When Good Friends Go Bad (15 page)

'Why did Rowan promise?' Jen questioned, though she could make a likely guess.

Meg rolled her eyes from across the room. 'Are you shittin' me? Her mom was as cuckoo as Joan Crawford and the crazy mother in
Carrie.
Who wouldn't rather be a truck-stop runaway than with that nutty broad?'

Yes, exaggeration was always Meg's thing. Rowan's mum might have been a touch wacko but prone to thrashing her child with coat hangers and crucifixes or stabbing her with scissors, she was not.

'So why didn't she call this Rowan?' Anamaria's well-defined brows frowned in puzzlement, the dog lead in her hand beating time to her squelching steps. She seemed enthralled by Jen's story.

'Because she can't find her.' Jen shivered, inadequately dressed for this slower pace. 'And we all used to be friends. Best friends. Until . . . well, I guess we were drifting apart before this, but something happened.'

The memory gave her chills. Meg showing up at the riding stables, a gigantic joint in the back pocket of her jeans, talking about smoking the peace pipe. The four of them huddled in the hay barn, only Georgina refusing to smoke, fearing the loss of control from getting high. If only they'd all taken that view, because the consequences of that day were so severe that Jen hadn't touched marijuana since.

No one knew which one of them had dropped the not quite spent match or flicked the ember that had started the whole conflagration.

All they knew was that the flames came frighteningly quickly. As did the fire engines, the police and all the ensuing fury.

It could have all been so much worse. They could have died, horses burned alive, the neighbourhood incinerated. The stable owner, Angela, might have sued them for the damage. But even though only the barn had been lost and no one was hurt, it was quite bad enough.

'After that we all went our separate ways,' Jen told Anamaria. 'Our parents saw to that. Ages ago Rowan contacted us, wanted us to get together, but she never showed. And now Meg claims her
angel
says it's vital we find Rowan. That Rowan needs us and we need her.'

'But do you believe that?' Anamaria said. 'Do you believe there is an angel?'

Jen snorted. 'Meg told us she was a mermaid when she was eleven. Said her tail returned when she went into the sea, but only if it were midnight and a full moon. But, well, last night at least one of us thought we should help her.'

And the most unlikely one of all.

She and Georgina were trying to take it all in when Aiden had gone over to the antique dresser and pulled out a pen and a sheet of embossed paper.

'All right then,' he'd said. 'Let's do it. Where should we start? Meg, how about you ask around Ashport, see if there's anyone there who knows where Rowan moved to? One of my mates used to take art classes with her. I could phone him.'

'Unusual, no?' Anamaria commented. 'The husband will get involved.'

'He's not only doing it for Georgina.' Jen felt obliged to explain. Although it
was
odd, come to think of it. 'Starkey, I mean Aiden, Starkey's what we used to call him, was friendly with Rowan too. We all knew him back then. He's a writer, has published poetry and everything.'

'And?' Anamaria gave her a peculiar look.

'And nothing,' Jen said guiltily.

'And nothing? Why, you're as red as that box.' She pointed at a dog litter bin.

'I used to go out with him, that was all,' Jen blurted out. 'And now he's married to Georgina. No big deal.'

'You still feel something? Ah, first love.'

'Not at all,' Jen said stiffly. 'It was just . . . uncomfortable . . . seeing him again.'

For a while the only sound came from woodpigeons cooing in the trees and Feo barking as he splashed happily through the puddles in pursuit of another squirrel.

At least this time she'd been prepared. And Aiden had behaved exactly as she'd expect a nice guy to, the attentive husband, a concerned, interested (but not too interested) friend. He looked great, of course, sleeker, lovely laugh lines round the eyes, not a hint of grey, nothing to suggest he was nearing forty-two. But if she got caught up in this stupid caper of Meg's she'd have to see him again and again. Was she ready for that?

No, she decided. It was time to let those sleeping dogs lie, tuck them in and slip some sleeping tablets into their Winalot if they refused to co-operate.

It made no sense to throw herself in Aiden's path once again.

No sense at all.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. It was as if Jen had stepped into a game of musical statues with the tape set to pause.

What on earth was going on?

She'd called into the shop and been confronted by Enid standing, freeze-frame, arms stiffly by her sides. Mrs Cartwright stood beside her, mouth agape, and Walter looked even stranger with his right hand raised to his right eyebrow, palm facing downwards in a naval salute.

Jen opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. Her gaze wandered to Enid, whose eyes occasionally flickered to the clock behind Walter's head. She was still wearing her jacket, and in the buttonhole and also, Jen noticed, in the left lapel of Walter's smartest black jacket, were crimson paper flowers – poppies.

Of course, Armistice Day.

Jen quietly closed the door behind her and stood next to Mrs Cartwright, joining the two minutes' silence. Seconds later, Enid gave the nod, Walter muttered, 'Lest we forget,' and they all started going about their business again.

Enid back to putting hats on a tall wooden display stand.

Mrs Cartwright to looking through a rail of dressing gowns.

Walter to manning the ancient till.

'So the hussy said yes, then?' Enid asked. 'We're talking about old Nobby and his bit on the side.' She winked at Jen. 'Mrs Cartwright's filling us in on all the gory details.'

'She did that.' Mrs Cartwright nodded vigorously. 'Said she'd marry him as soon as the divorce came through. Nobby's letting Myrtle keep the house. Fools imagine love'll pay the bills.'

Walter gave a bark of a laugh. 'Hussy? Bit on the side? Listen to the pair of you. You make the poor old dear sound like an octogenarian Mata Hari! Think she wooed Nobby away with her false teeth and her Zimmer frame?'

'Oh ignore him,' Enid told Mrs Cartwright. 'Sounds like they've made their beds and poor Myrtle's the one out in the cold.'

'Never too late, eh, Jenny?' Walter nudged Jen, who was already busy putting a new batch of videos into alphabetical order.

'Oh, er.' Jen's eyes flicked from Walter to Enid to Mrs Cartwright, recognising when retreat was the better part of valour. 'Oh, er,' she repeated, shoving all the videos on the shelf anyhow. 'I'm sure I hear the kettle.'

Jen was minding the shop alone a couple of hours later when Helen peered round the door.

'What's cooking, good-looking?'

'Helen!' Jen sprang up. 'What's up? Got the day off?'

'No.' she pushed the door open and came in backwards, dragging an extra-large hessian sack across the floor. 'I'm starting a new business.'

'New business?' Jen ran forward to help. 'What happened to the clinic and all those handsome doctors you were supposed to nab?'

Helen flopped into a low wicker basket chair labelled £4.50, relinquishing her burden as if it had taken her last iota of strength. 'They'd been nabbed already.' Her knuckles limply brushed the floor as her head flopped back, the picture of exhaustion. 'All married. I may be many things, but I've a strong sense of sisterhood.'

No guesses which side she'd be on in the Nobby and Myrtle debate. Helen was savagely insistent that husband-stealing was a big no-no – especially by mousy never-say-two-words-to-your-face bookkeepers like the drab little girl who had meekly walked off with Helen's ex-spouse.

Recovering a little, she sat up.

'I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to tell you.' Idly she glanced at the chair's price tag and dropped it back. 'One of the patients, Mrs Mindy, was complaining her house was full of junk. You know I love that clear out the clutter TV programme, so I offered to help. I've been at it all weekend. The woman makes Howard Hughes look like a Zen monk.'

'But what's that got to do with your job?'

'Well, two of Mrs Mindy's friends came in and they both want to hire me. I can always sign on with the agency again if it doesn't work out. Here, give me a hand.' She hoisted herself off the chair. 'I've a heap of stuff in the car.'

She wasn't kidding. Every inch of her Astra estate was full of plastic bags and cardboard boxes. 'Nothing better than chucking out someone else's old tat. You should have seen what I took to the dump. Moth-eaten clothes, old curtains, chewed-up slippers. But I've still got four bags of perfectly good clobber in there.'

'Then why get rid of it?' Jen started carrying boxes to the shop.

'One of my rules,' said Helen, dragging in another bag. 'If you haven't worn it in a year, it's out of there. You have to ask yourself is it essential, do I love it? And believe me there were clothes she hadn't worn in twenty years. Where is everyone? I thought we'd have more help.'

'Walter and Enid are at lunch. My turn next.'

'Good, I was hoping you'd be free. By the way, I saw Ollie in the pub on Sunday. I didn't know he knew Frances Hutton?'

Jen paused, the sharp corners of the box digging into her flesh. She felt her skin chill suddenly. 'She's the mother of one of Chloe's friends. How do you know her?'

'She goes to my gym. We did a pilates class together and she's always on those spinning bikes. Not that she needs toning up, the cow. She and Ollie seemed very chummy.' She quirked her brows, questioningly.

'They could well be,' Jen said flatly. 'None of my business.'

All the same, it was a shock when, later that day, Jen went to pick Chloe up from school and saw Ollie and Mrs Hutton standing together by the gates. Not overly together. He wasn't holding her hand or leaning in to whisper secrets, and when he saw Jen he waved and came towards her.

But they had been talking. And laughing.

It was incredible how much that irked.

'Om . . . om . . . om.'

Meg sat on the floor in yoga pants and a T-shirt, legs crossed in full lotus position, eyes closed, palm of her right hand resting on the palm of her left.

'Om . . . om . . . om. Om . . . om . . . om . . .' On a makeshift shrine in front of her, the elephant god Ganesh sat beside the rose quartz she'd found in Ashport's only New Age store.

Feel the breath enter, feel the breath leave,
she thought.

She was dreading this whole dumb testing ordeal. She had always hated medical procedures. Even the sight of a doctor's white coat scared her to death. And what would she do if the results were bad? Neither Jen nor Georgina had called her back yet. Why was everything always happening to her? Was all this supposed to be some kind of cosmic lesson? Clover used to say life never hands you more than you can deal with as long as you dose yourself with tranks.

She could hear Mace downstairs rattling around clashing pans.

'Om . . . om . . . om.'

Another smash.

He sounded like a chimpanzee let loose with a giant pair of cymbals. She gave up and went downstairs.

She was bored out of her skull and tired of telling herself this was all part of some great universal plan. There were ghost towns with more life than Armpit Ashport. Especially staying in her brother's semi-detached morgue. 'Meg, I've been calling you. I've cooked supper. You could at least sit down for it.'

'Sure, Pop. Whatever you say.' She surveyed her elder brother, glasses balanced on nose, his once long hair now short back and sides. She kinda missed the Boy George make-up, the crazy pirate outfits, the flamboyant hats that had been part of his wildly camp, New Romantic look in the eighties. Back then he'd been lost and drugged up, but at least he wasn't this stuffy alien she saw in front of her now. Wearing a suit – on a Saturday too. Ugh.

She pulled a cloth pouch from her pocket and extracted cigarette papers and a small cellophane bag.

'And do you mind not rolling up in here? Especially if that's pot. Paula's coming round later. She'll smell it for sure.'

'Whatever you say, bro.' She raised two fingers high in the air in a peace sign. 'Wouldn't want to offend the bitch queen. Don't you ever get high any more? What happened to you?'

'I grew up, Meg, that's what!'

Meg crinkled her nose at the impostor as he stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

She remembered Jen once convincing everyone their RE teacher was an impostor. She'd been off sick for weeks, returning later looking unrecognisably thin and wan. 'Look at how she talks,' Jen would whisper, 'her mouth never went like that, and her eyes used to be green. And she's shorter. I've actually measured myself against her.'

It turned out she was having chemo. Funny, that. A few weeks later her hair had been replaced by a wig and Jen felt terrible, even filched some flowers from Georgina's mother's garden as a gift to make up for her silly jokes.

The two siblings sat opposite each other silently eating dinner. Mace with his head in
The Times,
Meg glazy-eyed, staring at his slight bald patch.

'So who is the man behind that Iron Mask?' Meg said quietly at one point.

'What?' Mace raised his head. He even ate like a Brit, using his knife to squash peas on the back of his fork instead of shovelling them into his mouth like a red-blooded American. She wondered if he stood up when someone played 'God Save The Queen'.

'Nothing.' She kicked off her shoes. He was probably as depressed as she was. Pushing paper round all day in that stuffy office. Paying through the nose for his first wife and kids. Planning a registry-office wedding with his boring fiancée so they could settle down, raise more babies and be boring together.

'Zeb asleep?'

'No, he's playing Pacman on his GameBoy. I asked him to come down, but he's not hungry. Think I'll take him to see the switching on of the Oxford Street Christmas lights tomorrow night.'

'Good idea. Let him take in some London culture.' He propped his chin on his hand, staring. 'Do me a favour, Meg, and tell me what you're up to.'

'Me?' she said in mock surprise.

'Something's going down, what is it?'

'That's for me to know and you to wonder.'

'Well, there's the thing,' he nodded soberly, 'I do wonder why you and Zeb are over here with no immediate plans to go home when you can't afford a vacation. I know you home-school Zeb and he seems a bright boy, but isn't there supposed to be some structure, some accountability?'

'Not from me,' she said flippantly. 'You're the one that studied accountability.'

There was the sound of feet on the stairs, effectively ending the conversation, as Zeb bounced down.

'Hey, bud, your appetite come back?'

'Or something,' Zeb grunted, non-committal. He wasn't as bored as Meg had feared. She'd forgotten how novel a foreign country, even a place as tame as Ashport, could be. The differences, the Englishness of it all. He'd gotten a rise out of the scanners in the supermarket that added up your purchases, so all you had to do was take your groceries and the device to the cash register. He was happy spending hours on the penny machines at the amusement arcade, watching Sky movies on TV or playing on Mace's computer.

'Wash your hands before dinner.' Mace fussed over him like the cookie-baking all-American mother they'd never had. 'And get rid of your gum. Sit here. I'll get you a plate. And hold your fork the way I showed you.'

His voice faded out as Meg's eyes rolled heavenward and she began inwardly chanting again. Om. Om. Om.

Later Meg lay in the rust-stained old bath, water slopping over the rim as she heard her future sister-in-law and brother bickering.

Mace was right, she'd already been away too long. Immediate action was called for. She had to get all her ducks in a row in case this whole thing went down badly. And neither Jen nor Georgina had exactly leapt at the chance to shoulder lances and sally forth on Meg's proposed quest.

What the hell had happened to Jen, she mused, as she lathered up her arms. Scruffy, messy, funny Jen. Did marriage in England come with a lobotomy? That suburban-housewife act was almost as shocking as the changes in Georgina. Not to mention her apparent compulsion to tidy up, even in Georgina's already immaculate house. She had wiped down the coffee table with her handkerchief. Meg didn't even own a handkerchief.

She borrowed one of Mace's Bic razors and scraped it slowly down her leg. If she was honest, she knew there was little upside for Jen in joining the search for Rowan. And there was one big downside: Aiden.

She'd seen the shock in Jen's eyes all those years back when Aiden Starkson had walked into that restaurant. She knew her bolt for the restroom had had nothing to do with food poisoning or low blood pressure.

They might have managed to be civilised at Georgie's last week, but it would be only natural for Jen to want to avoid getting involved with Georgie-Porgie if it meant being around Aiden again. Meg wasn't that thrilled about the prospect herself. But she needed Jen's support. If she wouldn't give it, then it was sure as shooting that Georgina wouldn't be lending her assistance, either. Think, Meg, think. She plunged her head underwater and emerged covered in soap bubbles.

Her ears were ringing. No, they weren't. It was her cellphone. Covered in suds, she pulled herself out of the bath and dripped her way over to it.

'Meg?' a voice said. 'It's Jen. What the heck, I'm game . . .'