When Good Friends Go Bad (17 page)

'And you've a block!' Meg was aghast. ''I swear there's FBI dossiers with less detail.'

They were through the doors now, breathing in the familiar school smell of disinfectant and chalk dust.

The crowd surged to the right but Meg grabbed Jen's arm and pulled her the other way.

'Come on,' she said. 'Let's go find our old lockers.'

When they finally made it to the Christmas bazaar the assembly hall looked nothing like it had on those early mornings when the headmaster used to drone at them before class, complaining about pupils running in the corridors or the unauthorised modifications to school uniform. Tables with red and green cloths were set out all around the perimeter with rows of more tables in between. They were laden with everything from mince pies and Christmas cards, to tea towels printed with pictures hand-drawn by the pupils and shop-bought tat.

In the melee they recognised more than one familiar face. Their old games mistress managing the table dedicated to home-made jams and chutneys. The once young and trendy art teacher, now grey and several stones heavier, judging the cake-decorating competition. Enquiries about Rowan, however, met with a total blank.

'I should have brought Zeb,' Meg said, as they passed the Santa Claus onstage and browsed the white elephant stall. 'He might have got a kick out of this.'

They stared at her.

'He's with you? In England? You never said.' Once again Meg had surprised Jen. Did she intentionally forget to tell them things?

'Yeah, well,' Meg's attention was diverted by a giant fruit cake on the next table, proudly displayed on an elevated stand, 'who else would I leave him with? Hey, Georgie, how much do you reckon that weighs? Best guess?'

'How many calories is more to the point.' Georgina swept her glance over it, 'I really think we have to go. I told Aiden I'd be home by six.'

'But where's Zeb now?' Jen persisted. 'I'd love to meet him. Maybe you could bring him over to play with Chloe one day.'

'Mace took him to the Science Museum. Hey,' Meg pointed to a little crowd gathered around the tombola. 'Isn't that the old school secretary?' And she was off, weaving through the throng at a run.

By the time the others caught up Meg had ended her conversation and was coming back.

'Big news, girls,' she sang. 'We've had like killer luck!'

'She knows where Rowan is?' Jen gasped.

'Hasn't a clue. Said over a thousand pupils pass through these doors each year,' she affected a prim lecturing tone, 'and they're not obliged to keep records twenty-two years old. But turns out Isobel Phillips loved this place until the day she died. She was very involved with the school after she'd finished uni, even became a member of the board. So farting Frank decided to host a twenty-year reunion in her honour, a kinda memorial party. Everybody she finished school with got invitations, all those they could track down, that is. You must have got one, Georgie. You stayed on.'

Georgina shook her head. 'I throw those things away. Unopened.'

'Whatever. It's on 29th November. Just a week and a bit's time. Isn't that great? What if Rowan's there? Unlikely, I know, but she might have heard about it somehow. And even if she doesn't come, I'll just betcha someone there knows where she is.'

There was little conversation on the drive back, Jen switching on Radio 4 to listen to
PM,
Georgina staring out the window into the darkness as spots of rain hit the windscreen, apparently lost in her own thoughts. But she seemed to rally and shake herself back to reality as they pulled up at what Jen had privately labelled Giordani Manor.

'Ashport's a dump, isn't it?' Her grin was surprising, given her previous silence, and made Jen wonder if she'd imagined the tension in the car, if it had all come from her. 'Even more dismal than I remembered. We can meet in my house again, but it had better be soon if we intend going to that reunion Saturday week. I should get Aiden to sit in.'

And just like that, Jen felt better again. Driving the short distance back to Huntsleigh she found herself singing along with the radio. All in all it had been a fun day. And the reunion was definitely something to look forward to. Something to focus on, a mission to distract her from all the doom and gloom at home.

'Like a virgin . . .' she bawled out and laughed, recollecting Meg's Desperately Seeking fan.

Gunfire reverberated through the hall when Jen walked back in the house, throwing her coat on the banister railing.

Ollie was settled on the beige cotton sofa watching
Terminator,
supping lager from a can and eating a large bowl of Chloe's favourite microwave popcorn. Kicked back, relaxed, about as happy as a man could be on a Thursday night alone, so it was a shock when, registering her presence, he snapped to attention, lowered the volume, put the popcorn down and began hunting for a coaster and simultaneously using his sleeve to wipe the damp ring from the coffee table.

Honestly! Anyone would think she was a murderous domineering harpy.

'Don't worry,' she smiled weakly, feeling bad about spoiling his mood. 'Carry on. I can wipe that off in the morning. It's only glass.'

Again, did he have to look so surprised? Just because she'd got a bit tidier over the years, liked things to look nice. It wasn't as if she were
neurotic.

'OK, thanks,' he said, still staring but relaxing back. 'How was your visit?' he asked, grasping another handful of popcorn. A kernel missed its intended destination and landed on the carpet, but she resisted rushing for the dustpan and brush.

'Fine.' She hated that sofa, she realised now. When she'd first bought the suite Ollie had complained that it was too bland and too narrow to snuggle on, but she'd pushed for its stark clean lines. In the shop its blond wood legs, minimal upholstery and matching glass coffee table had seemed elegant and chic. But the fabric had proved almost impossible to keep clean and once again it seemed she'd sacrificed comfort and even functionality for the sake of appearances.

Ollie was scrutinising her. 'You look happy,' he said, unexpectedly. The thing about blue eyes, when they were the intense blue of her soon-to-be ex's, they made you feel as transparent as that blasted coffee table, as if he could see right through clothes and skin into all her hidden depths.

'Your cheeks are glowing,' he observed. 'Those friends of yours must be doing you good.'

'Probably the sea air.' Now she found herself squirming, wanting to get away from him and his canny insights. 'Is Chloe asleep?'

'Ages ago. We watched a film.' He was still staring at her, damn him. What was he thinking? That 'happy' was so rare for her? Out of the corner of her eye she could see her coat, hanging where she'd thrown it. Better tidy that away, what if buyers showed up tomorrow?

'Wanna sit?' He moved the two cushions which were all the neat-freak Jen would allow, making a space beside him. 'We can watch something else. Shall I get you a beer? I wanted to chat to you anyway, I've been thinking . . .'

I've been thinking . . .
Why did those words throw her in such a panic? Maybe because last time they preceded him angling for a divorce.

'I need to check the messages first,' she gabbled, launching herself at the phone. 'Did anyone ring?' She was already punching the number for voicemail.

'Helen. Asked if you could call her back sometime. I might have missed a couple of calls though.' Ollie sighed and leaned back, turning up the gunfire again so she had to stick her finger in her ear to hear the announcer say 'Two messages'.

See. Two messages. She felt vindicated. And they could be really, very important. Just because Ollie didn't feel like answering the phone.

'Mrs Stoneman,' the familiar voice was unusually chipper, 'please call me at your earliest convenience. I do believe we have a nibble.'

'It's Mr Hagard,' she yelled over to the mop of dusty-blond hair she could see sticking up above the sofa back. 'He's got a nibble.'

Ollie's head failed to turn. More popcorn fell on the floor. Who cared? Soon she'd be leaving that carpet for good.

The second one was even more gleeful. 'Mrs Stoneman, Mr Stoneman, phone me tomorrow, first thing. I have some excellent . . .' she could almost hear him rubbing his hands together, '. . . news.'

Ollie was asleep the next morning when Jen jumped out of bed at six a.m., unable to wait for daylight. He was making those little puffing sounds that she'd found so cute and adorable when they'd first got together. Now they made her want to stick a pillow over his head.

Maybe they shouldn't be sharing a bed now that the nisi was through. But besides not wanting to upset Chloe, sleeping with Ollie was one of the things she'd find hardest to let go. When his breathing became deep and steady she'd turn towards him, put her arm around his waist, sneak her knee between his thighs and bask in the heat radiating from his body. But what basis was that for a marriage? Wouldn't it be more appropriate to simply buy a hot-water bottle?

She hadn't heard him come to bed and he failed to stir as she put her feet in her slippers and walked to the bathroom. Was he angry with her last night? She couldn't tell any more.

It was half dark when she hit the streets running, then she had to get Chloe to school. At exactly one minute past nine she was calling the estate agent but there was no sign of Ollie, not even a plate in the sink. He must have gone out for breakfast while she was dropping off Chloe. Anyone would imagine he'd be a bit more interested in this new development, but all he'd said last night was, 'You can sort it out. You're more up on these things than me.'

'Mr and Mrs Radcliffe have put in an offer.'

'What!' Jen clutched at the phone. At last! Thank you God. Thank you Jesus. Mwah. Mwah. She mimed big lip-smacking kisses. I will
never
let you down again.

Mr Hagard sounded exceptionally smug as he named a price that would have seemed ridiculously low a few months ago. 'I know it's not as much as you expected, but Mr and Mrs Radcliffe don't . . .'

'What position are they in?' Jen hated the sycophantic Mr Hagard. Still, if all went well, she wouldn't have to bear him for much longer.

'Only one below them in the chain. It should all tie up nicely. Believe me, Mrs Stoneman, I don't think you're going to get much better in the current climate.'

'What about when the weather warms up?'

'Sorry?'

'Forget it. We'll accept it.'

'Don't you want to consult with your . . . er . . . husband first?'

Sexist pig. Ollie had told her to handle it. And anyway he'd buggered off without his mobile, which was on the table.

'No.
Nor ask my daddy either,'
she added under her breath.

'I see.' On the other end of the line Mr Hagard was tapping his pen against his teeth. 'Well, if Mr Stoneman has any questions, please ask him to give me a buzz, would you?'

'Will do,' she chimed and put the phone down.

Jen spent the afternoon scouring the
Huntsleigh Chronicle
for large flats or perhaps small houses. Now they were under offer, she felt a sudden pressure to buy, but she had no idea what she wanted or what she could really afford. She could rent. But that would mean two sets of removals, two lots of packing and unpacking, two disruptions for Chloe. She closed the paper defeated by the enormity of the decisions still to be made.

And still no sign of Ollie. He knew the estate agent had big news. How inconsiderate to stick her with it all and not even call. All very well to leave her with this kind of stuff when he was away on business, but this was their future at stake now. For all her bravado with Mr Hagard and her anxiousness to get everything settled, what if Ollie didn't believe it was enough?

Chloe entered the kitchen chatting animatedly to a friend on her mobile.

'Daniel thinks he's so well hard, just cos he got a wallet chain and baggy skater trousers for his birthday. Like, wow . . . Becs, tell my mum what he said about your teeth.' She flung the phone at Jen.

'He said I had big sticky-out teeth like a rabbit,' Becs whimpered in her ear.

Chloe took the phone away again.

'He's not exactly fit himself, is he? Minger.'

'Yeah, and rabbits can give a really nasty bite,' Jen volunteered.

'What?' Chloe snorted, unamused, and flounced upstairs.

Another one who wouldn't like this latest development, Jen thought.

The phone rang and she snatched it, expecting Ollie. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'Here,' Georgina said. 'I was calling to invite you over.'

'Don't be worried. This won't hurt a bit.'

'I gotta tell you, honey.' Meg grimaced as a nurse dressed in a smart white tunic drew near. 'Us Lennoxes, we don't do pain. I need the nitrous oxide turned up full blast to get my teeth cleaned.'

'It's just going to be a quick swab.'

'Can I lie down?'

The nurse smiled. 'Yes, if you want.'

Meg winked at Zeb sitting in the chair to her left.

'No need to look like that, kiddo. Bravery doesn't run in our family. Poppa's daddy was the same, they took some blood before he joined the army and he fainted flat out on the floor. Instead of a Purple Heart, they awarded him a white feather.'

'OK,' the nurse said five minutes later. 'All done.'

'That was it?'

'Yes,' the nurse smiled kindly, as she started writing her notes. 'That was it.'

Aiden answered the door sporting a just-got-out-of-bed look at five minutes to noon. His dark hair was ruffled, his feet bare and he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over loose black trousers that might have been pyjamas or part of a karate outfit, it was hard to tell. Anyway he looked unfairly gorgeous.

'Hey, come in.' Sleepily he scratched his chest and yawned. 'Georgina had to pop out, said she won't be long though. Some calamity with one of the shops.'

'On a Sunday?' Feeling shy and horribly ill at ease, she stepped past him into the grand hallway with its elaborately carved Jacobean staircase and tried not to imagine him sweeping her, Rhett Butler-style, into his arms and up its angled corners.

'Yeah, well, when Giordani calls we all jump to it.' He leant forward to kiss Jen on the cheek, his breath warm, his nearness almost suffocating. 'Meg rang to say she'll be late too.'

Bugger Meg, Jen cursed. Why on earth didn't she ring to warn her? Spending time by herself with Georgina would be bad enough. The idea of being alone with Aiden made her feel like a shivering, quivering wreck.

Aiden eyed her with lazy amusement, his long lashes fanning his cheek. 'Make yourself comfortable,' he suggested. 'Our home is your home.'

'Gee thanks!' Did her voice sound as unnatural to him as it did to her? 'I've always wanted to live in a Grade Two listed manor house.'

'Shall I take your coat?'

'Cheers.' She started to unhook her arms and he came up beside her and helped pull it down from her shoulders.

'And umbrella?' He had her coat over his arm.

'Oh God, yeah, sorry.' She'd forgotten she was still clutching it, even though she'd had to transfer it from one hand to the other to extricate herself from her sleeves. To her horror it was dripping on the floor, probably staining the fine wood. 'Sorry,' she said again, handing it over. He put it in an umbrella stand beside the coat rack and hung her coat over the baluster.

'Don't look so scared, Titch.' He threw her a reassuring smile before leading her down the hall. 'Promise I won't bite.'

You used to, she thought. She'd concocted all kinds of scarf arrangements to hide the marks on her neck.

Her knees were softer than jelly as she entered the drawing room and tried desperately to focus her attention on something other than Aiden. Glancing out the patio doors, she noticed the rain creating circular ripples on a fishpond.

'Do you keep fish in there?' she asked stupidly.

'A few carp I think.' Aiden walked over to look out too, foiling her attempt to put distance between them. 'To tell the truth, I've not checked lately. So you live in Huntsleigh? Incredible, eh, that we both end up in the same corner of England. How long did it take you to drive over?'

'Twenty-five minutes door to door.' Lame, lame, lame. All the history between them and this was the best they could manage? But more unnervingly, their bodies seemed to be having their own much racier conversation. As he angled his broad shoulders towards her, his elbow almost nudging hers, she caught herself twiddling with her hair, licking her suddenly dry lips. She could practically feel magnetic pulses transmitting between them.

'So have you started your Christmas shopping yet?' Could she, if she tried, possibly sound more like a bored-out-of-her-mind hairdresser?

She stopped playing with her hair and instead reached to nervously twist her wedding ring. It wasn't there. She'd taken it off with a bitter-sweet mingling of relief and remorse the day the nisi came through. But now its absence left her feeling naked and vulnerable.

Ollie had lost his wedding ring on their honeymoon in Italy. He hadn't noticed until the last night in Rome. They turned the hotel room upside down searching for it, but they already knew it was futile. It could have been lying in the ruins of Pompeii or on the sandy ground of the Colosseum. Perhaps it was then that their fate was sealed?

Aiden strolled towards the blazing log fire that warmed the panelled room from beneath its ornately etched overmantel. As Jen's chest rose, seeking air, she wondered how long she'd been holding her breath. What a dope she was. She stood in the middle of the room, not wanting to sit down until he did, scared that if she sat first he might cosy up next to her. Not the scene she wanted Georgina to walk into.

'Are you still writing?' she finally said, seizing on a safe topic.

'Yeah, when I can. I'm halfway through a novel. Don't get much chance for it between Giordani and, you know,' he bent down to stab the fire with a poker, hair falling in front of his face, 'taking care of the missus.' He said it ironically. She had a feeling Georgina could be brutally demanding.

'Is this your first book?'

'If you don't count a couple of masterpieces at the back of the cupboard.' He glanced up at her with a grin that made him look nineteen again. 'Weighty pretentious tomes. Useful for doorstops, holding down flapping picnic rugs, that sort of thing.'

'Rubbish. You were so talented. I thought you'd have written at least a dozen hit songs by now. Or your poetry would be a huge success.' How many times had she gone in bookshops checking for his name? So pathetic.

He laughed wryly but she could tell he was pleased. 'Poetry? That's a bigger waste of time than my literary attempts. No one wants to be challenged or think any more. If James Joyce wrote
Ulysses
today they'd dismiss it as the ravings of a madman.'

Privately Jen would agree with them. Mr Dugan had suggested in English class once that they give it a try, and she'd only managed the first page before returning to Dick Francis.

'Anyway, I'm sticking to more commercial ventures these days, if I ever get a chance to finish anything. I keep threatening to rent a cottage somewhere, isolate myself till it's done.' He wandered back to the patio and looked out at the rain. 'The novel I'm writing is a love story. Based in a small town not unlike Ashport. You're in it, you know.'

She almost dropped the Swarovski crystal bird she'd just picked up. Carefully she replaced it on its antique side table.

'Me?' Suddenly she'd forgotten how to breathe again, and she knew her face wasn't just flushed by the fire.

'Don't worry, it's fiction. You won't even recognise yourself.' A blazing log lurched and fell forward, threatening to topple on to the hearth. He padded over and pushed it back in place with the fire tongs.

Where on earth were Meg and Georgina? 'Well, in that case, can you make me a platinum-blonde glam puss with legs up to my armpits and a fiery-red sports car?'

'Yeah, I might.' He seemed to consider it, then smiled. 'If the real thing wasn't s-o-o much better. Amazing eyes, provocative mouth and perfect legs firmly planted on the ground.' He was looking at her in a way that made her spine tingle, his bare feet noiseless as he drew closer. 'No glam puss could hold a candle to you, Titch.'

She gulped, shaken by his compliment. It was so much easier to be enemies.

'Seriously though, I'd love to read it sometime. How does Georgina rate it?' Neat move. Remind him he's a married man. She had to put out this spark between them.

'Oh, you know Georgie.' He pulled his dark brows into a deep brooding V. 'Results person. Won't be impressed until she sees the finished product top of the best-seller lists. Not the type to encourage unrecognised genius. She'd have been the first to tell Vincent Van Gogh to shove a bandage on that ear and go find a proper job.'

There was a short uncomfortable pause. They stared at each other, only a few feet away instead of the several hundred yards that felt like Jen's personal comfort zone with him. She found herself squirming under the intensity of his brown eyes as her fingers fidgeted restlessly with an earring. Aiden was still holding the fire tongs as if he'd spaced out everything except the two of them. She was the first to avert her gaze.

'Sorry to hear about your separation.' His voice, suddenly so deep and smoky now he was talking about her personal life, caught her off guard. 'That guy's a fool. Letting you go.'

'Personally, I think it was a smart move,' she said, edging round the back of the sofa, her own voice light as a tinkle of fairy bells, or so she hoped. 'You know things are gloomy when even the dog's walking around with a miner's lamp.'

Aiden's lips twitched appreciatively. 'Still with the one-liners.' Absently he glanced down, brushing lint off the front of his thigh. 'I love you, Jennifer.'

'I'm sorry. What did you say?' Stricken with shock, Jen stepped back and tripped over a table. Ornaments and photos crashed to the ground, giving her an excuse to hide her burning face as she stammered apologies and bent to pick them up. Dismayed, she noticed that the silver frame of one of the wedding portraits had cracked apart, the glass lying shattered on the carpet, the picture of Georgina smiling up at Aiden sticking half out of the frame.

'Oh bugger. I am so
so
sorry.'

'Don't be.' Relaxed and amused, Aiden squatted down to help her right the table and restore the pieces. 'I said I love your jumper, by the way. It's a good colour on you.'

'Careful.' The mother in her surged forth. 'Broken glass. You'll cut your feet.'

Her jumper. Not Jennifer. Her favourite jumper. All fiery reds and oranges. She'd treasured it for years. The relief was overwhelming, almost as overwhelming as her desire to kick herself until her shins turned blue.

'Thanks,' she mumbled, reaching for an ornament that had rolled under the sofa. 'Ollie,' she stumbled over the name, 'bought it. Surprise. Italy.'

Steady, girl, she told herself, try to at least speak in sentences. She took a deep breath. 'He bought it on our honeymoon. Not that it was much of a honeymoon, I was eight months pregnant at the time.'

She'd started to cry, a few frustrated tears, when she'd tried the jumper on 'just for fun' and it wouldn't go over her bump. As they stepped miserably out into the bright daylight, Ollie had turned and run back. 'Here,' he'd said, a short while later, handing her a gift bag with a flourish. 'You won't always be pregnant. And something that looks this great on you will always be in style.'

'I looked like a bus tipped sideways,' she added now.

That brought a smile to those perfectly formed lips. 'Same old Jen,' Aiden said as he leant over to pick up a fallen china cat, his head so close she could have counted the grey hairs if there'd been any. 'You always could make me laugh. Hang on, don't touch that glass. I'll fetch a broom.'

Oh yeah, I'm hilarious.
Jen cringed inwardly as he walked out. 'Let's hear it for the funny lady,' she muttered under her breath. 'Well done, Jen, for embarrassing yourself to death.' She returned another wedding picture to its place on the table, this one of Aiden beside Georgina's dad, whose arms appeared glued to his side, Georgina by her mother whose sour expression looked like she'd eaten a pickle. She recognised Georgina's cousin, Liz, in front of them, wearing a revolting pomegranate-red shiny frill-neck bridesmaid dress with a hideous bow.

Good for Georgie. Sweet revenge probably for all the cruel taunts Liz used to bestow upon her. And there too was her much older, moderately handsome brother, pink carnation in his lapel. Georgina used to have such a good relationship with Lance on the few occasions Jen had seen them together, glowing pink when he ruffled her hair or gave her a casual hug. Jen had been quite jealous, because being an only child like Rowan, she would have killed for a brother – if only to be able to beat him up.

Her mind was still reeling from the way she'd misheard Aiden's 'love your jumper' remark. She'd worn this sweater to death in London to lavish compliments, but it had always seemed too loud for tame old Huntsleigh. It had languished untouched in her wardrobe until today when she was digging through nondescript slacks, unremarkable skirts, sedate tops in shades of ecru, cream and navy blue, searching for something to wear with her pushed-to-the-very-last-hanger 501 jeans, not wanting to repeat her previous faux pas of looking middle-aged and boringly suburban.

The problem was she didn't know who she was any more. In Islington Ollie had once described her fashion statement as 'grunge with attitude'. But living in Huntsleigh she'd soon discovered she only had to step outdoors in an oversized hooded sweatshirt and khaki trousers for her neighbours to shake their heads and giggle, 'Goodness, Mrs Stoneman,' as if she were a freak who'd stumbled drunk into the vicar's tea party with a tattoo on her forehead and a piercing in her tongue. And the closer she got to forty, the harder it seemed to find a line between frumpy and mutton dressed as lamb.

She wished that didn't bother her so much, other people's opinions of what was appropriate. Meg would never let anyone alter so much as one dangling earring of her eclectic style, and Georgina had braved much more than subtle disapproval only to emerge a bold butterfly from her plump chrysalis. It was she, Jen, who'd given in to the pressure to conform and in the process lost all sense of identity. She used to have more guts than that.

Aiden came back with a hand-held car vacuum and got to work. Would she ever be able to look at him as
'oh, just some guy I dated'?
A friend? She'd heard of women whose ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands even, were their best pals, confidants for all their problems, drinking mates with the woman's new spouse. But then she and Aiden had only had those fifteen months – sufficient to sear a trail across her psyche but not enough to let the lustre fade – and she'd been so young. So recklessly open with her inexperienced heart.

At least it was far more likely that she and Ollie might become chums after the divorce. It would be a shame to waste all those years and memories. Jen's mind conjured scenarios as Aiden vacuumed and she picked up larger shards of glass: she and Ollie proudly watching Chloe getting married, Jen with her new man at her side; Ollie and her future partner kicking around a football with their future grandchildren; Ollie visiting her in the retirement home, smilingly displaying his third or fourth wife . . .

'Ouch.' She felt a sharp stab of pain and jerked her hand up.

'What happened?'