Hens Reunited (30 page)

Mind you, if he did come in now, he’d be shocked. She hadn’t bothered picking up after herself lately. Her marking was scattered all over the table. Magazines and books littered his side of the bed. Clothes lay where she’d dumped them, crumpled in piles, waiting to be washed or hung up.

She just didn’t get it. She just didn’t get why he had given up on her so easily. ‘Doesn’t he think I’m worth fighting for?’ she moaned to Georgia on the phone, pouring herself a Friday-afternoon G&T. ‘Doesn’t he care?’

The phone line was crackly and it sounded as if Georgia was in a room full of people, but her answer came through loud and clear. ‘Well, what about you? Do you think
he’s
worth fighting for? And if so, why aren’t you doing something about it?’

‘Well . . .’ Katie hadn’t been expecting that. What was going on with Georgia these days, anyway? She was becoming increasingly unpredictable. Katie was distracted by a hoot of someone else’s laughter that spilled down the line. ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Are you in the office? It’s very noisy.’

‘Ahh.’ Georgia sounded pleased at the question. ‘Top-secret assignment actually. I’m on the train, off to track down a certain someone up north. Can’t say any more right now, but hopefully you’ll read all about it very soon. Hang on – we’re approaching a tunn—’

And that was that. Katie waited a few moments then dialled again, but Georgia’s mobile just rang through to voicemail. She sighed. Four o’clock on a Friday afternoon. She hadn’t bothered finishing her marking at school today, couldn’t be arsed with the supermarket run either. All she felt like doing was moping around.

The phone rang at that moment and she picked up the handset quickly. ‘Georgia?’ she asked.

There was a pause and Katie held her breath. Was it Steve?

‘Katie? It’s Mum.’ Her mother’s voice was slurred and stumbling. No surprises there.

‘Hi Mum,’ Katie said, her heart sinking. Calls from her mother were few and far between. Not your usual mother–daughter chit-chat scenario either. ‘How are you?’

‘Bloody bookcase, shoddy thing, gone and fallen on it, juss wondering . . .’ The words always tumbled from her mother like beads off a string. The only pauses came for cigarette pulls. ‘Juss wondering, ’s Steve around? Need it fixing. Iz’e busy?’

Right. She should have known. Her mum only ever phoned when she wanted something. Money usually, or some favour or other. She’d cringed the first time Steve had seen her mum rock up at the house, pissed, tottering about on those scuffed white sandals, jabbering a stream of incoherent nonsense. Talk about scare a man to death. Steve had been polite and courteous though, treated Katie’s mum as if she were the Queen, rather than some half-cut overweight alcoholic. Since then, Steve had fixed half a dozen things for her, sorted out her car when she’d pranged it, and given the gas company an earful when they’d cut her off for non-payment.

‘Areyouthere?’

‘Yeah, sorry, Mum. Um . . . Steve’s not around this weekend, so . . .’

A wheezy cackle. ‘Left you, has he? Had enough of Little Miss Perfect?’

Katie’s fingers tightened around the handset. God. To think that this woman had given birth to her, held her as a baby. Dressed her and fed her, held her hand to cross the road . . . and now seemed to think she had carte blanche with the insults. ‘What’s your problem?’ she asked, suddenly angry. ‘Why do you have to be so horrible?’

That cackle again, like a witch. ‘Ahh, I was right, then? Face it, love—’ a brief pause to suck on the B&H ‘—you’re like me. Not the settling-down kind.’

‘Whatever,’ Katie said tersely, and hung up. She bristled with indignation at her mother’s words.
You’re like me
indeed – what an insult! Being like her mum was what she’d fought against her whole life, the very last person on earth she would ever want to emulate. God!

She glared around the room, noting all the mess and chaos, the tall glass of gin on the table that had left wet interlocking circles like a Venn diagram, where she hadn’t bothered finding a coaster.

Then she stared down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. Okay, so she’d let things slip lately and yes, she was drinking gin in the afternoon, but that didn’t make her her mother’s daughter, did it?

Did it?

The thought was like a shot in the arm. No way. No bloody
way.
Katie would rather die than follow in her mum’s footsteps, skidding all the way down to rock bottom. She was better than that. Way better.

She leapt to her feet and began a whirlwind assault of the room, stashing the old newspapers in the recycling, books back on the shelf, CDs into their boxes with an angry, ferocious energy. Into the bin went the faded old roses on the mantelpiece along with all the dried petals they’d shed. Into the dishwasher went the cold coffee mugs and sticky juice glasses, the smeared plates and cutlery from last night. Gross! How had she let everything get so dirty? How come she had managed to give up so quickly?

What next? Clothes. There were clothes everywhere. She swept through the house gathering them, bundling them up from where they’d been dumped. What a mess! What a slut she’d been! Well, no more. This worm was turning – and getting out the fabric conditioner as it did so.

Into the washing machine went the clothes, in went the powder, on went the button. Water whooshed into the drum – a pleasing sound, she always thought – and then, as she moved away towards the sink, something inside the machine caught her eye. There was something white tucked in with her pale blue cardigan – damn, had she managed to mix her colours in the rush? She knelt down for a closer look . . . and stared as she saw what it was. Not a white item of clothing at all. An envelope. With her name on it. Steve’s writing.

She tried to wrench open the washing-machine door but of course it was locked now that the water was pouring inside, the level rising through the tumble of clothes, seeping into the envelope, making the inked letters of her name run. Oh my God. A letter from Steve. Where had that come from? And how long ago had he written it?

She tugged at the dial, all the way round to STOP, and tried the door. It still wouldn’t open. Duh – because the water was still in there. Aaargh! She felt so flustered she could hardly think. Where was the DRAIN bit on the cycle? How could she get the water out before the letter went too soggy? And what – WHAT – had Steve written in it anyway?

Ahh – DRAIN, there it was. She yanked the dial round and the water glugged out of the drum. Back round to STOP with the dial, before the wretched thing went into the spin cycle. Now would the door open? No. There was a minute’s delay on it, she seemed to remember. So now she had to sit there for a whole minute, wondering and waiting.

She couldn’t believe there had been a letter from Steve in the house all this time. Where had he left it? And when? She tried to think clearly, to stop her mind darting from one question to the next. So . . . the envelope was tucked in with her blue cardigan. It therefore stood to reason that perhaps it had been
under
that cardigan somewhere in the house. Now all she needed to do was think when she’d last worn that cardigan . . .

Bingo. Alice’s house. Yes – of course. The events unfolded into her head like a jack-in-the-box springing out.

Coming back from Alice’s. In a spin, about what to say to Steve. She’d come into the house and dumped her cardigan and bag down on the table in the hall, before searching for him in the house. He hadn’t been there, of course, and she’d sunk into despondency, never knowing that he’d left her a letter . . .

God. What did the letter say? What did it SAY?

She tugged at the door again – and mercifully this time it opened. She pulled out the wet envelope – oh, no, it was soaked through! – and peeled it open. The letter inside was stuck together and she pulled it out gingerly, trying to unfold it without tearing it. Her hands were shaking as she smoothed it on the table. Not all the words were legible, but she could make out some of it at least.

Hi Katie
,

Hope you are okay, sweetheart.

Sweetheart! She couldn’t believe how her heart soared at the word. She read on, hardly able to breathe.

I was hoping to catch you this afternoon but had to get my train for the conference.

Conference? What conference?

I still want to work things out between us even if
[the writing blurred here for a few lines]

She had to sit down suddenly as she felt weak with relief. He wanted to work things out! That had to be good, didn’t it? That had to mean he wasn’t just bailing out on her.

If you do too, then
[more blurred writing]

She frowned at the illegible words. There were some numbers there, but she couldn’t make them all out. Was it a phone number? Was she supposed to call him on a particular phone number?

If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll assume you feel differently. But I hope we can sort this out.

Love Steve

She read it through again, her mind in a whirl. So if he didn’t hear from her, he’d assume it was all off, was that what he was saying? But how was she supposed to get in touch when she couldn’t read this flaming number?

She put her head in her hands, unable to think. Where
was
he anyway? She vaguely remembered him telling her about this conference now, but it had been at the hotel, after she’d just turned down his proposal and her head had been all over the place, not able to process anything properly. London? Birmingham? Somewhere abroad?

Bollocks! What was she supposed to do? How could she find out? And – oh no! Was he now assuming the worst, because she hadn’t called him on this illegible number?

She thought of Georgia’s words again –
Do you think he’s worth fighting for? And if so, why aren’t you doing something about it?

She thought of her mum too, so bitter and caustic, so quick to assume Steve had dumped Katie, tarring all men with the same poisoned brush.

Well, no. Steve was different. Steve
was
worth fighting for. But where the hell was he? And, more to the point, how did she start the fight?

Chapter Seventeen

Sure

March 1999

‘Georgia, this is Jake.’ Alice did a self-conscious flourish. ‘And Jake, this is Georgia.’

Well, he was gorgeous, you had to give him that. Smouldering dark eyes and perfect cheekbones. He stood out a mile, even in this Soho bar full of beautiful people. Mind you, he knew it too, Georgia could tell. She held out her hand coolly. ‘Nice to meet you. Heard a
lot
about you.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Likewise. Love the column. Hoping you’re going to give us a good review of the play.’

‘It’s probably a bit upmarket for our old rag,’ Georgia told him. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’

He eyed her over his beer. ‘I suppose it’s not exactly the
Guardian
, is it? Ahh well. Thought it was worth a try.’

His words stung. Oh, right. Like that, was it? They’d only just been introduced and he was going for the one-upmanship.

‘Georgia’s writing a novel too,’ Alice put in, noticing the way Georgia had responded with icy silence. ‘You’d better be nice to her, Jake, otherwise you’ll end up in it, as one of the villains.’

He gave her a measured look. ‘Is that right?’

She could feel it then, something between them. She’d learned over the years that many men got confused by female journalists. They seemed to think that being interviewed by a woman, getting all that attention, that tell-me-about-yourself kind of conversation, meant the woman fancied them. Since realizing this, Georgia had always been careful not to give out the wrong signals, to keep things professional. But this was something different. She wasn’t even interviewing him, she wasn’t giving out
any
signals other than I-am-Alice’s-friend, and yet he was looking at her, lips slightly parted, as if . . .

She turned away pointedly. Hopefully she was mistaken. But she could feel his interested gaze still upon her. Ugh. What a creep. This one really loved himself. Couldn’t Alice see what he was like?

Obviously not. Alice was looking at him with adoration all over her face. ‘Right, well, I’ll just go to the bar,’ she said. ‘Anyone want anything?’

It had taken him ten seconds to press his knee against hers under the table. ‘Your photo doesn’t do you justice,’ he’d said, voice low and teasing. ‘You’re much more attractive in the flesh.’

Friday, 20 June 2008

Georgia felt shaken as Alice hung up on her. Alice the Mouse, threatening to sue! Alice the Mouse ranting and raving at her, so loud Georgia was sure everyone else in First Class had been able to hear. And Alice the Mouse twisting the knife with that comment about her nan.
You’d sell your own grandmother for a story!

That was bang out of order. Way below the belt.

Georgia picked up her bag as the train hissed into Manchester Piccadilly, feeling slighted and indignant. Actually, Alice, she wanted to say, you’ve got it all wrong about me. I’m going to see my grandmother this weekend, thank you very much, and I wouldn’t sell her for anything!

She realized, from the wary glances other people were giving her as they waited for the train doors to release them, that she was muttering under her breath. She shut her mouth hurriedly. Now of all times she had to keep it together. She had to stay totally in control and hope she could work a bit of magic with Mr Jake Archer, the sleazeball. She’d never liked him, but if Alice was mad enough to want him back, then Georgia would do her damnedest to make it happen.

She’d never told Alice about the way Jake had come on to her so arrogantly that first time they’d met. She’d pushed him away from her, feeling repulsed. ‘Don’t even go there,’ she’d warned him. ‘Or I’ll tell Alice about this.’

‘Tell her what?’ he’d replied. ‘I’m only being friendly.’

Right. Like Georgia was stupid. If she’d responded at all to his advances, she knew he’d have tried it on – if not then, at some other occasion. She’d debated telling Alice just what her new boyfriend was like, but Alice seemed so happy, so madly in love, Georgia didn’t have the heart to burst the bubble. So no, she’d never liked Jake Archer, had never thought him good enough for her friend. And yes, when he’d done the dirty on Alice, Georgia had come down on him like a ton of bricks.