When Good Friends Go Bad (12 page)

'Jenny,' Walter's voice came from the front of the shop, 'your daughter's on the phone.'

Disbelievingly, she flipped a corner of the top sheet before rising to answer Chloe's call. Just as she'd suspected, the initials GG were emblazoned in one small corner.

Georgina Giordani. How bizarre was that?

Helen looked up from her cod and chips, her brightly painted lips, carefully lined to make them appear fuller, pursed in surprise. 'Hasn't called you? Really?' She was displaying an impressive amount of cleavage, the lacy edge of her bra peeping out of her low-cut geometrically patterned wraparound dress.

'Not yet.'

Helen had dropped by the shop as Jen and Walter were cashing up to say someone she knew couldn't make their reservation at Fingers, apparently the best, most overbooked fish restaurant this side of the Thames, and Helen had taken over the slot and needed company. And, much as Jen hadn't really felt like it, she felt even less like spending the night at home after the spat she'd had with first Chloe, then Ollie on the phone.

'Odd,' Helen mused. 'I gave her your phone number, she was so insistent. And I've just forwarded a desperate-sounding email from her on to you this afternoon. Wonder why she hasn't called?'

'Because she's a complete flake.' Jen shuddered as Helen scraped her fork across her plate. Her nerves were extra-sensitive at present. 'We didn't get on that well last time we met. There was no message from her on my voicemail anyway.'

'Talking of messages, I've left you heaps.' Helen's expression was affronted, expecting an explanation.

'My mobile's been playing up,' Jen said guiltily as she toyed with her mushy peas. Helen wanted to help, no doubt about that, but right now she just couldn't face one more piece of unsolicited advice, especially about the Ollie/money/job/sort-your-life-out-and-stop-sticking-your-head-in-the-sand thing.

'On your landline,' Helen countered stonily, then visibly relented. 'And if I can't reach you then nor can the estate agents. Look, love, you can't spend your days just loafing around watching the Trisha Goddard show. I was reading the paper today, repossessions are up by seventy-one per cent and house sales have slumped. Loads of people I know have been made redundant. It's going to affect all of us, you've got to stay on the ball.'

'I know.' She was sick of hearing this. Sick of being told it was time to face hard reality when she wanted to pull the bedclothes over her head and not get up until at least the year 2020.

'How's Chloe handling things?' Helen probed.

'Fine, apart from we're both cross with each other.' Jen squeezed some lemon on her haddock, trying to make it more palatable. Her appetite was down to zero. She seemed to have a lump permanently lodged in her throat. 'Wants to go trick or treating Friday night. And I don't want her to. We drum into them to be wary of strangers and suddenly they're all off ringing any old doorbell.'

'All
off?' Helen was checking out the other tables for single white males. So often Jen had the uneasy sensation that if the right prospect walked in she could find herself eating alone.

'The whole world apart from Chloe, seemingly.' Jen halfheartedly nibbled at a chip.

'Whatever you do will be wrong round here.' Helen popped a chunk of fish in her mouth, washing it down with wine. 'Huntsleigh folk are schizo about Halloween. The bible-bashers consider it akin to devil worship, old folk huddle indoors fearing eggs'll be chucked at them if they don't cough up, and everyone else considers you a spoilsport if you don't put lit pumpkins in your window, dress as ghouls and send your kids out begging. You have to make your own mind up and stick to your guns.'

'Problem is my guns are firing blanks.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ollie said yes, after I'd said no.'

Helen's face soured with disapproval and Jen immediately regretted her indiscretion. Helen's attitude to Ollie had never really warmed. Heck, she'd never quite forgiven him for the unplanned pregnancy, for marrying Jen when she was most vulnerable, or even for being a smart-arse on the night they'd all met. And now all her reservations were being justified. Although she'd never actually said I told you so, Jen couldn't help but feel it was always on the tip of her tongue.

'To be fair,' she added, backpedalling as hard as she could, 'he hadn't known I'd said no. Chloe didn't tell him. She was playing us off one against the other and now he doesn't want to go back on his word. We had a set-to about it.'

'There you go.' Helen slammed her hand down on the table. 'Exactly the sort of thing Katy Osbourne had to put up with from her ex. He'd let their son buy PlayStation games meant for eighteen-year-olds, knowing she wouldn't let him watch a DVD that was higher than a PG. He'd . . .'

For someone so keen to find her own Mr Right, Helen certainly took pleasure in the faults of others' Mr Wrongs. Jen's mind drifted back to the argument with Ollie. They'd both come close to losing their tempers for the first time since this war of politeness had set in. Ollie had insisted he had as much right to decide what Chloe could or couldn't do, and Jen had responded that he didn't appreciate that you had to give your children firm guidelines and she'd said no first. God, was this how things would be in the future? Always fighting for control?

'Katy had strict bedtimes, he let her daughter go out till all hours.'

She still wasn't sure she should have backed down. But with the two of them ganging up on her like that . . .

'. . . face up to her fears.'

She snapped back to Helen's monologue.

'Because if she didn't, her mediator said, Katy and her husband would always be stuck in the past.'

'Blast!' Jen suddenly put her hand over her mouth in horror. 'Bollocks.'

'What's the matter?'

'Velvet. I forgot to get velvet. Chloe'll be furious!' Another failing to add to her daughter's catalogue. 'It's for tomorrow. I promised her. Oh God.'

'Don't be so hard on yourself.' Helen shook her head. 'You've got a lot on your mind. You know I'm worried about you. I think this divorce may be affecting you terribly in all kinds of ways that you won't admit. Isolating yourself, not answering your phone.' Her voice hushed, her head came forward as if they were MI5 agents exchanging secrets. 'It's not like before, is it? You know, when . . .' Mercifully, Jen thought, Helen caught herself and tried another tack. 'You should try counselling and get Ollie to leave. I just can't fathom . . .'

Jen poked at her haddock and changed the subject. 'Hey, did you know Björk's first job was deworming fish?'

'Worms!' Helen put down her knife and fork, then blinked at Jen. 'Fish have worms?'

'Mostly cod. She used to pick them out with tweezers.'

'I've never heard of such a thing.' Helen looked slightly sick. 'And who would tweezer them out – wouldn't they simply throw the fish away?' Putting her napkin on her unfinished meal, she pushed the plate to one side.

Immediately Jen was swamped with guilt at her own irritability. Poor Helen. Always thinking of Jen's best interests, arranging this nice meal out, giving advice, and how does she repay her concern? Putting her off her fish, that's all. How bad a friend was she?

An image came to her of Helen standing on the doorstep of the Bounds Green studio, holding out a covered dish.

'Heat it in the microwave and tell him you cooked it yourself. That'll impress your new hubby.'

'Oh, Helen.' Jen's red sleep-deprived eyes had filled with tears. With one glance Helen took in Jen's T-shirt, stained with milk and baby sick, her desperate expression, a bawling Chloe on her shoulder.

'Hand her over.' Helen held out her arms. 'Colic?'

'I don't know. She hasn't stopped crying all week. Ollie had to go to the library to finish his coursework. He didn't want to leave but he has classes all afternoon.'

'Give me Chloe and go to bed right now. Don't worry, love. Auntie Helen's here.'

And she had been. For months at least, turning up with meals and groceries until the worst of it was over and Jen could to see a glimmer of light as gradually the smothering gloom began to dissipate. She felt full of self-loathing suddenly. What an ungrateful bitch she'd become.

Helen had already rescued her once before from an era so dark Jen wouldn't allow it wiggle room in her memory banks, and still neither of them could forget how close she'd come to the perilous edge. No wonder Helen felt she had the right to push and interfere. Wasn't it the Chinese who believed if you saved a life, you were responsible for that person for ever?

And yet the weight of obligation was crushing. No matter how many times she had been there for Helen, offering a sympathetic ear when her latest affair went wrong, helping her paint her entire flat, hosting a surprise fortieth birthday party when Helen had felt so low about entering a new decade, Jen could never equal the balance. If it wasn't for the debt she owed her she might have drifted away from Helen years ago, so often it seemed they had nothing in common except the past, that their relationship should long have been outgrown. But Helen wasn't the type to let friendships drift.

Maybe Helen was right. Maybe the divorce
was
affecting Jen more than she'd realised. Or was she just so isolated, stressed and unhappy that she was in danger of turning into a recluse, wanting to tell the whole world to shove it? Jen longed to find a deep hole and bury herself in it, away from well-wishers and enemies alike.

'It was just a talk show, Helen.' She tried to make amends, pushing her own barely touched plate aside. 'I'm sure Björk made the whole thing up. Celebrities say anything for publicity.'

Still it was a relief to notice Helen, irrepressible to the end, archly giving some male the glad eye over Jen's shoulder. Happily, he wandered over to their table, saving Jen from further discussion of her current state.

On leaving they walked to Helen's car.

'Mind if I stop by my house before I drop you off?' Helen remotely flicked the locks. 'I'm popping over to visit my mum and I need to pick up a few bits and bobs.'

Sitting in the car outside Helen's bungalow, Jen listened to the radio while her friend ran inside. A Beatles song ended and a new one began. 'You're Sixteen You're Beautiful (And You're Mine)'.

Jen gulped. Starkey's song, the one he'd sung to her. Of course they played it all the time, it had haunted her for years but still . . . it had to be another sign.

'OK.' Helen was back, throwing a plastic bag in the back seat, and they sped off.

'Do you want to come in?' Jen saw a light on in Chloe's room as they approached the drive.

'Mum'll be waiting. And I'm starting a new temp job tomorrow. Health clinic. I'd better be fresh for it if I want to nab myself a handsome young doctor.'

Jen looked up at the window again as Helen turned off the engine. 'Probably Ollie reading Chloe a bedtime story.'

Helen was silent, lips pressed together.

'I can't just kick him out, Helen.' Jen shook her head. 'Besides, it's still his house.'

'Go on, tell me, none of my business. Wait, here!' Helen reached into the back seat and chucked the plastic bag at her. 'For you.'

'What's that?'

'Open it.'

Jen undid the knot and peered inside. Material. Red, gold and green velvet.

'Oh, Helen . . .'

'Curtains from my old flat. I'll be glad to be rid. Now listen, you, get those phones fixed, all right?'

And she was off.

Jen stood in the driveway, watching the rear lights disappear into the distance.

Three signs. Three sodding signs.

Meg's phone call.

Georgina's bedlinen.

Starkey's song.

It seemed the world was conspiring against her. There was a steamroller trundling in her direction and she was the paralysed rabbit caught in its headlights – did steamrollers have headlights? – all right, in its path then, unable to avoid the fatal impact, the engine of fate pushing for the most ill-timed resurgence of a past she'd rather forget.

'A lump. What type of lump?' Georgina was in the Canary Wharf offices of Giordani, looking out at the grimy old Thames through floor-to-ceiling windows on a depressingly grey day, even for late October. She'd shut the double doors for a moment's privacy to take Jennifer's call.

'My friend forwarded on an email of hers which Meg headed as urgent,' Jennifer's voice was uncharacteristically flat. 'Shall I read it?'

'Go ahead.' Georgina ignored the whirl of activity on the other side as her employees scurried here and there, answering phones, taking orders and gathering in the banquet-sized conference room for this meeting that Aiden, the bully, had insisted she attend. He'd practically manhandled her into the limo despite all her firmly stated refusals, wailing excuses and pleas of sickness.

Well, too bad, they could all jolly well wait.

'OK. She says,
Hi Jen, your friend seems to have given me the wrong number so I'm emailing. So here's the scoop. I've just gotten to England for some dumb medical tests. They found a lump but I'll tell you about that when I see you. Any chance of hooking up with you and Georgie? This week if poss. Wouldn't ask, hon, but it's pretty crucial. I'm staying at Ashport with Mace, Meg.
That's it.'

'She said a matter of life or death to me.' Georgina gave an exasperated sigh. 'She left a few messages on my voicemail last week. No email though – must have been deleted as spam. I didn't call back. I thought she was just being her usual drama-queen self, and frankly I just can't deal with her right now.'

Perturbed, she paced her huge split-level office, hardly noticing the expensive artwork, the glass and chrome furnishings. How happy she'd been when she'd first bought this building. How tailor-made it had seemed with the cavernous warehouses below, where cartons of her famous clothing and fabrics could be stored and loaded for export, and the gleaming, modern offices above where new and exciting designs would be born daily, nurtured from an initial spark of an idea to their final glorious creation.

Or that was the theory at any rate. Instead the Heal's project was long overdue, suffering from miserably overextended labour pains. If Aiden had his way, she'd be surrounded by doctors sharpening their forceps ready to do some yanking. But creativity didn't work that way.

'Yes, well, it sounds dramatic all right,' Jennifer replied.

'That was all? Didn't she give details?' Georgina glanced with distaste at the portfolio of sketches on her desk. They weren't right. All the yes people would coo over them, applaud her genius, but she, Georgina Giordani Carrington – and possibly the buyers – could call a dog a dog, especially when it was urinating on her lawn.

'I read you the whole thing.' Jennifer sounded remote. Surely after all these years she couldn't still be angry about her and Aiden? Or perhaps she resented being used as Nutmeg's mouthpiece?

'Yes, but what kind of lump? Whereabouts? Neck? Breast? Groin?' Georgina turned her back as Aiden walked into the office, tapped his watch twice and walked out again.

'She didn't say.'

'What size? Pea? Plum? Grapefruit?' She couldn't find her blasted pen. The fountain pen she took to every meeting, used to sign every contract, the one her father had given her when she graduated. Where on earth could it be? She pushed aside her desk diary and gave a sigh of relief as she uncovered it. Silly to be superstitious but Georgina believed strongly in luck, good or bad.

'How am I supposed to know? And before you ask, no, I have no idea if it's malignant. Or why she isn't getting tested in the States.'

'So you haven't emailed her back? Or telephoned?' Georgina did her best to make it sound neutral. Ten minutes ago when she was flicking through her diary, wondering why Aiden had arranged all these blasted lunch meetings when he
knew
she found the entire public eating thing an absolute ordeal, she'd had quite a shock when her receptionist informed her Jennifer was on the line, experiencing a mixed bag of emotions veering between astonishment, excitement and dread.

'I wanted to talk to you before I contacted her. See what you thought.'

Silence while Georgina took this in. If truth be told, their last meeting ten years ago had been about as jolly as three pit bulls tied together in a sack.

'Bottom line,' Jennifer continued, 'do we agree to meet her or not?'

'What do you think?' Georgina stalled.

'I'd have said no, but the lump has me worried. Of course,' she sounded mildly sarcastic, 'we don't know if it's a pea, a plum or a sodding bloody potato. But on the other hand, what if she's . . .'

'Has she spoken to Rowan?' Georgina interrupted.

'I don't know,' Jennifer replied. 'Did you ever hear from her again?'

'No. I tried tracking her down but I simply couldn't find her. You?'

'I had other things on my mind.'

Georgina didn't respond.

'Sorry, Georgie,' Jennifer continued, 'I can't talk long, the shop's getting busy.'

'You mean we're both shopkeepers, how frightfully funny.' Georgina seized on what she thought might be a small patch of common ground, however weedy. 'We just opened a third Giordani. In Bath. We . . .'

'I don't own it,' Jennifer interjected. 'I work here. Voluntarily. For a charity.'

'Oh? Well done,' Georgina congratulated her. 'We all have to do our bit. So tell me about your life? Do you have children?'

'One child, a little girl.'

'How lovely. And how long married? Who's the lucky chap?'

What a preposterous thing to say, thought Georgina. As if she were likely to know him. She couldn't help but feel ridiculous, too, for being relieved that Jennifer had settled down, as if she was still some threat after all these years. Aiden had never explained his late return that night after the reunion, but she had her suspicions.

'His name's Oliver Stoneman. Ollie. He's an engineer. Actually he's the student I was seeing when . . .'

'The young stud! Really? So you
did
get married. And it all worked out. Goes to show how wrong I was. No one should
ever
listen to me.'

'No, you were right. We're about to divorce,' Jennifer said, sounding even more subdued.

'Oh, I'm sorry.' Worse and worse. Nearing forty and about to be single again, just as her youth had well and truly faded? Georgina couldn't imagine a worse fate. And working for nothing in some second-hand dump, sifting through people's discards. Life could be so cruel.

'So do you want to be part of this or not?' Jen sounded like she couldn't care less one way or the another.

Liam, a young intern with a striking resemblance to Tin Tin, stuck his cockatoo crest nervously through the door. Sent to do Aiden's dirty work and clearly not relishing the job.

'Five minutes,' Georgina mouthed silently, holding up one hand, fingers splayed. Liam nodded and disappeared. 'I don't know. So she's staying in Ashport?'

'So it would seem.'

'Permanently? Or temporary?'

'I don't know.'

'Married?'

'Haven't an earthly.'

'Children?'

'Not a clue. Look, quit with the questions, you know just as much as me now. And my manager needs the phone. I'm going to meet her whatever you decide. Whatever her faults, she was a good friend. I don't see how I can refuse. So are you in or not?'

Georgina walked to the window again, but she was no longer seeing the Thames. She was remembering a younger Georgina, greasy-skinned, grossly overweight, sick with nerves and excitement as she headed out on her first ever date.

Gary Lewis, one of the alpha males in fifth form, had passed a note to her across the canteen.

'Odeon. Six p.m. this Friday. Meet me there?'

Disbelieving, she'd glanced across the chatting heads to Gary's table, where eyes were keenly watching her reaction. When they saw her look, Gary gave a foxy grin and a thumbs up.

'Oh goblins.' She turned away, blushing, unable suddenly to swallow a bite of her sponge pudding. 'Oh crumbs.'

'Let me see that.' Jennifer won the tussle for the note, Rowan and Nutmeg reading over her shoulder.

'Georgie, that's brill. We'll be able to double date,' Jennifer said, the only one with a boyfriend.

'I'll do your make-up,' Rowan offered.

Nutmeg was less enthused. 'Gary Lewis is a total prick. I wouldn't fall for it.'

'You're only saying that because he didn't ask you,' Georgina bristled. Now that his acne was almost cleared up, Gary was definitely one of the better-looking boys in their year.

'Are you kidding?' Nutmeg tossed her ginger head scornfully and shook her multitude of bracelets. She'd favoured a Madonna look ever since the Live Aid gig and today the scrunched gelled hair around her forehead was backcombed, piled high and held with tortoiseshell clips while the rest hung loose and messy. 'I wouldn't be seen dead with that immature clown. Anyway Herb got me tickets and backstage passes to Saturday's Stones gig. He's playing with the warm-up band and David Lockhart, the hunkiest guy in the Lower Sixth, is going with me. So there. Herb knows Mick from way back.'

Sometimes she hated Nutmeg.

Still, when Gary blocked Georgina's path after lunch and asked, 'So will you go out with me?' Georgina found her throat too dry to speak and only managed a helpless nod.

She got her mother to drop her two streets from the Odeon so she wouldn't look like a fool arriving with a chaperone. They'd been out shopping that morning and she had on a black crushed-velvet dress with a little white collar that, remembering it now, made her look like an overstuffed maid. Her stockings were white which Rowan said was very mod but made her legs more sausage-like than ever, her black shoes had a half-inch spiky heel which was hard to walk in. Rowan, true to her word, had applied her black eyeliner along with a layering of sage advice.

'Let him pay for the tickets. Boys like that. But bring money just in case he doesn't have enough for yours. He'll probably want to hold your hand as soon as the film starts. If he wants to kiss you, say yes.'

As she approached the cinema she wondered what Jennifer was doing. Off with Starkey, no doubt. They rarely saw her outside school these days.

She remembered the feel of cold hard bricks as she leaned against a wall, almost too scared and keyed-up to turn the corner. All that stood between her and her first-ever date was one small road. She pictured herself walking to the cinema entrance, finding Gary standing by the edge of the pavement, looking up and down the street for her. Or perhaps he'd be in the queue, waiting for tickets. Yes, that was more likely. Today was the first showing of
Top Gun,
loads of kids she knew would be there. Kids who'd called her fatso or made oinking noises as she passed would see her go up and take Gary's hand. Maybe he'd even kiss her. She took a deep breath, summoned up her courage, and straightened up.

'Wait! Georgie!' There was the sound of running feet and Nutmeg screeched to a breathless halt, wearing leopard-print stretchy jeans and dozens of chain necklaces over a baggy white blouse. 'Don't go.' She was doubled over, panting. 'It's all a big set-up. Gary and his mates are in Wimpy's over the road. They dared him to ask you, they've got a big bet on it but he's going to stand you up. I wormed it out of David when he came to my house.' She stopped wheezing but her artfully dishevelled hair was still damp with sweat. 'All the boys know about it. Some of the girls too,' she added with more truth than tact.

Ashen, Georgina almost collapsed as she sagged against the wall, her legs losing strength. She felt sick . . . mortified . . . shrivelled with horror, sweat breaking out on her brow as the awfulness of the cruel joke overwhelmed her.

'But what . . . what should I do?' Her lower lip wobbled, her whole body trembled as she thought of how they must all be laughing at her.
Stupid fatso. Actually thought a boy might fancy her. Can you imagine it!

'I'll have to leave school,' she whispered, sinking to the pavement, her knees jellifying. 'I can't go back there. I'll just die.'

'Not so.' Nutmeg pulled her up with all her wiry strength, her fingers emerging from the cut-off tips of her black net gloves. 'Because you're coming to the gig with me. Clover's waiting with the car, the Stones don't come on till nine. I told David to go screw himself. And if old acne-face or anyone says a word about it, you tell them you planned to stand him up all the time. Just say he's not your type and you had a
far
better offer.'

There was a tap on the door and Georgina wrenched her mind back, realising Jennifer was still waiting at the other end of the line for an answer. No one had ever done anything that nice for her before or since. Nutmeg had sacrificed her chances with the school heart-throb to save her from public crucifixion and managed to turn her, albeit temporarily, from an object of derision to the envy of their school as the two of them swanned around the corridors the next day, talking loudly of how Mick had shaken their hands when Herb introduced them in the hospitality suite and how Bill Wyman had asked them if they'd like a Coke.

And now Nutmeg had a lump. Wasn't it time to put old resentments aside?

Her sales director John stuck his head through the door.

'Ready, Georgina? Aiden says you'd better get out there. They're all waiting.'

Sighing, she walked to the desk, picked up the portfolio her design team had produced. Not one in the whole shebang she was mildly enthusiastic about, and yet her entire empire could hardly grind to a halt because she was having the artistic equivalent of writer's block. Or could it? Did she really give a fig?

'Georgina?' She heard Jennifer's voice crackle.

'Yes,' she said at last. 'Yes, I'm in.'