When Good Friends Go Bad (5 page)

It was irrational for Jen to feel stabbed, wondering why Meg had tried to reach Rowan instead of her, although she, Jen, had made no effort to contact Meg. But that was the way it had always been. Among little girls you couldn't avoid occasional bitching and jealousy.

Some days one would be your very best friend, some days another. Rowan and Meg often hung out together while Georgina monopolised the horse-mad Jen with her two ponies, boarded at Angela Morgan's equestrian centre. But then Rowan loved horses too, even if she was fearful of riding, and she and Jen spent many happy hours at Angela's long after Georgina got bored and her mares were sold.

When they were only eleven or twelve Georgina liked to invite Rowan alone back to her fancy home to play with her mother's cosmetics. Georgina would style Rowan's black hair as if she were a living doll. And whenever Jen or Meg needed an accomplice for a piece of mischief they naturally gravitated together, Georgina and Rowan being too goody-goody for them at times.

Despite the occasional rocky patches – Meg trying to ostracise Georgina, Georgina trying to ostracise Meg – the miracle was how long and faithfully the four of them had stuck together. Right up until boys got in the way, in fact. Or one boy in particular.

'What did Ma Howard have to say?' Jen asked.

'Zippo. That woman's a total wack job. Wouldn't tell me squat. Obviously still sees me as a real bad influence. Probably strings garlic around Rowan's neck to keep me away.'

'With a cross between each clove to be safe,' Jen laughed. 'Vampire-proof jewellery. Could be a new trend.'

'So how are Clover and Herb, by the way?' Jen asked, while they were on the subject of parents. Meg's parents had insisted on being called by their Christian names. Clover was a hip thirty-four when the girls were all fifteen, Herb four years older. They'd been nothing like anyone else's parents. Jen's dad was quiet, introverted and often bewildered by his single-parent role. Rowan's mum was terrifyingly strict and religious and Georgina's parents were overbearing, obsessed with appearances and, Jen had heard Herb say once, completely up their own arses.

Clover and Herb, by contrast, thought nothing of smoking dope in front of the kids, hanging out with – and openly sleeping with – masses of artists, writers, and musicians. Herb had transitioned from wannabe rock star to guitar technician, session musician and producer of Clover's records. He knew all the famous faces, was in demand for his pitch-perfect ear and virtuoso skills, but was such a pain in the butt no band could put up with him for long. Clover was a one-hit wonder, a female Donovan whose successful single still got airplay but was never followed by another. Meg's first four years, when not on the road, had been spent in some kind of a commune with her aunt. It was the weirdest life Jen could imagine.

In Meg's household everyone argued and talked back, there was none of this children are lesser beings kind of twaddle. You could drink alcohol, stay out all night, have boyfriends over. There was only one rule. Never wake Clover when she was hung-over, no matter how late in the day.

Herb and Clover were far too wrapped up in their own lives to worry much about their two offspring, let alone those offspring's friends, but it was often an eye-opener to visit their chaotic household. And frequently embarrassing. Jen never knew if she'd find Herb walking around naked or bringing a couple of swingers to afternoon tea, or Clover in bed with her astrologer. The biggest, maybe the only, crime in the Lennox world was to be boring.

'Loopy as ever. Still living the sixties dream.' Meg snorted into her drink. 'At least they haven't sold out and become realtors or car salesmen like half those baby boomers. Herb's into jazz now, living in New Orleans, but he's so disgusted with the way they treated Clinton after the blow-job scandal, he's talking of leaving the country. Clover's latched on to another new guy, Liver Spot.' She glanced over her shoulder towards the entrance, but the woman walking in was no one they knew.

'Liver Spot? That's his name?' Of course it seemed highly unlikely but you just never knew – Meg had a brother named Mace, a cousin called Tweazle and even an Auntie Sunbeam.

'No, but that's what I call him. He says he's fifty-six but he's closer to seventy I reckon, has these liver spots all over his face. He's like some big deal in the music biz though. He and Clover are planning her . . . uh, let's see . . . thirteenth comeback? What about you, your dad OK?'

'Yeah.' Jen nodded. 'He bought this cottage in Dorset that he's doing up. He's sixty-three. Ambles around in his cardi, a lowslung tool belt, and a pencil behind his ear, looking like a refugee from one of those old BBC sitcoms.'

'Never married again?'

'No, but he's got every woman in the village wanting to mother him and—Oh my God, that's not . . .' Jen dug her old friend in the ribs and Meg's eyes swivelled to follow hers.

They had to look twice to recognise Georgina.

Her eyebrows, always so bushy, were now plucked to perfect arches. Her thick dark-brown hair was cut into fashionable Jennifer Aniston-style layers instead of the curtain she used to tuck behind her ears. Somehow, from being a fat little girl and a shapeless teenage podge, she'd metamorphosed into a voluptuous yet sleekly dramatic woman. A flowing multicoloured scarf was draped around her neck and she was wearing a long brocade jacket of some silky fabric in a vaguely oriental-inspired design over a shimmering iridescent aquamarine top and matching trousers. But what held Jen and Meg's speechless attention was the slight but distinct bump under her loose-fitting blouse.

Georgina was pregnant!

'Jennifer! Nutmeg!' Georgina said in a startled way, as if they'd unwittingly bumped into each other instead of it all being prearranged. 'How
wonderful to
see you.'

Georgina's Mediterranean complexion, inherited from her Italian countess grandmother, had never looked so radiant. 'Does that mean your dad's a
count then?'
their classmates once scoffed, distorting the word count to a vulgar insult. Today she really did look like a countess, rich, glossy, and sporting a flashy diamond ring beside the gold band on her finger.

Her pillar-boxed lipsticked mouth came forward to kiss them
both in turn, a perfumed diva to rival Maria Callas.

'Georgina!' Jen felt a surge of emotion that surprised her. 'Wow, this is so great.'

'Hey, lady.' Meg grinned widely as she squeezed the new arrival in a welcoming hug. 'How ya been? I see life's treating you well.' She nodded at the ring. 'Doesn't your hand get tired hauling a rock like that around?'

Georgina laughed. 'Same old Nutmeg. I thought we'd lost you to America for good. Is Rowan here?'

'Nope. Not yet,' Meg replied, moving up to make room for her. Georgina shook her head, bracelets jangling on her wrist.

'Best not. Let's find our table, shall we?' she added commandingly.
'I was worried you might have started without me. Traffic was abysmal.'

It was already seven twenty-seven, Jen realised. They had reservations in the dining room in three minutes' time.

'Blimey.' Jen descended from her perch obediently. 'You've lost . . . er . . . I mean . . . congratulations.' She indicated Georgina's bump. 'Boy or girl, do you know? When's it due?

Georgina went a charming shade of pink. 'January. My husband and I didn't want to know the sex.' She tapped her long nails on the bar. 'Drink up, Nutmeg, or bring that with you, I'm ravenous. Unless,' she paused, looking as if studying their clothes for the first time, 'you were intending changing before dinner?'

Jen looked down at her cargo trousers. 'No, I hadn't thought about it.' She noticed a small greasemark from helping Ollie give Mickey Finn an oil change, but decided to ignore it.

'I think you'll like this place.' Georgina started across the room. 'The maître d's always extremely nice to us.'

Meg threw back her drink in a hurry and grabbed her bag so she could catch up. 'Who'd have guessed you'd be the first one of us to get knocked up? Assuming Rowan doesn't have kids. Wasn't a shotgun wedding, was it?' she suggested flippantly. 'Didja wanna or didja have to?'

Georgina turned her head, looking put out. 'Of course I wanted to. Give me credit for
some
class.'

'Just funning,' Meg said lightly. Unseen by their friend, she crossed her eyes at Jen, who almost laughed out loud. Provoking Georgina had always been one of Meg's favourite pastimes. It was mad to think they'd been separated for over a decade and now here they were obediently trotting after their bossy friend. There was an odd yet amusing familiarity about the way they'd picked up their old roles.

'I can't get over how amazing you look.' Jen gazed up at the towering Georgina, whose face flushed with pleasure.

'Thanks. I thought you might have sprouted a couple of inches but you're still a shrimp, I see. I always felt such a giant next to you.' Her hands smoothed her belly, and somehow Jen knew she was remembering how large she'd been. 'Still haven't taken to high heels?'

'I can't walk in the things.' Jen had never cared for small talk, especially when the topic was how small she was – unless she was making the jokes. 'Don't you remember me wearing one-inch Cubans when we went to see Ibsen's
Ghosts?
I fell flat on my face in Soho and my knee bled buckets through the whole performance.'

'Not really.' Georgina grimaced. 'School was definitely not the happiest days of my life. I've done my best to forget it.'

That was a conversation-stopper. What were they supposed to talk about for the next twenty-four hours, Jen wondered.

'You don't know what you're missing, Jen.' Meg swayed her hips as they entered the restaurant. 'Nothing like a pair of stilettos to make guys buckle at the knees. Especially when you're wearing nothing
but
stilettos.'

The last line was delivered just as they reached a tall thin man who was presiding over the reservation book. Meg shot him a winning smile and Jen stifled a giggle. Georgina coughed loudly as if it could drown out her friend's indiscretion.

'Good evening, Roger,' she said. 'The fourth of our party's not here yet. Would you be so kind as to show her to our table when she arrives?'

'Of course, Ms Carrington. Now if you'd like to follow Edward,' he said, waving over their waiter.

'Ms Carrington, eh?' Meg said pointedly, as they followed the waiter through the dining room. There were flickering candles on every table – a huge stone hearth cried out for a pair of Irish wolfhounds. The starched white tablecloths stood out brilliantly against the deep red walls and stained walnut beams. The whole room shrieked opulence and history.

'I kept my name when I married.' Georgina lowered herself into the chair the waiter had deferentially pulled out. She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. 'Perhaps we should nibble on some appetisers while we're waiting?' She glanced at the silver watch bracelet on her wrist. 'I'm surprised Rowan's not here yet. Especially since she arranged this. And I really can't stay out late. I'm being picked up later.'

'You aren't staying here then?' Jen asked, taken aback. She'd imagined them chatting till sunup, breakfast with Bloody Marys, a country stroll. And even before Rowan could come bursting through that door, full of apologies and excuses, one of them was abandoning their plan.

'Sorry. I wanted to,' Georgina apologised. 'But I honestly wouldn't be any fun. I'm vomiting night and day, my hormones are haywire, my brain's full of cotton wool and I'm limp with exhaustion. And all this right when Giordani Designs needs every scrap of my energy.' She leaned over and grabbed their hands. 'I was dying to see you all again but this is absolutely the worst time for me to take even a day off. Rowan's timing is terrible, and now . . .' She looked briefly unhappy, then the expression was erased. 'Look, let's order some wine, shall we?' She waved imperiously to the waiter. 'I can only drink a third of a glass but that's no reason why you two should suffer.'

'Works for me.' Meg seized the impressively thick wine list.

'Oh well, that's OK, Georgie,' Jen reassured her. She was disappointed but she could understand, really she could. She'd felt like death warmed over herself the past few days. Perhaps she was coming down with flu, because part of her suddenly wished she was back in London with Ollie, snuggling under the duvet and sleeping for the entire weekend.

'Jiminy Cricket!' Meg exclaimed, flipping pages ever more rapidly. 'How often did you say you eat here, Georgie?' Her finger stabbed an entry. 'Look, here's a real bargain, guys. "An exuberant nose of flowery essences caresses the palate with subtle hints of hot flaky croissants, fruitful citrus orchards and the merest suggestion of roasted hazelnuts and sun-warmed spices . . . blah blah blah . . ." and only a hundred and forty quid a bottle. I bet it's a killer.' She pushed the wine list away. 'I vote for the house Chardonnay. Still a rip-off but at least it's not in triple digits.'

'OK with me,' Jen agreed. 'I drink anything, beer, cider . . . methylated spirits with an oaky hint of paraffin.'

'Let me see that.' Georgina stretched across, not quite so amenable to their wine choice.

The waiter appeared at Meg's shoulder with a bread basket and olive oil, and Georgina took charge. 'Yes,' she jabbed a manicured nail on the parchment, 'I think this. You don't mind, do you, Nutmeg.' It was more statement than question. 'Chardonnay's so
bourgeois.'

Meg had stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth, preventing her response.

'So, Georgie,' Jen jumped in to keep the peace. 'Giordani Designs. You have your own company? How fantastic! Tell us all about it.'

Behind the leather-clad menu, Meg crossed her eyes again and stuck out her tongue. They needed Rowan to show up, Jen thought, before the sparring started in earnest.

'Well, it's no great shakes really.' Georgina sounded pleased. 'I started in graphic design at university and then I got into textiles. Abstract prints, vivid colours, swishy fabrics. Natural ones like silk, linen and cotton, but you can do tremendous things with Tencel too.' She poured a small amount of oil on her side plate.

'Your outfit's stunning,' Jen said as Meg tossed the menu on the table. 'Did you make that?'

'Actually, yes. I first started sewing up a few pieces for myself because there was nothing around for fatties like me that wasn't hideous or like a Bedouin tent,' Georgina laughed, batting away Jen's automatic protest at the term. 'Then friends started putting in requests and, well, you know how it goes.

'Needless to say,' there was a silence as she chewed politely at a corner of dark rye, mouth closed, and swallowed, 'this,' she indicated her swollen belly, 'was a complete accident. Here I am, putting together my first collection, and I'm ready to burst into tears or take an axe to anyone who so much as looks at me oddly. It hardly makes for great working relationships – or any other kind, frankly.'

At her right hand, Meg was rolling her bread into little balls and pushing them around the tablecloth. She looked like a black cauldron of simmering resentment. Jen could guess why. Her own heart had stopped momentarily when she'd scanned the list of outrageously priced entrées. But it was a special occasion. So what if she'd be feasting on pot noodles for the rest of the month? Sod the overdraft.

'Once the baby arrives, it'll all be worth it.' Jen tried cheering Georgie. 'Is your husband thrilled?'

'What does it matter? He's not the one who'll have to do the work.' Georgina sounded unexpectedly bitter.

They were all relieved when the wine arrived.

'You could hire a nanny,' Jen suggested, after they'd gone through the ritual of Georgina tasting and approving. 'If you can afford it.'

Obviously she looked as if she could, but you never knew. When they first met her they'd heard a lot about how her grandmother was going to leave her 'oodles' of money, but it would seem callous to ask if the old lady was still alive. Georgina had been very fond of her.

'Sure she can,' Meg answered for her. 'All she's gotta do is quit eating in places like this and go check out McDonald's more often. What I'm wondering is why we couldn't meet in London. The train fare alone cost me hours of shivering in front of a bunch of pervs with pencils, closing in to get the exact dimensions of my crack.' She laughed at their astonished faces, gratified at her ability to shock. 'I model for an art college. Pay's pathetic but it's better than waiting tables.'

'You're not kidding, are you?' Jen marvelled. 'Since when?'

'Six months or so. And why would I kid about it?' Meg emptied her glass of wine in two quick gulps and refilled it.

'I couldn't do it.' Georgina gave an exaggerated shudder. 'Not in a million years. I would die rather than let anyone ogle me in the nude. I don't even like having sex without the lights off.'

'Seriously, what do I care if someone sees my ass – or my tits?' Meg thrust out her chest, hand behind her head in a Marilyn Monroe pose. 'So happens I've real fine nipples, outstanding, some might say.'

'I can't imagine anyone paying to sketch my skinny bod,' Jen reflected. 'Not unless they're practising drawing stick people.'

'Yes, well, not for a million pounds,' Georgina declared. 'It might be sexy and oh so modern—'

'Modern? Are you for real?' Meg interrupted, flabbergasted. 'You reckon Rubens painted from imagination? Get your head out from under your Victorian crinoline, girl.'

'Maybe I am old-fashioned,' Georgina looked unrepentant, 'but I was going to say I think exposing yourself is the definition of crass.'

'Yes, and starving is the definition of futility,' Meg said grimly. 'Holding the same position for hours is damned hard work, nothing sexy about it.'

'Let's agree to disagree,' Georgina conceded graciously. 'And anyway, dinner tonight is on me. No, don't argue,' she held up her hand though no one was, 'I insist. Order whatever you like. It'll be a business expense for Giordani.'

'Oh well, in that case . . .' Meg's good humour was instantly restored. 'Hand over that menu.' She looked up as the waiter loomed again. 'I'll start with the stuffed mushrooms. And,' she smiled at the others, 'shall we share a plate of calamari? I'm famished.'

'I'd be happy to remove this place setting,' the waiter suggested. 'That way you'll have more room.'

'No!' Jen placed a protective hand over it. 'We have one more person coming.' When he left she asked, 'So, Meg, what else are you up to, apart from posing?'

'Yeah, enough about you, Georgie,' Meg tossed her red hair. 'Let's talk about
me
for a minute,' she joked spoofing her old self-obsessed ways. 'I'm an actress,
dahlings.
Can't you tell?'

Hamming it up hugely, she put a finger coquettishly to her cheek, pretending to think. 'So . . . I did some extra work when I was in LA, took a few classes and then enrolled at a drama school in London. My godfather helped a bit with the tuition – he's a movie producer. Schlock low-budget horror things.'

'How can you have a godfather?' Georgina demanded. 'Herb's an atheist and Clover always insisted she was a white witch.'

'Wiccan,' Meg corrected. 'So what? Who says Christianity has the monopoly on godfathers? Anyhow,' she grimaced, 'now I'm thinking I should have stuck to LA or New York. I mean diction is for the birds. Lee Strasberg didn't care if Marlon mumbled, did he?' She stretched for the wine bottle again.

'Listen to the two of you,' Jen moaned, suffering from a mammoth inferiority complex. 'I feel so boring. I'm just a humble old secretary. You'll both be rich and famous soon and I'll still be stuck in a shit job.'

'But you do have a stud-muffin lover,' Meg reminded her. 'Nothing boring about
that!
Three times a night, supposedly,' she told Georgina. 'He sounds scorching. I'll bet he's got a nine-incher.'