Hens Reunited (26 page)

‘He
was
suffering with it,’ Mrs Graham put in. ‘I tried to keep him off school, but he wasn’t having any of it . . .’

‘Ever since then, it’s as if he’s given up,’ Katie went on. ‘He’s stopped trying – he seems to have lost his confidence. And it’s a real shame because it was only one test. It would be terrible if he gave up just because things went wrong for him once.’

She felt oddly dazed as she finished her little spiel and wasn’t sure why for a moment. Then the truth resonated through her like a note from a tuning fork. Everything she’d just said about Conor Graham and him giving up on maths after one bad result was exactly what she’d done with her marriage. One negative experience, and she’d written it off for life.

She forced a smile and bid goodbye to the Grahams, her mind spinning.

The house felt hot and airless when she got in that evening, even though it was almost dark. It was messy in there – she hadn’t felt like tidying since Steve had packed his stuff and gone. Not like Control Freak Katie to let standards slip, but there you go. Right now, housework was not number one priority.

Katie padded through the rooms, pushing up the swollen, resistant sash windows to let the building breathe. She turned on a couple of lamps in the living room, creating soft pools of light, and sank into the sofa feeling unsettled. Her mind was still churning with thoughts about Nicki, Neil and Steve.

She dragged a chair from the kitchen to the bookcase and climbed up to reach down one of the boxes from the top shelf. There was dust on its top – she hadn’t looked inside for a long time. Now the thought of opening it up made her heart skitter.

She took it over to the sofa and lifted the lid. Packets of old photos were piled inside, hidden away in the dark like flashes of memory. She’d had to leave the fat wedding-photo album behind, of course, when she’d walked out on Neil (did he still have it, she wondered? A nice collection of wedding-photo albums he’d have amassed so far), but on impulse she’d grabbed a single packet of photos. Just for sentiment.

She rummaged through the pile, looking for it now. Katie being Katie, the packets were all carefully labelled and dated.
School trip – Isle of Wight
, she read in her girlish, rounded handwriting.
First term at Uni. Charlotte’s wedding. Georgia’s hen night –
God, there was some incriminating stuff in that lot! And finally . . .
Wedding, March 1994.
There.

She took it out, feeling shifty. What would Steve say if he walked in right now and found her going over her old wedding photos? She sat very still for a moment, breath held, listening, but there was no noise in the house. Don’t be daft, Katie. Steve’s gone, remember? Gone off in his hissy fit. He doesn’t care what you look at now. Probably finding someone else to marry him instead, just like Neil. Out with the old, and all that . . .

Full of a sudden
who-cares?
feeling, she opened the packet and took out the photos. She felt an ache inside as she saw the first few. There she was, just nineteen, looking serene and calm in her old bedroom, as Georgia pinned up her hair in one photo, and Alice put on her make-up in another. She was a baby, really – they all were. So fresh-faced and hopeful. Nineteen, though! What did anyone know about relationships at nineteen?

She felt a smile twist her mouth as she remembered the chaos of that wedding morning.
She’d
been organized, of course, taking deliveries of the flowers and arranging last-minute changes to the seating plan, but everyone else was running about flapping like headless chickens. Laura and Charlotte had had that ridiculous mix-up over their bridesmaid shoes, while her mum was at the sherry before midday, surprise surprise (‘Just getting into the party spirit!’), and almost had to be carried out to the wedding cars when they arrived.

There was a great photo of Katie and her bridesmaids – Georgia, Alice, Laura and Charlotte – all beaming into the camera. Katie in white, of course, with flowers garlanded in her long brown hair, and the four bridesmaids in dark pink with big puffy sleeves.

She flicked her way through a few more. Off they went in the cars, click click!

There was the church, and crowds milling about outside, click click!

There was Neil and his best man Rob looking shiny-faced and dapper in their morning suits. Neil looked endearingly nervous in one shot, where the photographer had caught him unawares, glancing towards the road, as if he was worried Katie wasn’t going to come. Although, knowing him, he’d probably been eyeing up the talent, wondering where Amy Phillips was.

She sighed. Why was she looking at these anyway? What was the point of raking up ancient history? Just a few more photos, she decided, then she’d put them away for another fourteen years.

There was her car arriving, with its white ribbons and flowers on the bonnet, click click.

Oh – and there she was, about to enter the church. She loved that photo. She was smiling, looking absolutely radiant with happiness, face upturned like a flower to the sun.

Katie blinked at the sudden wetness in her eyes. She could remember that moment as if it were yesterday. Her heart thudding underneath the tight bodice of her dress. Her fingers around the bouquet of white roses, the smell of the freshly mown church lawns. The bells were pealing and she was excited and nervous all at once, like an actress about to go on stage.

Her mum was already red-faced and loud, her breath so alcoholic it was practically a fire risk as she sat there making catty remarks about one of Neil’s cousins. Laura had nipped inside to try to shut her up, while Charlotte resolutely ignored her, head down, absent-mindedly pulling petals off her posy.

And then the organist had struck up the music, dah dah da-DAH! as she entered the church, terrified she was going to fall on her high heels in front of everyone, her eyes seeking out Neil’s as he stood there waiting for her, smiling at her . . .

She shoved the photos away abruptly and pushed away the tears that were sliding down her cheeks. What was the point of reliving the whole day? It was in the past now, same as the rest of their relationship. Nicki’s voice rang around her head:
I hope he didn’t put you off men for life!

Maybe not. She’d fallen in love with Steve, after all. But Neil had certainly put her off
marriage
for life. And who could blame her for feeling that way?

Chapter Fourteen

It Only Takes a Minute

Friday, 20 June 2008

It was a struggle to get out of bed on Friday morning. For the first time since Georgia could remember, the thought of being at her desk didn’t fill her with excitement. Usually, she was eager to get out and into action, digging up dirt, teasing out secrets and hot gossip, giggling over the pap shots from the night before as they came in. Usually, the ring of her phone was music to her ears, the promise of a new story, a new headline.

But today . . .

Today she felt kind of sluggish. Something she’d eaten? Not enough sleep? Aching muscles from yesterday’s strenuous BodyPump class? Hmmm . . . No, to the lot of them. She wasn’t quite sure what was causing this inertia, this reluctance to shake off the duvet, but there was definitely a feeling of
Thank God it’s almost the weekend
floating in her mind today. It was only the thought of beating Polly Nash into the office that finally saw Georgia stumbling from her bed and into the bathroom.

No gym this morning – she couldn’t be bothered. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d be late to her desk and she couldn’t bear to have the brown-noser smirking across at her from her corner. As it was, she was going to have to put up with Polly’s excited boasts about going to the Film Festival Awards that evening. Great.

She showered and dressed, grabbing a black coffee and a croissant from the deli on the corner before catching the bus into town. The newspaper office was in South Kensington, thank goodness – she’d cut her journalist teeth over in Wapping, the most soulless place on earth. The
Herald
wasn’t such a high-profile tabloid, but at least she could hit the Kings Road in her lunch hour and catch a minimum of five celebs by the time she’d reached Dino’s. And the number of times Georgia had got a scoop just by slipping on her sunglasses and earwigging discreetly in Mimi or Gloss or any of the other boutiques . . . well, she’d lost count by now, put it like that.

The bus was packed as usual, with suit-wearing slickers, rowdy schoolkids and the token bus nutter, in this instance, a woman wearing a red bobble hat and voluminous black mac, despite it being a warm summery morning. Georgia managed to get herself a seat upstairs by a window in front of someone playing thrash metal or something similar at top volume on their iPod, although the screaming electric guitar and thunderous bass sounded more like annoying buzzing insects in a tin can.

She slumped against the window feeling weary. She hadn’t even checked her phone for overnight emails and texts yet – was that a record? Usually it was the first thing she looked at every morning, before her own reflection in the bathroom mirror even. Today she just felt . . . jaded with it all. So what if another celeb had drunk too much in China Whites and flashed their knockers? So what if a soap star had thrown a strop at a too-keen fan and smashed their phone to the pavement? Such stunts, such people felt tiresome this morning. She had heard it all before, a billion times.

She gazed out of the window as the bus rumbled over the Thames. The river glittered in the morning sunshine, a thousand reflected sparkles twinkling like sequins on a dress. What was wrong with her, being so glum on such a gorgeous day? Come on, Georgia. Pull yourself together. No more moping. No more tickings-off from Isabella. Best foot forward, as her nan would have said.

She thought of her nan then, waking up in her hospital bed. She hoped the old lady’s fight was coming back now – hoped she had enough strength to start moaning about the hospital breakfasts they served up. Nan always made Scott’s Porage Oats at home – the proper way, thank you very much, with water, none of this faffing around with milk for her – and a mug of brick-coloured tea, two sugars. Georgia could imagine the pale soggy hospital toast with nasty margarine and felt sad. Well, next time she visited, she’d jolly well poke her nose into the standard of the food there and . . .

She stopped herself. Next time? She’d only just got back from a stay up north. It was way too soon to be planning another visit. Wasn’t it?

She wished she was closer to the hospital, suddenly. Just so that she was able to pop in after work some evenings. Drop round there with some marmalade for her nan’s toast (Frank Cooper’s, of course), or a flask of proper Tetley tea, just because she could. And
while
she still could, more to the point. It had been a wake-up call, seeing her nan so frail and fragile there in the hospital. A reminder that she wasn’t actually immortal after all. That one day, those papery eyelids would close for the last time and that would be that.

But anyway. On with the show. First email check of the day – and what glories would there be for her to discover this morning on her phone? Illicit snogging from already-married-to-other-people pop darlings at a gig last night? A Hollywood B-lister back in rehab after an amphetamine binge?

What-evah
, Catherine Tate drawled in her head.
Does my face look bovvered?

She waited for her inbox to appear . . . then her eyes widened as the screen filled with tiny writing, and she saw the subject line of the very first email. Oh God. Okay. She took that back. She
was
bothered. This really was news.

JAKE ARCHER – LOVE SPLIT she read. The stylus felt slippery between her fingers suddenly, and her heart thudded at the words. Jake Archer had split up with that actress bird?
Alice’s
Jake?

She hunched over her phone, desperately trying to find the full story. Ahh – just in on the entertainment wires. She scanned the details apprehensively. Yep – it was all over for Jake and posh skinny Victoria, according to this report; the gist being that he’d got sick of her jealousy and clingy behaviour.
Miaow.

Adrenalin skidded through her as it always did at a big new story. And this was a whopper. Massive. Breaking the news of Jake’s infidelity to Alice had sent sales of the paper rocketing last year. And now that
Flying High
was such a smash in the TV ratings, Jake Archer sold bucketloads of newspapers and magazines just by having his sexy chiselled mug on the front cover. This would be on every one of the front pages tomorrow, all right . . .

She turned away from the screen suddenly as a dart of guilt struck her. She remembered the tearful, hysterical phone call she’d had from Alice the day the storm had broken first time around.
Two-faced
, Alice had shrieked at her, voice catching with sobs. What else? Oh yes – that she was a bitch. And that Alice hated her guts and hoped she rotted in hell . . .

‘Well, that’s pregnancy hormones for you,’ Georgia had muttered when Alice had finally slammed down the phone, but her voice was shaky. ‘The woman’s gone completely bonkers. I’ve done her a favour, really, showing her what a two-timing cheat her husband is – and she goes and has an epi about it!’

A monster, Katie had called her. ‘That job’s turned you into a monster,’ she’d shouted at Georgia down the phone. ‘How could you
do
that to Alice? You’re supposed to be her friend!’

Yes. But somehow the size of the story, the lure of that front page . . . somehow, caught up in the thrill of the exclusive, Georgia had overlooked the friendship. The story had won.

At the time, Georgia had managed to kid herself that by exposing Jake’s infidelity, she’d actually helped Alice in the long run. And that she’d only been doing her job at the end of the day. But Alice hadn’t seen it like that, of course. Alice had taken it as a stab in the back, a betrayal. And when you looked at it in black and white, it was true.