Hens Reunited (34 page)

Katie raised her eyebrows. ‘What, being on the M5 on a Friday night?’ she said deadpan.

Laura indicated to overtake and nipped into the fast lane. ‘C’mon! Seriously, it’s kind of cool, isn’t it? You dashing up the country to find Mr Lover Man in romantic Paris – I mean, Birmingham – on a relationship-rescue mission . . . It’s like something from a film. Where’s Hugh Grant when you need him, eh? Hang on, we should have something more dramatic as background music . . .’

She reached out to fiddle with the radio again and Katie, who wasn’t a natural passenger, pushed her hand away. ‘I’ll find something,’ she said. ‘You drive.’

‘A big smoochy number,’ Laura suggested. ‘A bit of Whitney, maybe –
And I. I-I . . . will always lurvvvvve you-oo-oo-ooooooo . . .’

‘Oh shut up, Laura!’ Katie was feeling too wound up to joke along. She found a travel station on the radio. ‘We should probably listen to this, just in case there are any traffic problems . . .’

‘Traffic schmaffic,’ Laura scoffed. ‘Bung a tape in instead. Look, I’m going to get you there, whether there’s traffic or not, mate. Don’t you worry about that. I won’t let a few cars stand in the way of true lurve.’

Katie smoothed her dress for the tenth time since they’d set off. ‘Don’t say it like that – true love – it makes me feel nervous,’ she replied, then sighed. ‘Are you sure I look all right in this?’

‘This’ was a cherry-coloured dress she’d bought in the Jigsaw sale last Christmas in a fit of exuberance but had never actually worn. Laura had plucked it from Katie’s wardrobe of sensible navy and brown immediately. ‘You’ve
got
to wear this one,’ she’d said, before rummaging through Katie’s shoes. ‘X factor or what. Wow. Get it on immediately. And these sandals, too,’ she’d added, holding up Katie’s highest, strappiest pair.

Laura tutted from the driving seat at Katie’s question now. ‘Am I sure? Of course I’m sure! You look gorgeous. As soon as he sees you, he’ll be running into your arms, you wait. Slow motion, just like on the big screen.’ She giggled. ‘Obviously
you
won’t be running anywhere in those heels, but . . .’

‘I know, I can hardly walk in them,’ Katie fretted. ‘I’ll probably fall over, right in the middle of their swanky conference party, and go flying into the buffet table or something.’

Laura giggled again. ‘Let’s hope there’s a nice soft trifle for you to land in then,’ she said. ‘Sorry! Your face! Honestly, Kate, just chill. It’s all going to be great. I’ve got a feeling.’

It was still light when they parked near New Street a little before nine o’clock. The city was gearing up for Friday night – there were gangs of girls in short skirts and clompy heels with miasmic clouds of perfume in their wake, there were posses of lads with gel in their hair and clean shirts on, and there were clusters of office workers sitting outside the bars, laughing and joking, free from the shackles of the nine-to-five.

‘God, I feel really nervous now,’ Katie said, as she clip-clopped her way uncomfortably along towards the hotel. ‘I feel sick, actually. What if he’s not even there? Or what if they don’t let us in? Oh Laura, I think this was probably a mistake. I think—’

‘No way!’ Laura sounded indignant. ‘This was a brilliant idea. Coming to find him in person to say . . .’ She paused. ‘What
are
you going to say, anyway?’

Katie bit her lip. ‘I was kind of hoping the right words would come to me at the time,’ she said.

‘So you don’t know.’

‘No.’

‘Oka-a-a-ay. Well – good luck, anyway.’

Katie turned, almost stumbling into a lamp post in shock. ‘What do you mean? Where are you going?’

Laura tipped her head sideways towards a small Italian restaurant on the other side of the road. ‘In there,’ she said. ‘What? You didn’t expect me to come in with you and hold your sweaty hand, did you? This is a conversation you and Steve need to have on your own. And I’m sure the right words
will
come to you. But at this moment, the words that are coming to me are “garlic bread” and “pizza”. Sorry, Kate. I’m Hank Marvin, though, haven’t eaten all day.’

Katie could feel herself drooping slightly at the thought of not having Laura there to prop her up, give her confidence and, more to the point, blag them both into the conference party. ‘Okay,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But . . . hang on. We need a plan. If Steve isn’t there, or if I can’t get in—’

‘You will get in,’ Laura told her firmly. ‘You’ve got to.’

‘Okay, but if Steve has already gone, then . . .’

‘Then it’s plan B. You come and find me in the Italian, we’ll eat pizza and go back to yours and drown your sorrows,’ Laura said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll give you ’til ten o’clock, all right? And if I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll assume everything’s going tip-top and I’ll shoot off back to Brizzle on me tod. Okay? Best of British to you, then!’

And before Katie could reply, she was off, striding towards the Italian restaurant like a woman on a mission. A hungry woman on a mission.

Katie shivered, rubbing her bare arms.
And then there was one.
She watched Laura enter the restaurant, saw the dark-haired waiter hurrying over to her and lead her into the room . . . and for a moment she was tempted to run in there too, sit down at one of the tables with red-checked tablecloths, listen to the cheesy Italian music, smell the garlic and pizza dough and rich, herby sauces . . .

No. Come on, Katie. Be brave. Think with your heart, not your belly.

With that in mind, she walked purposefully towards the hotel before she had time to waver any more.

Katie wasn’t used to being unprepared for anything, but she felt vulnerable as she stepped into the hotel lobby – as if she were walking on stage without a clue what was in her script. She was really here, in Birmingham, on a romantic whim! It just wasn’t her. She never acted like this – recklessly, without hours of forethought and planning. And yet, strangely, it felt kind of liberating as well as scary, to be there with just a toothbrush and clean pair of knickers in her handbag, rocking up to this hotel in pursuit of her man. Exciting, even. Her skin tingled. Anything might happen.

The reception desk was long, as if it was used to seating four or five members of staff at a time, but there was only one guy there now, with a pink scrubbed face and short sandy hair. He was frowning at a computer screen, with the wet red tip of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

She clopped up to him, trying to smile confidently.
Do as I tell you
, she instructed her feet, which felt perilous in their high sandals on the polished stone floor.
Do not skid or twist or anything else. Please.

The receptionist was staring at her, tongue back in, thank goodness. ‘Hi,’ she said quickly before she started blushing. ‘I’m with the GeoComm party.’ She was about to go off into an embellishment about how she was staying nearby in the Britannia, or how she’d brought Steven Patrick’s notes with her and needed to deliver them urgently, or . . . or anything, frankly, that she could pluck from her imagination. At the last second, though, she managed to stop herself. First rule of the blag, according to Georgia: keep it simple. Lie and fabricate only when you have to. She’d wait until he asked who the hell she was, or scoffed and said,
Oh yeah? Reckon? Don’t think so, babe!

‘Certainly. Are you staying with us tonight?’

Oh. That was remarkably easy. She crossed her fingers surreptitiously by her side. ‘No, I’m . . .’ Again, the temptation to launch into a story. ‘No,’ she said firmly.

‘Okay, if you could just sign in for me then, please?’ he said, passing over a leather-covered book. ‘They’re all in the banqueting suite. If I could ask you to wear this pass, please? And follow signs to the Horton Suite. Any problems, come back and ask me, all right?’

She felt like kissing him after she’d signed her name. Kissing him on his pink, shiny cheeks, then punching the air in triumph. Ha ha, fooled you! I’m not really with the party, I’m an interloper! A gatecrasher! And you just let me in. YESSS!!!

‘Thank you,’ she said, clipping her plastic pass to her handbag with trembling fingers. ‘Thank you very much.’

Horton Suite . . . right . . . okay, then. She wandered along a corridor, following signs to the Horton Suite. Her heart was thumping beneath her floaty dress. Another Friday, another city, another hotel. There was a neat kind of symmetry there that appealed to her, but she hoped this would be a flipside to last Friday’s episode, not a repeat of it.

This corridor seemed to be never-ending – it was like being in a dream where you kept going and going along a road, and never actually arrived. Still, at least the carpet was so thick and dense it was anchoring her heels nicely with every step.

Oh God. Horton Suite. This was it. She was here. She hesitated for a second before the double doors, wishing there was a mirror nearby so she could check her reflection. Wishing she was more prepared, with a carefully planned script for guidance, the perfect lines all ready to trip off her tongue.

Deep breath, Katie. He probably wasn’t even going to be there, was he? She knew it in her heart. He’d probably be on the train by now, gazing mournfully out of the window as the sun sank behind the Malvern Hills, wondering why Katie hadn’t called him, when he’d specifically asked her to, given her a number and everything . . .

The thought sent her forwards, made her push the doors open and step inside. Now or never. Here we go.

She found herself in a large room, with big round tables like you got at a wedding, Madonna booming from the speakers, disco lights flashing rather feebly, silver trays with a few curling sandwiches left on tired white doilies on one of the tables. Kicking nightclub this was not. There were clusters of people at the tables, at the bar, a few pissed ones on the dance floor even, mucking about and vogueing terribly. But where was Steve? Katie’s eyes scanned the room anxiously for a glimpse of him.

There were at least a hundred people in there, all in their best gear, making small talk or cutting straight to the booze and chat-ups. Ugh. One bloke was leering right into the cleavage of a woman in a deep-cut emerald dress. Nice. Other blokes were guffawing loudly, puffing out their chests like apes, their bald scalps gleaming rainbow colours under the lights. One woman was giving it some on the dance floor, head and shoulders back, jiggling her bosoms for all she was worth. Christ. Didn’t she have any mates there to lead her off to a dark corner and give her a black coffee? How did these people let themselves get so out of control?

Still. Maybe control isn’t everything, eh?
thought Katie.
Look at me, for example. I’m hardly a success story at the moment.
She gripped the back of the nearest chair as she continued her room-scan. Her spirits were sinking. She’d got so damn close. Within touching distance. And for him not to be there, not to know about this gesture . . .

Her heart gave a lurch suddenly as her eyes roamed the far side of the room. There . . . right there at the back . . . was a bloke on his own, sat at one of the tables, frowning over a mobile phone with a glass of red wine next to him. It was Steve.

Show-time.

Somehow she made it across the room without falling over on those heels. Her mum’s scornful voice rang in her ears:
They’re all bastards, men, every last one. All the same!

No, they’re not, Mum, Katie retorted under her breath. You’re wrong.

She could hear Georgia’s voice too –
Why aren’t you fighting for him? Isn’t he worth a fight?
Yes, Katie imagined herself replying. This is my fight – this is it, watch me go!

She was almost there. Three more steps . . . two . . . one . . .

‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down next to him at the table.

He looked up from his phone and gaped. ‘Katie! When did you . . . How did you . . . ?’

Oh, it was so
nice
to see his face again. Like coming home. His eyes widened at the sight of her, he’d dropped his phone on the table with a clatter. And then he was staring at her in bewilderment. ‘I just wanted to see you,’ she managed to say. ‘I’ve missed you so much. I only found your note earlier today, otherwise I would have called before, but . . .’ She swallowed, suddenly nervous.

Laura’s voice joined the crowd inside her head.
The right words WILL come to you.

Steve opened his mouth to speak but she put a hand over his and looked him in the eye. ‘Steve,’ she said, interrupting him. The blood was thrumming around her body. This was it. She was going to do it. She imagined Whitney starting up a chorus inside her head.

‘Steve . . . will you marry me?’

Chapter Twenty

Greatest Day

Sunday, 22 June 2008

The train pulled into Euston and the automatic doors flew open. All around Georgia, people were getting to their feet, taking bags down from the luggage rack, bustling off the train and down onto the platform . . .

She sat still, as if paralysed. Here we are again. London town.

Sighing, she dragged herself to her feet and left the carriage, the last person to do so. The weekend had gone well on so many levels – seeing her nan looking better, and catching up with her parents (amazing what happened in a week), and of course her bridge-building between Alice and Jake. Tick, tick, tick. Good work, Georgia.

Except the one thing she hadn’t been able to do was see Owen. She was astonished how disappointed that made her feel. It wasn’t as if anything huge had ever happened between them, after all. And he might have completely forgotten about her by now. He might be happily loved up with someone else for all she knew!

Yet . . . there had been a connection between them, she was sure of it. A spark, a flicker. But then she’d blown it with the Layla Gallagher debacle and he’d despised her for it. She couldn’t quite believe how desperate she felt to win back his approval.

She slid her train ticket into the slot at the barrier and pushed through into the main station. It was noisy and busy, people were criss-crossing in front of her, talking into mobile phones, eating smelly fast food, rush rush, hurry hurry. She’d lived with Harry in this area during their brief relationship: a first-floor apartment on the Marylebone side of the station. Many nights they’d wandered back from sweaty clubs along Eversholt Street together, both buzzing – him from his amphetamines, her from champagne and the latest morsel of celebrity gossip – before crashing into the flat and having hot, fast sex all over his expensive designer furniture. So long as the drugs didn’t make his cock shrink as they sometimes did.
Often
did, actually, now that she thought back.