Hens Reunited (15 page)

She clutched her bag to her now, just as she’d done back then in the school corridor all those years ago. Only now her bag was Balenciaga, glossy black and expensive, not a canvas rucksack with The Cure and Style Council drawn over it in marker pen. And now her hair was thick and sleek, not the ponytail it had been back in those days – the ponytail that Michelle had pulled on so hard at times, Georgia thought her roots would be ripped out.

It was disconcerting how she could be here with her glamorous bag, her salon-styled hair and her expensive designer shoes, and yet after just one glimpse of Michelle Jones, she’d felt as if her trappings had melted away to nothing, leaving her as gawky Georgie Knightmare all over again, vulnerable and bare.

She trembled at the thought, and Owen put his arm around her to steer her as they walked. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Her teeth chattered and she was unable to speak. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just . . . thinking about something. It was a long time ago.’

They were back at the ward now, and he stopped outside the swing doors. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Will you be all right from here?’

She nodded, trying to smile at him. She’d got it wrong about Owen McIntosh, he wasn’t so bad. She was glad her nan had him looking after her. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No problem,’ he said. Then he hesitated. ‘I guess I might see you again here?’ he ventured. ‘I mean, if you’re visiting Mrs Hatherley. She’ll be with us for a while, I think.’

Georgia didn’t answer immediately. She’d planned to go straight home tonight, after all – I’m A Londoner, Get Me Out Of Here! – and the hospital had already proved itself to be a dangerous place, with the sighting of Michelle. Why would Georgia want to come back for more?

But then she remembered Nan lying so feeble and pale in the bed. And she felt Owen’s dark eyes upon hers as he waited for her reply.

‘Yes,’ she said, surprising herself as the word fell out of her mouth. ‘Yes, I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you . . . will you be around, then?’

He smiled at her. She liked the way his eyes were so sparkly when he smiled. He was actually rather handsome, now she came to look at him properly. ‘I can be,’ he said. He glanced at his watch. ‘See you tomorrow then, Georgia.’

‘See you,’ she said. And away he went down the corridor, his white coat flapping behind him. Mmmmmm. Interesting.

Carol barged through the swing door then, almost knocking her over. ‘There you are!’ she said impatiently. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Georgia started at the sound. ‘Oh, hi,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Nice to see you too.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and her eyes narrowed. Carol, who’d never come to her rescue. Carol, who’d turned a blind eye, pretended not to notice the bullying. It rankled even now. So much for sisterhood. So much for We-Are-Family!

‘Where have you been? Nan’s awake, you know. We told her you were here and now she’s all upset because she thinks she’s missed you.’ Her voice rose an octave. ‘And where’s the frigging coffee?’

Georgia pushed past her sister, letting the door fall on Carol. Where’s the frigging coffee, indeed. Who did Carol think she was, anyway? Some kind of charlady?

She walked down the ward still bristling, but the sight of her nan’s face, eyes open, confused expression, sobered her immediately.

She dropped into the empty chair by the bed and took her grandmother’s gnarled fingers in her own. The tired old skin moved over the tired old bones. ‘Hi Nan,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Georgie.’

It was hard to doze off that night. On the rare occasions that Georgia visited her parents she had to sleep in the bedroom she’d shared with Carol throughout their childhood, and it always seemed to be the case that as soon as she lay down on the thin single mattress again, a whole host of shadowy memories would drift out from the faded striped wallpaper and hang above her like a mushroom cloud, choking her until she had to pull the duvet over her head.

So many times she’d lain here on this bed, weeping into the pillow, while Carol snored across the other side of the room. So many times she’d poured her heart out into her diary, all her fears about Michelle and her gang. All her wishes too that she would one day be in with the in-crowd; that one day she’d be liked by other girls, part of a group.

Over the years since then Georgia had wondered many times if Michelle, Gayle or Lindsey ever bought her newspaper, saw her byline. Did they feel guilt when they recognized her face staring out at them? Envy?

Both, she hoped. She hoped it turned their stomachs to read about her and her glamorous showbiz life. She hoped they felt ashamed. In reality, though, they probably felt nothing other than glee as they recalled all the times they’d made her cry.

Georgia had tried so hard to put those horrible teenage years behind her when she escaped down to London, and for a time, it had worked. She’d shaken the memories off and plunged into student life with abandon. It was only as the Christmas holidays were looming that she realized just how much she dreaded going back up north. The thought of seeing Michelle Jones’ sneering face again made her feel ill
.

And then, as term drew to a close, she’d lost it one night at the union bar. She’d had way too many cheap shots, and – so embarrassing – she’d burst into tears when that Slade song, ‘Merry X’mas Everybody’, started booming from the loudspeakers. Everyone was bellowing along with the words, except Georgia, who sat there with her head in her hands, weeping fit to bust. Alice – kind Alice – had taken her back to the hall of residence, made her hot chocolate and hugged her. ‘I just don’t want to go back,’ Georgia had sobbed. ‘I can’t face it again.’

Alice – saviour Alice – had stroked her hair. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

And then it all came out – the story she’d never told anyone properly before, not even her own mum. How she’d been madly in love with Carl Finchley, her first-ever boyfriend, but how Michelle kept picking on her, because
she
fancied him too. And how the bullying had gone on for weeks and weeks, months and months, until one day, just before Christmas, Michelle had beaten the shit out of her. Georgia had been hospitalized for two weeks with broken ribs and internal bleeding. ‘And I’m afraid you’ve lost the baby,’ the consultant had said, pity in his eyes.

The baby.
She hadn’t even known she was pregnant.

Alice – lovely Alice – had listened while Georgia sobbed her way through the whole sorry tale. She’d insisted on sleeping on Georgia’s floor that night, just in case Georgia couldn’t sleep and wanted to talk some more, and then, the very next morning, she’d got on the phone to her parents and arranged for Georgia to spend the whole Christmas break with them. That was what you called a good friend. And how had Georgia repaid her again?

Georgia shivered despite the warm night, not wanting to think about that. She punched her pillow into a more comfortable position and tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t shut down. What a day. Gob of the North and Michelle Jones, plus the terrible sight of her nan lying like that in the hospital bed. And it wasn’t just
seeing
her that had been upsetting. Hearing her talk had been absolutely heartbreaking. Nan’s strident no-nonsense tone had been replaced by a quavering stream of gibberish. Georgia had had to lean closer to try to make out the strangulated vowel sounds and muffled consonants, but it was as if the old lady was speaking in a foreign language – one that she couldn’t understand.

While her nan spoke with such difficulty Georgia’s glance had flicked across to her mum. She was close to tears, Georgia could tell. Horrible for her, Georgia thought, with a stab of sympathy. Horrible for them all, seeing this beloved woman reduced to such a state.

Still, it had comforted Georgia to be able to say to her nan ‘See you tomorrow’ when she’d left. Nan seemed to understand, and had seized Georgia’s hands again, her eyes brighter than they’d been all afternoon. Her mum had clutched at Georgia too, eagerness lighting her face. ‘You’re staying, then? You’re not dashing back off to London?’

‘I’ll stay tonight,’ Georgia had replied. It wasn’t as if she had anything pressing to do back home, after all. Once she’d filed her copy for Monday’s edition of the newspaper (a cut-and-paste job, generally – she saved things up for it during the rest of the week), she tended to catch up on her sleep and telly on Sunday, give herself a breather after the hectic schedule of her week. ‘If that’s all right, of course.’

‘Oh, Georgie! We’d love you to stay, wouldn’t we, Bob?’

Mr Knight patted her on the back. ‘Smashing,’ he said. ‘We can have a proper chat over tea, can’t we?’

A proper chat no doubt meant goal-by-goal analysis of the football season, plus the rumours he’d heard about the manager’s forthcoming sacking. Or maybe an in-depth discussion on the current Corrie storylines from her mum, or a wallet full of new photos of the gurning grandchildren that Georgia was supposed to admire.

Oh well. So be it. It was only one night, after all. She could see it through; she’d survived worse evenings in her time.

As it turned out though, they’d actually had quite a laugh, Georgia and her parents, sitting round the old table in the kitchen with their bangers, mash and beans, reminiscing about camping holidays in North Wales, and what-have-you. Georgia had forgotten just how much she loved her mum’s mashed potato; she tended not to do potato full stop, she knew what it did to the waistline – but tonight it had seemed like the comfort she needed. She’d forgotten just how infectious her dad’s roars of laughter were, too. It had felt cosy, just the three of them, without Carol sticking her disapproving oar in every few minutes. And Georgia had drunk enough of her dad’s whisky to send her spark out tonight – or so she’d hoped.

She sat up in bed and switched on the old bottle-green anglepoise lamp, the one by which she’d slaved over her homework in the evenings all those years ago. Despite the Scotch, she still felt too wired to drop off yet. She pulled her phone out and started checking her emails and texts. Got to keep in the loop. Got to stay in touch with her world.

She chuckled as she read an email from one of the reporters from the
Sunday Herald –
their sister paper – about the incriminating footage they’d been sent of a supermodel getting lairy after too much coke. Fantastic – she couldn’t wait to see that. Then she raised her eyebrows as she read the goss about one of the Man United WAGs, Layla Gallagher, who was rumoured to be pregnant. Interesting.

Layla made regular star appearances in Georgia’s column due to her wild antics – she was a party girl through and through, always in the clubs, dancing on tables, showing her arse. She had a background similar to Georgia’s – working-class girl made good – and was blinging it up with her boyfriend’s wages in hilarious style now. And boy, was she value if you ever got her on tape. Great quotes and one-liners tumbled from her lips with reliable frequency. She was especially accomplished at embarrassing her man, Carlos Ramirez, Man United’s current star.

So a baby for Carlos and Layla was big news. Despite a temporary curbing of Layla’s partying, there’d be plenty of mileage to be gained from belly shots, and speculations about Baby . . . The public always seemed to lap up such snippets.

Polly Nash, a junior hack, had been doing some research for Georgia, and had emailed some copy over for her to check (on Saturday! That was a bit keen), so Georgia spent a while tweaking it and rewriting, before replying to her other emails. It was only when she’d done that, reestablished her connection with her London life, that she was able to lie back down on the bed and close her eyes.

Just as she was about to sink into sleep, an image of Owen McIntosh floated into her mind and she smiled. Yes. Owen. She’d quite forgotten about him. She was rather looking forward to meeting him again tomorrow.

It was ridiculous how jittery Georgia felt the next day about returning to the hospital. Nervous about another near-collision with Michelle and that Nan might have taken a turn for the worse, but also intrigued about meeting Owen again. Had he been coming on to her when he’d said he’d see her today? Or was it some kind of pastoral-care thing, where he wanted to check she hadn’t had another panic attack?

Either way, she was looking forward to it. And thank heavens she’d had the foresight to stuff a change of clothes in her bag yesterday; you could never tell with Carol’s kids if they were going to puke on you, or scribble on you with felt-tip or something equally vile. And there was no way she would risk travelling back to London in that sort of a state.

It was a good choice, too, the dress she’d brought with her: a red summery one which actually made her look as if she had something resembling a cleavage. She considered her reflection in her mum’s full-length mirror. It was rather a look-at-me dress, the sort she’d wear to summer parties or receptions, with red stilettos and a sparkly bag. Was it too much for a visit to a Stockport hospital?

She shrugged. Oh, sod it. She didn’t have anything else with her, and Nan did like bright colours. And Owen . . . well, bless him, he was only a bloke after all. Either he wouldn’t notice (in which case he wasn’t a real man in the first place) or he’d assume the effort was all for him and get above himself (in which case, she’d have to take him down a peg or two). She found she was actually quite curious to see his reaction.

Nan was awake when they arrived at the hospital this time. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of Georgia and she stretched a withered arm in her direction.

‘Hello Nan,’ Georgia said, leaning over to kiss her face. It felt as dry as parchment. Poor thing. Georgia knew her grandmother had sunk countless pots of Pond’s cold cream into that face over the years to keep her skin soft, and now it was like kissing a piece of bark. She delved into her handbag and brought out her own jar of Crème de la Mer – a freebie she’d snitched from the beauty editor’s desk at work – and dabbed some onto the old lady’s cheeks. Four or five dabs – probably twenty quid’s worth. If it had been anyone else, Georgia might have made reference to the sum. She might even have joked about charging them. ‘There,’ was all she said, though. ‘That feel better?’