions . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop herself crying.
Come on, deep breaths.
If she didn’t go and meet Laura, she’d be stuck in all evening, moping and weeping. That was not a good option. Mind you, the prospect of moping and weeping in public wasn’t exactly doing it for her either.

Oh sod it. Laura was good at cheering people up, she was one of those naturally ebullient types who managed to make you laugh whatever mood you might be in. She was straight-talking too – called a spade a spade. Out of everyone Katie could think of, Laura was probably the best person to be with tonight.

Okay. Decision made. She’d better trowel some makeup on as Laura had instructed. Hell, she’d even put on something nice to wear too, rather than the frayed old denim skirt she’d worn all day.

Just ten minutes later, the taxi was beeping outside her door, and she was off.

Katie and Laura always met at the same place on Monday nights: a bar on Whiteladies Road in Clifton, the nicest, poshest part of Bristol. Laura lived round the corner (lucky thing) in a leafy Georgian street – her small flat (‘bijou’ she liked to call it) was worth way more than Katie’s house, despite it being about half the size. But then Laura was a high-flying PR woman who seemed to know all the Bristolian celebs – well, the Holby actors and actresses anyway – and earned the sort of salary that maths-teacher Katie could only dream about. Katie often thought that go-getting Laura should have been the oldest sister of the three Taylor girls – she’d probably have coped a lot better than Katie had with all the responsibility.

‘Oh, at last, here she is,’ Laura said as Katie got out of the taxi. Laura was sitting on the terrace outside the bar, two lurid orange cocktails on the table in front of her, one half-drained. ‘I was starting to think you’d chucked yourself in the river or something.’

Katie paid the taxi driver and smiled wanly. ‘That’s a cheery thought,’ she told her sister, rolling her eyes. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

Laura pushed the full glass across the table. ‘Sit down. Drink that. And tell Aunty Laura all about it,’ she instructed.

So Katie began, uncertainly at first, feeling as if she must be some kind of loser to be pouring out her love-life woes at the age of thirty-four to her younger, sassier sister. The truth of it depressed her. ‘How come I still can’t do relationships?’ she burst out, when she’d finished the update. ‘I’m the oldest sister, yet you and Charlotte seem to have it all sussed. I’m the only crap one. What am I doing wrong?’

Laura snorted. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say
I’ve
got it sussed, mate,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m not about to go up the aisle any day soon. Charlotte – okay, so she’s married with a couple of sprogs. But who’s to say that’s the most desirable thing in life? Honestly, Kate, I’m not being mean, but her life does sound kind of
dull
these days. She’s gone all housewifey; can’t talk about anything other than our lovely nieces. And they are gorgeous, of course, but . . . well. Nappies and vegetable purees don’t exactly rock my world in the conversation stakes.’ She pursed her lips suspiciously. ‘So are you really telling me that’s the Holy Grail to you, all of a sudden?’

‘No,’ Katie replied, ‘but the thing is, she’s happy doing that, isn’t she? In her eyes, she’s got everything she ever wanted – husband, kids, farmhouse in Devon, Labrador, blah blah . . .’ She sipped her drink and winced at the sharp citrus tang. Charlotte had done what Katie had done – got married quick, to the first person who’d offered to look after her. The difference was, Charlotte had made a better choice
. ‘
And then there’s you – all sorted with your brilliant career, your swanky flat and famous mates. You know what you want, you know where you’re going . . .’

‘Yeah, speed dating at Po Na Na’s on Saturday,’ Laura told her, pulling a face. ‘That’s where I’m going – I must be mad.’

Katie was barely listening. ‘But me . . . I thought I was on track, doing all right chugging along, you know? Suddenly I’ve swerved off the rails and don’t know where I’m supposed to be any more.’

Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice analogy, Kate, but this doesn’t have to be complete derailment, does it? You can still mend things with Steve. He might just have gone off to get some space for a few days, clear his head. He’s probably trying to phone you right now!’

Katie glanced down at her mobile, which remained reproachfully silent. ‘No, he’s not,’ she replied. ‘He’s more likely out with his mates, drinking good-riddance pints and getting lairy.’ She gazed up and down the street. ‘We’ll probably see him in a bit, doing the Whiteladies pub crawl on his hands and knees.’

‘He’ll get a Sloe Comfortable Screw over his head if he is,’ Laura told her bracingly. ‘Oh cheer up, Kate. Steve’s not like that anyway, I bet you’ll straighten things out with him. And if not, well, then, you can always come speed dating with me on Saturday, can’t you? Twenty-five quid and there’s a wine-tasting session too, so booze is thrown in for the price. I’ll get you a ticket if you want, I know the manager there.’

The thought of speed dating made Katie feel old. And afraid. She didn’t relish the idea of a conveyor belt of sneering men sizing her up then marking contemptuous black crosses on a scorecard; rejection after rejection. ‘Thanks for the offer, but . . .’

‘You think about it,’ Laura interrupted. ‘We’d have a laugh, you know we would. You don’t have to take it seriously or anything, it’s only a bit of fun.’ She glanced past Katie’s shoulder suddenly, then lowered her voice
. ‘
Although if we play our cards right here, we might be in for something a bit sooner . . .’

Before Katie could look behind her to see what Laura had noticed, a couple of guys had plonked down a large jug of bright red liquid swimming with clinking ice cubes and lime wedges on their table. ‘Evening, ladies,’ the first bloke said. He had a white T-shirt and jeans, and tanned, hairless arms and face. ‘I’m Gary and this is Mick. Just wondering if you’d like to have some Sex on the Beach with us?’

Katie stared at confident Gary’s smooth forearms – had he put baby oil on them? They had some kind of sheen – and then at Mick, just behind – blond and sweet-faced and about ten years younger than her – oh Christ! – and was just about to say a polite
no thank you
, when Laura got in first.

‘Sure, the more the merrier,’ she said blithely. ‘Pull up some chairs, lads. I’m Lulu, by the way, and this is Roxie. Cheers!’

Katie woke up the next morning feeling as if she’d been run over by the 41 bus. Her arms and legs ached. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry, her tongue seemed cumbersome and unwieldy, and she could feel last night’s makeup still on, tight and uncomfortable across her face. She peered at her watch through her thick, crusty-mascaraed lashes. Six in the morning. Ugggghhh . . . And she had school today, too! She’d have to squeeze in another hour’s shut-eye and hope that a shower before breakfast would make her feel semi-human again.

She was just about to drift back into sleep when she heard an unfamiliar snore rumble behind her, and her blood ran cold. Oh no. Oh
no
! Suddenly she was wide awake and fearful. Who was she sharing a bed with? She opened her eyes again and blinked. And whose
bed
was it, anyway? She definitely wasn’t on her own clean sheets.

She shut her eyes hurriedly, hoping it was a dream. A bad, couldn’t-possibly-happen dream. But vague shadowy images of the night before were taking shape in her mind now, like a horror show flickering before her eyes. Necking that jug of Sex on the Beach with Mick and Gary – oh, and
Lulu
, of course. (Bloody Laura, what was she like?) Oh, and then they’d bought another jug of . . . what had it been that time? Tequila Sunrise. Ugh. She couldn’t do tequila any more, she always lost the plot on it. And then . . .

The flimsy memories melted away to nothing. What had happened then?

It was a blank. She just couldn’t remember.
Please don’t let me be in bed with Gary
, she prayed under her breath.
Or Mick. I’ll be arrested for child molestation if it’s Mick. Probably be struck off as a teacher
;
branded a pervert . . .

She opened her eyes again in a fit of boldness. She had to know the truth.

Oh. Duh. She was in Laura’s bedroom. Of course. White walls. Fairy lights around the mirror on the dressing table. A framed Frida Kahlo print on the far wall. Wardrobe door flung open, revealing Laura’s colourful clothes and shoes, handbag handles spilling from the bottom shelf in bright snaky coils. Her own clothes dumped all over the floorboards. Oh Gawd. Did that mean she was lying here stark naked?

She peeped under the cover. Still wearing knickers. That was a good sign at least. Then, taking care to move stealthily so as to go unnoticed, she turned over so that she could see who she had been sleeping with.

Laura.
Just Laura. Thank God for that.

Katie had never been so relieved to see her sister’s face in her life, her auburn hair curled on the pillow, cheek slightly flushed. So she hadn’t ended up in bed with Mick or Gary then, thank goodness. And presumably she hadn’t done anything too awful, no ‘tampering and fumbling’, as Laura would put it.