Hens Reunited (27 page)

Still. She wasn’t a monster. And yes, okay, Georgia had wished, more than once since then, that that particular morsel of gossip hadn’t reached her first. If Chloe Wells from the
Sun
had had the scoop, say, everything would have been different. Georgia might have been able to winkle a sympathetic interview out of Alice and keep her sweet for comments on any future developments (
Jake and Victoria’s new love-nest: read what ex-wife Alice has to say . . .
).

No. God, that made her sound even worse. Mercenary as hell. Only caring about her career. It wasn’t like that.
Really
, she said defensively to herself, really, it wasn’t. She just . . . missed having Alice in her life. Since Georgia’s article, there had been nothing but a frosty silence from her. Understandably. Their friendship down the pan after just five hundred words.

She sighed as the bus rumbled past the distinctive redbrick Chelsea Royal Hospital, and Owen’s face popped into her mind. What would Owen McIntosh say if he knew what she’d done, stitching up Alice the way she had?

She gazed unseeingly out of the window, feeling a prickle of shame. He’d have stared at her with contempt again, stalked away from her, no doubt. The worst thing was, she knew deep down that she’d have deserved it. What kind of a friend had she been, anyway, running the story about Jake without giving Alice any kind of heads-up beforehand? Her job had come first, without doubt. Alice had been the collateral damage.

Hmmm. And here she was again – Groundhog Day! – with a big new story about Jake. So what should she do this time? It felt like a second chance, somehow, possibly even a means to put things right. The paper would run the story, that was a given, but perhaps this time she could . . .

She frowned to herself, unable to think coherently, as London blurred before her eyes, the bus lurching away from the changing traffic lights. Why was she so sluggish today? Usually she’d have mapped out half a dozen snippets of feature ideas by the time she’d got out of the shower in the morning. Today, she felt about as much enthusiasm for going to work as she did for her smear test.

Once she got into the office – result, arriving five minutes before Polly’s new blue shoes tip-tapped across the floor – the newsroom was humming with variations on the Jake Archer split. Georgia being the paper’s showbiz reporter, this was her stomping ground, and almost as soon as she had sat down at her desk, Hester, Isabella’s assistant, buzzed through with the news that they were holding tomorrow’s front page for the story.

‘Excellent,’ Georgia said briskly, but inside she felt nauseous. She couldn’t help her thoughts swerving to Alice. Did she know yet about Jake and Victoria? Was she over him by now, or still heartbroken and pining? Knowing Alice, it would be the latter. She’d always been one of those devoted one-man woman types, even as a student when everyone else was hopping in and out of bed with whomever they fancied. And Alice had been crazy about Jake ever since the day she’d met him. Georgia could still remember how blissfully happy Alice had been at her hen night at that chilly spa place, stuck out in the middle of nowhere. She’d positively glowed with excitement as they’d lounged around in their white waffle robes, hadn’t stopped smiling once, it had seemed. Georgia had found all the mushy stuff rather nauseating, to be honest. There was only so much gooey-eyed wittering that a hardened hack could stomach.

Jealous?
a cynical little voice piped up in her head now, remembering this, and Georgia scoffed at it. Jealous, what – her? Georgia Knight, jealous of Alice the Mouse? As if!

All the same . . . it had been a lovely wedding, Alice and Jake. If you liked that sort of thing, of course. Smiling into each other’s eyes, holding hands at the altar, Alice with that beautiful velvet cape, like something from a fairy tale. Jake with a tear rolling down his manly cheek, even! Mind you, he was an actor, wasn’t he? They all knew he could cry like a tap if need be. But even so . . . there was something moving about it. And when she compared it with her own wedding day, with Harry coked off his head, buzzing around the ridiculously over-the-top reception like an overexcited hyena, then . . .

But anyway, this was all past history. Come on, Georgia! Work to do! And if Isabella had trusted her with the big front-page showbiz write-up after Wednesday’s humiliation, then she had to nail it.

So. Decision time. What angle should she take on this story?
Jake Jilts Again
? Not dramatic enough.
Archer’s Shot to the Heart
? Nah – too corny.

She leaned forward on her elbows, thinking hard. She could always work in some goodwill towards Alice, by skewing the story so that it reflected her in a good light:
Victoria: A Mistake, Says Jake.
Would she be able to get away with that kind of an angle?

Hmmm. Maybe not. He might get nasty and sue her for blatant fibbing.

Unless . . . Perhaps she could use this as an opportunity for some more solid bridge-building. She, Georgia Knight, could reunite Alice and Jake for the big happy ending. Amends would be made. Her conscience would be clear, Alice would forgive her, and, more importantly, she’d have a piece of tabloid dynamite to set off in Polly Nash’s face. Who needed film-award ceremonies anyway?

She picked up her phone and buzzed through to Jacquie, the features secretary, her mind spinning with good intentions. ‘Jacquie, get me Jake Archer’s number, would you?’ she asked.

Jake Archer had gone to ground, unsurprisingly, and the incoming news wires were thick with rumours about where he was hiding out. A luxury yacht in Marbella, claimed one source. A secluded hunting lodge in the Highlands of Scotland, reported another. A third tip-off was that he’d been spotted in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in New York, although Georgia’s US sources had had no word on that.

Georgia had her own private theory. What if he’d gone back to his and Alice’s old apartment? Or, even better, what if he’d tracked down Alice, wherever she lived these days, and was begging for her forgiveness?

The problem was, getting hold of Alice had proved almost as hard as locating her famous ex-husband. She was ex-directory these days and despite Jacquie’s best digging around, no number could be found. Katie hadn’t been forthcoming either. ‘I saw on breakfast telly that Jake’s dumped his new woman,’ Katie had said with her usual candour when Georgia had called her mobile. ‘So no, you can’t have Alice’s number. I know you too well, Georgia Knight.’

That stung, more than Georgia cared to admit. Even her best friend thought she was a troublemaker, bent on stirring things up. When, actually, she was trying to do something rather selfless, thank you very much!

Finally, she’d managed to track down Alice’s parents (they were ex-directory too, just to make life more difficult) and had fibbed a line to Alice’s dad about her being an old friend from the theatre where Alice had worked. At last she’d been able to scribble down the sacred digits and dial.

Throughout her life, Georgia had made all sorts of telephone calls that lesser mortals might have quailed at: she had phoned David Beckham pretending to be a call girl hoping to get a story (he’d hung up on her); she’d managed to wangle a direct line to Prince William once and had put on an American accent and impersonated Britney Spears, hoping he’d fall for her trap (no such luck); she’d even tried a phone scam on Elton John, pretending she was his long-lost love-child (he’d laughed and said ‘Pull the other one, darling’ before cutting her off). She’d done all that and millions of calls like them without batting an eyelid. So why the hell was her heart pounding now as she waited for Alice to answer?

Ring-ring

Ring-ring

Ring-ring . . .

Then a click, and Georgia took a deep breath. But instead of Alice’s sweet voice, there came a robotic automated one, telling her to leave a message at the tone. BEEP!

‘Alice, hi, it’s me, Georgia,’ she said, hoping the briskness in her voice was enough to cover any hint of nerves. ‘I’m ringing up with some news. It’s about Jake.’ She hesitated. Should she drop the bombshell into Alice’s answerphone? Best to tell her properly, in fairness. ‘Could you give me a ring, please? No catch.’ She swallowed. ‘Oh, and Alice? I’m sorry about what happened. Truly. I owe you one. So give me a ring and we can talk.’

Now she just had to wait and see how badly Alice wanted Jake back.

‘So, are you telling me you’ve actually got photographic evidence of that?’

Polly’s voice was more high-pitched than usual, and Georgia’s ears pricked up. What had Goody Two-Shoes got her paws on this time?

‘Oooh . . . sounds very juicy. Will you email me that, Clare? . . . Of course! You can trust me. You’re a star. This is hot, you know, babe! Isabella is going to love it!’

Georgia gritted her teeth at Polly’s excited twittering. But it wasn’t just Polly. Everyone, it seemed, was gossiping around her.

‘What, Kate Moss really said that? Can I quote you on that?’

‘Yep, got that, nervous breakdown, Priory, overdose. What is he like? Cheers, sweets, I owe you . . .’

‘Oh God! Have you seen Popbitch today? She is such a slapper, isn’t she? . . . yeah, we’ve got a photo of it . . . ’Course we’re printing it! Slag deserves all she gets, if you ask me . . .’

Georgia lifted her head and stared around at her colleagues as if seeing them clearly for the first time. There was Sandra, in her fifties now, a peroxide blonde with a vicious tongue and a heart of steel. Three divorces she’d been through, no kids, currently a twenty-something toy boy on the go. Then there was Lola, spoilt little Daddy’s girl, who’d only got her job because she was in with all the Chelsea it girls and brought in loads of fabulous gossip from Boujis and the other poshos’ hang-outs. And Leon, who read every single celeb mag going as if it was part of his religion, who could spot a WAG or wannabe from fifty paces, and who had a real knack for hunting down exclusives.

They were all good journalists who could bang out 200 words’ witty copy at the drop of a hat, who could winkle out interesting morsels from even the most guarded of interviewees, but . . . Georgia rubbed her eyes. Today, she couldn’t help seeing the tawdry side of what they all did for a living: selling papers on the back of others’ misfortunes.

She shook her head. She mustn’t think like that. Mustn’t go soft. She’d lose her job within seconds if Isabella detected any weakness in her.

She got to her feet and went over to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. One of the assistants was in there waiting for the kettle to boil, a sweet-looking thing with wide eyes and a mane of red hair.

‘Hi,’ she said timidly, dropping a tea bag into a Battersea Dogs’ Home mug. Georgia could see she’d put a sticky label around it saying ‘Lily’s mug!!!!!’ ‘You’re Georgia Knight, aren’t you? We’ve had loads of entries for your competition, you know. Over a hundred already!’

Your competition
indeed. Like she’d had any say in it! ‘Really,’ Georgia said tightly. ‘Lucky old me.’

Steam gushed from the kettle’s spout and the girl switched it off. ‘Some of them sound really nice,’ she said defensively. ‘One even phoned up, he was so keen to win, you know . . .’

Georgia pulled a face. ‘Oh Gawd,’ she said. ‘Sounds a bit stalker-ish to me. I’ll have to scan them for weirdo potential before I choose anyone.’

The girl blanched. ‘Um . . . well, actually, Isabella said . . .’ She bit her lip as if steeling herself to finish the sentence. ‘Isabella said not to show you the entries. Said it would be more . . . fun that way.’ Her voice had become a whisper and she lowered her eyes.

Georgia snorted, feeling furious. Was Isabella trying to make a monkey of her? ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she retorted, to save face as much as anything, and stormed out of the room without making her drink. She’d pick up a coffee from the deli on the corner instead, she decided, grabbing her purse and stalking through the large glass doors. Suddenly the office felt a very toxic place to be.

South Kensington was heaving – crowds of tourists en route to the V&A, fevered fashionistas on shopping missions, open-top buses rumbling along bound for Hyde Park, black cabs patrolling the streets. The sort of quintessential London scene she’d loved being caught up in not so very long ago. Today it felt too noisy, too fast. She wandered up to her favourite deli on Brompton Road to get herself a latte and was about to go inside when a stick-thin woman with big hair and even bigger sunglasses barged past her, almost knocking her over.

‘Watch it!’ Georgia growled.

The woman turned and then raised her eyebrows to peer at her. ‘Oh, it’s
you
,’ she said scornfully. ‘I was about to apologize but I won’t bother. Not after the lies you’ve been printing about my daughter!’

Georgia stared, not recognizing her accuser. Whose mother was she? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling,’ she replied coldly. Passers-by were casting curious looks their way and the guy from the deli was blatantly leaning over the counter so he could listen. Oh Christ. Who had she offended now, then? She was so not in the mood for this.

She took a step towards the door but the woman grabbed her arm. Red nails like talons; polished and buffed in the best Chelsea salons no doubt. ‘If you print another word about Sasha, I’m calling the lawyers,’ she hissed. ‘Got that?’

Oh, right. Sasha’s mum? That figured. ‘Get stuffed,’ Georgia snapped, throwing the witch’s claws from her arm and striding into the deli. ‘Latte, please,’ she said crisply, hoping the guy behind the counter wouldn’t notice how badly her hands were shaking. Sasha Withington-Jones was one of this season’s it girls and a right royal pain in the arse, if you asked Georgia. Famous for nothing but being blonde, photogenic and minted, Sasha had made regular appearances in the tabloid pages and celeb magazines until she’d been photographed clambering awkwardly out of a cab, and Georgia had given her a new nickname. Unfortunately for Sasha, the nickname had stuck and Sasha the Flasha was now an object of mirth, rather than anything else. But for goodness’ sake . . . what did the girl expect?