Hens Reunited (22 page)

Georgia felt very small, as if she were five years old and had been hauled up in front of the headmistress at her old primary school. Ouch. That hurt. She could no longer meet Isabella’s fierce stare and looked down at her feet in their rather shabbier black wedges instead. She was surprised they hadn’t been transformed into T-bar Start-rites, scuffed at the toes from too much skipping at playtime. ‘Yes, I saw you were running a competition,’ she replied, trying not to sound too sullen about it.

‘Georgia, you know I’ve always been a fan of your work, but Polly’s snapping at your heels,’ Isabella went on in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. Every word made Georgia’s spirits plunge even lower. ‘Don’t give me good reason to switch your positions over, will you?’

What a snub. Isabella had all but rubbed Georgia’s nose in the stinking mess she’d made. ‘Of course,’ Georgia managed to say. ‘It won’t happen again, Isabella.’

‘Hmmmph.’ And with that final snort, Isabella turned away from Georgia and buzzed through to her secretary. ‘Get me Samantha Cameron on the line, Hester,’ she ordered.

Chastened, Georgia left Isabella’s office. Well, that had gone about as badly wrong as it could have done. She scowled as her eyes alighted on Polly, who was cooing merrily to someone on the phone. ‘Of course I’d love an invite to the wedding, Casey,’ Polly simpered. ‘I’ll bring a photographer along too – make sure we get some lovely shots in the paper, yeah?’

Pah. Since when had Polly gotten so chummy with Casey Holland, the bitchy new nurse on
Casualty
? Georgia couldn’t bring herself to listen to any more. She stormed over to her desk and started typing as if her life depended on it. She would not be pushed out of the job that she’d worked her arse off to get. No way!

Two hours later, Georgia was feeling slightly better. She’d dashed off a piece about Candi’s birthday party, composed a thinly disguised ‘Mystery Whisper’ about Adam Tennant which implied he was impotent, and she’d even humoured Page Three stunna Aimee Morello with a bitchy snippet about Warren Blake’s so-called chipolata and his love of being spanked. That would get the away crowds taunting the poor lad at the Emirates Stadium next season, she thought, putting in the final full stop with a savage stab.

She’d also heard that Layla Gallagher hadn’t lost the baby, after all. This comforted Georgia more than she wanted to let on. Partly because it demonstrated that the doctors and nurses in her nan’s hospital were doing a bloody good job. And also because what had been a scoop the other day was now a non-story. Chip papers already.

Her phone chirruped to let her know that a new text message had arrived and she checked it at once, hoping for a juicy titbit that Polly wouldn’t have got. It was from Katie, though.

Y r men all such wankers?
her friend had typed.
Fancy running away to lezza commune with me?

Georgia was curious enough to be tempted out of Efficient Work Mode for a moment.
Wotsup?
she speed-texted back.
Lovely Steve not behaving?

Lovely Steve has left me
, came the reply seconds later.

O fuck!
Georgia typed, taken aback at this news.
Will ring u 2nite 4 chat. Chin up. Xxx

Her phone rang two seconds later – caller display:
Katie Mobile –
and Georgia answered, hunching over her desk, not wanting to be spotted by Isabella on a personal call after this morning’s dressing-down. ‘What happened, then?’ she asked her friend. ‘Last you told me, he wanted to marry you?’

Katie sniffed. ‘He did,’ she replied. ‘And now he’s gone. Talk about all or nothing.’

She exhaled loudly, and Georgia frowned, recognizing the sound. ‘You’re not . . . you’re not
smoking
, are you?’ she asked in shock. It was like finding the Pope snorting coke off a Bible.

‘Yeah,’ Katie admitted dolefully. ‘I’m sitting in my car smoking. Just bought a pack of ten B&H for the first time in fifteen years. Morning break-time,’ she added, as if that made it all right. ‘Oh Georgia,’ she wailed suddenly. ‘Why are men such shits? Why?’

‘Well . . .’ Georgia paused. She was still too surprised at the smoking confession to think properly, and her reply spilled out without caution. ‘Not all of them are, you know. Some are . . . good.’ She closed her mouth hurriedly, but it was too late. Katie hadn’t missed her words.

‘Oh yeah?’ Suspicion laced her reply. Drag, puff, puff. ‘Something you’re not telling me about?’

Georgia felt flustered. Yes, all right, Owen’s face
had
popped into her mind at Katie’s why-are-men-such-bastards question, but she really didn’t want to explain. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Polly standing there as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

‘Are you going to be long?’ Polly hissed. ‘Only I’ve got Elliot Drake on the line, wants a word.’

Georgia held up a finger to signal one minute, hoping that would send Polly buzzing off again, but, to her annoyance, the goody two-shoes stayed right where she was, rocking back on her new blue heels as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Georgia gritted her teeth but knew she’d have to end her call. Elliot Drake was number one in the charts this week, gorgeous, gay and always full of gossip. Polly had no doubt already tried to tap him for information but if he was holding out for Georgia, she owed it to him to be quick. ‘Sorry babe, gotta fly,’ she said into the phone. And then, because she knew Polly was earwigging, she added, ‘Let me know what Jordan says after your lunch together, yeah? Ciao.’

Katie would know there was an eavesdropper – Georgia had had to hang up in similar ways before, and she rather enjoyed pairing up her friend with the least likely fictional lunch-mates. And it was convenient, too, not having to fess up to anything about Owen right now.

She flashed a dazzling smile at Polly. ‘Thanks, ‘I’ll take that call now,’ she said, and pressed the Hold button on her office phone. ‘Elliot! Hi! How’s it going, sweetie?’

She listened, scribbling quickly, while Elliot reeled off tales of Soho shenanigans that would make her readers’ hair curl. Her mobile chirruped again and, during a particularly filthy fisting anecdote that Georgia knew was totally unprintable, she pressed the messages button to see a new text from Katie.

U r SO not off the hook mate – who is this bloke then?
+
wot’s
so good abt him anyway?

Rats. She was never going to hear the end of this now.

Chapter Twelve

Shine

Thursday, 19 June 2008

There was a teddy bears’ picnic organized that week for the village toddler group, all mums and little ones invited as long as they brought along their own food, picnic blanket and teddy. ‘Not forgetting the vino of course,’ Jen had muttered, reading the sign pinned up on the church-hall noticeboard.

‘Now you’re talking,’ Mags had giggled in reply. ‘And the ice bucket, too, dahling.’

Alice had dithered over whether or not to go – it would probably be horribly cliquey, she’d thought, imagining the miserable scene of herself and Iris sitting on their own little patch of grass feeling left out and shy, a small island set apart from the sea of other picnic blankets, where the rest of the village mums chatted about their primary-school allegiances and thirty or so years’ worth of other shared nostalgia. And she’d be stuck there, Alice the Loser, silent and embarrassed on public display. Not a very tempting prospect.

But then Cathy had said that she would be taking Joe to the picnic, and was Alice going along too? And in a fit of bravery and must-try-to-be-sociable feeling, Alice had found herself saying yes. Safety in numbers and all that. Besides, she was curious to know more about Cathy and what had happened with Dom. There was definitely an untold saga there waiting to be revealed.

The gathering was to take place in Ellingham Woods, over on the far side of the village. ‘I think “woods” is a bit of an exaggeration, seeing as there are only about ten trees,’ Cathy said as they pushed their buggies that way on the day of the picnic. ‘But at least it’ll be shady. Pfff! It’s so hot today.’

Alice nodded. It was practically unheard of in England, such a long, dry spell. She barely had the energy to speak, with the sun blazing down again on the back of her neck. She’d tied her hair up to keep cool, but a few rogue strands had escaped and were clinging wetly to her skin. She found herself longing for the soft wet mist of summer rain to dissipate the sultry heat. She glanced over the buggy’s sunshade to see that Iris was asleep with flushed cheeks and sweat prickles on her nose, despite being dressed in just a thin cotton vest and nappy.

Phew! It was almost unbearable. Alice wiped her brow with her bare forearm, praying they were nearly there. The cheese sandwiches she’d made would be molten by now, squidgy and liquid in their cling film. As for the pot of veggie mush she’d brought along for Iris’s picnic lunch – that was probably fermenting unpleasantly at the bottom of the bag.

‘Here we are,’ Cathy said, manoeuvring her buggy through an old iron kissing gate with some difficulty. ‘Let’s get in the shade before we evaporate. This way.’

Alice followed, grateful to escape from the sun under the leafy, shock-headed trees where the air felt fractionally cooler. In a clearing ahead, she could see bright picnic blankets spread out like a patchwork, with shrieking sun-hatted children chasing each other around the tree trunks.

As she and Cathy drew nearer, she realized that a series of eye-poppingly elaborate picnics had been laid out for all the world to admire – a large bowl of Caesar salad, complete with croutons and parmesan shavings, on a Cath Kidston picnic blanket (label up, obviously, just in case anyone didn’t recognize the print), flanked with cold chicken legs and slabs of ham enrobed in glistening pink jelly on white china plates. Someone else had arranged a platter full of carrot, cucumber and celery sticks in circular patterns around an earthenware dish of what looked like home-made hummus, with drizzles of olive oil around the edges. One person had brought along a whole fruit cake, with a veritable flotilla of pink-iced fairy cakes, like attendants, in its wake. It was like a round of
Picnic Idol
, Alice thought despairingly, or the Bath and West Country Show she’d attended as a child, with all the farmers’ wares proudly laid out.

Her thoughts turned again to her pathetic Mother’s Pride cheese sarnies and she felt her cheeks flush even hotter. Mother’s Shame, more like. Mother’s Embarrassment. She hadn’t realized this was a Domestic Goddess Picnic Showdown, Tupperware containers at dawn. She glanced around, hoping for some other mums to keep her company on the crap picnicker front, but all the others – ten or twelve women, she estimated – were unpacking and displaying arrays of goodies as if they were contestants in some kind of Stepford Wives gourmet lunch contest.

She swallowed miserably as she and Cathy parked the babies in the shade.

‘I haven’t got a picnic blanket,’ Alice realized, too late.
Or a proper picnic
, she wanted to say, but she could feel some of the mums watching, and didn’t dare voice it out loud.

The woman nearest them, an elegant Scandinavian-looking type with long blonde hair and slim brown shanks, was unpacking a cool-bag onto a tartan travel rug. Out came a lidded jug of juice, clinking with ice cubes. Out came bowls of strawberries and grapes, glossy and plump, heaped high like colourful, nutritious hillocks. Out came a selection of cheeses and a butter dish. It was rather like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, Alice thought, with a sickening fascination, unable to tear her eyes away. Any moment now, she’d pull out a hatstand and set it down neatly on the ground.

‘I’ve been baking all morning,’ Mary Poppins – or whatever her name was – announced to no one in particular, opening up a large Roses tin and producing what looked like a moist lemon drizzle cake. ‘Now, where did I put those cranberry flapjacks?’

Alice turned back to Cathy, not wanting to see any more. ‘I feel such a failure,’ she muttered. ‘I hadn’t realized it was going to be so . . .’

‘Competitive?’ Cathy replied, rolling her eyes. ‘Welcome to my world, Alice. Don’t worry, I’ve just brought along some Hula Hoops and an egg roll from the bakery.’ She grinned conspiratorially. ‘Oh yeah, and some Bakewell tarts – Mr Kipling’s finest.’

‘A cheese sarnie is my lot,’ Alice confessed in a low voice, not wanting Mary Poppins to hear. She knew already that she’d rather starve than eat that sandwich in public now, she was so ashamed of it. ‘And some lukewarm mush for Iris. Oh God. I’m rubbish, aren’t I?’

Cathy spread out a blanket and gave a snort. ‘Sit down. And of course you’re not rubbish! You’re just normal, that’s all. Not mad, like these people.’ She said it in a quiet voice, but all the same she jumped with guilt when Mary Poppins called over.

‘Hi there!’

Alice and Cathy both turned. The blonde woman was kneeling up, smiling at them, with her perfect lunch spread out all around her, like a photo shoot for a magazine.
Beat that if you can, ladies
, Alice could read in her smug expression.

‘Hi Natasha,’ Cathy replied politely. ‘Alice, this is Natasha Willocks. Natasha, this is Alice. She’s just moved to the village.’

Natasha’s cornflower-blue gaze seemed to take in Alice’s frazzled hair, her sweat-marked vest top, the sick stain on her skirt and her beaded flip-flops that already had half the beads missing, all in one damning swoop. Then she gave a dazzling smile. ‘Alice. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, of course.’ Her voice was treacle-rich, but not so sweet. There was an edge to her words that Alice couldn’t decipher. What did she mean by the ‘of course’? Was it just to rattle her, or what? Something about the way Natasha’s top lip had curled gave Alice the impression that it wasn’t out of politeness.

Alice forced a smile in return. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ she said warily.

‘And Cathy,’ Natasha purred. ‘I hear the lovely Dominic’s back in town. How long will he be sticking around this time, then? Do we have the pleasure of his company for very long?’