When Good Friends Go Bad (25 page)

Meg grinned. 'Let's ring her now,' she said, leaping to her feet. 'Where's your computer, Jen?' Her beady eyes caught sight of Chloe's laptop on the dining table. Purposefully she settled in front of the screen and began tapping.

'Let's stick to southern England, shall we? Minksheaf's an unusual name.' Meg scrolled down, as the other two huddled behind her.

'There's only ten of them. We'll call three each. Now.'

'Three times three is nine,' Jen protested. 'And I'm not doing it.'

'I'll do the extra one. Oh come on, you party poopers. How are we ever going to find Rowan if we don't explore
every
avenue?' She grabbed the phone and began pressing numbers. 'It's ringing . . . Hello, Mrs Minksheaf? No, I'm not selling anything, ma'am. I'm looking for a Gwyneth Minksheaf . . . no, no, sure, right . . .Thanks.' She hung up. 'Darn, and they were tucked up in bed. Your turn, Jen.' Meg held out the phone.

'I'm not bloody doing it!'

Meg flapped her elbows like a bird. 'Chicken, chicken. Cluck, cluck.'

'Give it here.' Jen began dialling. 'Cluck bloody cluck yourself.'

'I beg your pardon?' A startled voice spoke in her ear.

'Hello, Mr Mineshaf— Minksheaf?'

'Yes.'

'This is an old friend of Gwyneth.'

'I think you have the wrong number.'

'I do? So sorry. Goodbye.' She put the phone down, deflated. 'Over to you, Georgina. Eight to go.'

'Never mind who I am, young man.' Georgina was on her second phone call. 'Write this down. Have you a pencil? Social Services. Capital S, Capital S. Now off you pop to bed and don't forget to brush your teeth.'

She replaced the receiver and shook her head. 'Only eleven and at home alone at this time of night. Probably watching all sorts on television. Some parents!'

Meg took the phone. 'You're too much, Georgie.' She was still laughing as her call was answered. 'Miss Minksheaf? Mrs Minksheaf, hello, my name is Meg and I wondered if you know a Gwyneth Minksheaf, she used to attend . . .'

'Yes I do that,' Mrs Minksheaf said in a thick Welsh accent.

'You do?' Meg's eyes widened.

'She's my daughter. Is this urgent?' Gwyneth's mother sounded elderly, shaky voice.

'Erm, yes, it's very urgent. A mutual friend of ours has died and there's a funeral tomorrow. Do you have her cell number? Oh thanks so much, yeah it was real sad.' She gave a little sniff indicating to Jen to fetch her paper and pen, and scribbled down the number before thanking her and hanging up. She turned to the others. 'Right, who wants to do the honours?' They both pointed at Meg. Sighing, she dialled the number she'd just jotted down.

'Gwyneth, hi. It's Meg Lennox. From Ashport Comp . . . Yes, the American. Yes, ages. I'm afraid I had to tell your mum somebody died to get your number . . . No, nobody did. Well apart from Isobel Benjamin. Farting Frank's wife.' She chuckled. 'He probably . . . About a month ago, I think.' She looked helplessly at the other two. 'They had a memorial . . . I don't know . . . Oh Gwyneth, I'm sorry, I had no idea you were friends. Yes, it was lovely, lots of people came to pay respects. Anyway, the reason I'm calling is I was hoping you might be in touch with Rowan Howard? Oh, did she? Where? Oh, I see . . . Georgina? Yeah, we still speak . . . Yes, she is, to that guy Jen went out with.' She gave Georgina and Jen a quick apologetic smile. 'What's that? Jen?' Her grin stretched wider. 'Yeah. Yeah I know. Oh, that's wicked. Yeah, some people, eh? Right, well then, see you around maybe.'

Meg danced triumphant in front of them, forcing them to follow as she capered into Jen's kitchen. 'Want the news? Gwyneth was broken-hearted Isobel died, happy to hear I'm back in the country and said she'd always hated Jen since she played that practical joke. It went round the school that she was a stripper and she's had therapy ever since.'

'No!' Jen screamed in embarrassment. She grabbed the percolator and began scooping in spoons of coffee.

'OK, so I lied about the therapy. Apparently her mum told her Rowan had gotten into some kind of trouble.'

'What kind of trouble?' Jen's hand jerked, promptly spilling coffee on to the counter.

'She doesn't know but she thinks the whole family moved to Totnes. In Devon.' Her eyes twinkled. 'Let's go there. This weekend. We're on to something, I can feel it in my bones.'

'I don't know,' Georgina said. 'It's an exceedingly long way. And it means more time off.'

'So what? You're the boss,' Meg argued.

'I'll have to get Ollie to take Chloe,' Jen reflected. 'But what shall I do about the damned dog?' She took a step and a sudden dampness seeped into her sock. 'What the . . . ?'

There was a dubious puddle on the Italian tiles. All eyes went from it to Feo, who put his tail down and skulked shamefaced back to his dog bed.

Gleefully Meg slapped Jen on the back.

'Don't worry, dude. Your house won't stay white for long.'

For the second time that week Jen woke with an aching head. To think she'd thought her partying days behind her. There was life in the old dog yet, she mused, pulling herself out of bed and dragging on clothes. And talking of old dogs, there was another puddle in the hall. Cursing Anamaria, she opened the back door and let Feo into the garden.

The house seemed strangely empty. No Chloe to take to school, no Ollie reading the newspaper. She sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, while the radio blared, feeling apathetic and unmotivated. She wasn't scheduled to work today. Perhaps a bath would pep her up.

She was adding more cold water to the steaming tub when she heard the phone. By the time she found it – oops, so it wasn't always Ollie who failed to return it to its cradle – it had stopped ringing.

Returning to the bathroom, she checked the water temperature then pressed 1571 to retrieve her messages.

She was affronted by Helen's huffy voice. 'I know you're probably
much
too busy but we switched our wine-bar evening to tonight if you're interested.'

Interested? In her current state a root-canal treatment sounded more appealing, but Helen's tone made it clear she was feeling neglected, and rightfully so. Jen stepped into the oval bath and punched in 14713.

'Hello?' Helen sounded posher than usual.

'Hi, it's Jen. I'm in the bath.'

'Hello?' Confusing. Another voice, a man's, his line buzzing strangely. Did Helen have someone staying over?

Bugger. It wasn't Helen at all. It was Aiden. And Georgina. On different extensions. Instantly she became hyper-aware of her nakedness, the noise of water slopping.

'I've got it, Aiden. It's Jennifer. Calling from the bath, lucky duck. What can I do for you? You must have second sight.'

'Umm, why?' Jen's tired brain creaked into gear. She'd redialled the last number that had called her. Clearly it hadn't been Helen and evidently Georgina knew nothing about it. Which left . . . There was a click on the line and the buzzing stopped. Aiden.

'Because I'm not in the office, obviously,' Georgina said gaily. 'Too incapacitated after that vast amount of wine last night.'

'Oh, right . . . I was just going to leave you a message.' Her mind scrabbled about for an excuse to have been calling. 'About Totnes.'

'You
are
a mind-reader. I was just going to email my secretary to look for accommodation. Would you and Nutmeg like twin beds or would you prefer your own rooms? I hope you don't mind but I have this thing about sharing. I'm an atrocious snorer, Aiden will testify.'

'I thought you were too busy. I haven't even asked Ollie yet. If he'll take Chloe, that is.'

'Aiden talked me into it. Said I need a break. You know,' she quickly changed the subject, 'about Tom Dugan, well . . . I've been meaning to say I hope you didn't think I was gossiping. Aiden said he saw you? I hadn't realised he'd say something, it was totally out of place of him.' Georgina sounded oddly defiant.

'No, no. It's not a problem. Honestly.' So Aiden told Georgina that he'd been round. There was nothing to hide, to feel awkward about. Stupid Anamaria with her filthy mind.

But then what about this phone call?

'He told me you seemed put out, and I was concerned, that's all, about you getting involved with someone so soon after Ollie. Has he contacted you again?'

Had Aiden contacted her? Jen gulped. 'No, God no.' A shiver ran down her spine. 'It was just the one time and I was surprised to see him to be honest, but . . .'

'Because I know Nutmeg and I were being frightfully silly last night, but it does seem as if he's taken rather a shine to you. If he asks you out, do you think you'll see him again?'

'Of course not! Oh dear heavens, Georgina! How could you think . . .' The phone nearly slipped into the water, she was so appalled. She just managed to capture it with one hand. Horrified, Jen realised that she'd been thinking of Aiden while Georgina had been talking about Tom. 'I mean you're right, about it being too soon. I just don't think I'm ready,' she said, wanting to drown herself.

'You could do worse though. Never know, you might have some fun,' she tittered. 'Trust me, I may not always be right, but I'm never wrong. Better than some ghastly vulture anyway.'

'Vulture?' She was still so bothered and confused she could hardly take anything in.

'I was speaking to my production manager, Eleanor Appleby, about that very thing this morning. She said as soon as she got divorced she had all these married men crawling out of the woodwork, waiting to swoop like vultures.'

'My woodwork's vulture-free, thank goodness.' Jen made a shaky comeback. 'Was she tempted?'

'Not in the least. She's a clever cookie, Eleanor. She told me she always knew that if they could do the dirty on their wives, they'd do it to her sooner or later. About this weekend,' she rolled on smoothly, 'I was thinking, shall we take the limo? It's a lot more comfortable and Max is a terrific . . .'

'No! Are you joking? Who takes their chauffeur on a girls' weekend? Don't you ever drive?' Thank Christ for a change of topic.

'I passed my test,' Georgina said haughtily, 'I just don't care for motorways.'

'Don't care for them?'

'OK, I'm frightened of them. There. I'm afraid I'm going to drift to the centre or hit my brakes suddenly and cause a horrific crash. It's got worse over the years.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. Well, don't worry about it. Meg and I will drive.'

Boy, was she glad when that phone call was over! Ducking her head under the soapy water, Jen sat up again, cursing her stupidity. How could she have got it so wrong? Mixing up Tom and Aiden. Of course Georgina wasn't encouraging Jen to go out with her husband in that cosy tone.

Stupid, stupid mistake! And it would have been a hundred times worse if Georgina had caught it.

Or had she?

That story about Eleanor and the vultures – was it a warning? A shot across the bows?

And, even more pertinent, why had Aiden hidden the fact he'd called, and what had he been calling about?

Jen's day didn't improve. That afternoon she tackled the laundry basket. She pulled a load out of the dryer, folded a couple of Ollie's T-shirts, went to his wardrobe and gasped with shock.

She knew he'd moved out, knew he'd packed some clothes that weekend and that he would be collecting the rest one day, but she wasn't prepared for the emptiness that confronted her.

Nothing was in there. Not a tie, a shoe, or a single belt. He'd even taken those woollen walking socks that she'd bought him for his birthday a few years back and he'd never once worn. There was only a big vacant space and several abandoned wire hangers. He must have picked it all up on Tuesday, when she was at work or out with Chloe.

A cold sweat washed over her, prickles running up and down her back. The end of her marriage. Reality had hit all right. With a big hard smack across the top of her head.

No more would his clothes hang in his wardrobe or lie strewn around the bedroom floor for her to gather and wash. No more would he come in from football covered in mud and drop everything on the bathroom floor. And no more would those shaving foams, razors and male deodorants clutter the bathroom.

Strangely, the relief she'd expected, the freedom that she'd thought would send her high as a hot-air balloon, failed to arrive. She dropped on to the bed and began to cry. She didn't cry herself a river, she cried herself a torrent, a Noah-worthy flood. Her pillow was soaked, her nostrils bubbled, her eyes swelled. She hadn't wept so much since Chloe was three days old, all the progesterone had left her body and Ollie had disappeared to fetch them both a bacon sandwich from the hospital canteen.

The storm had abated to a mild squall when the phone rang. She picked it up from the nightstand on what used to be Ollie's side of the bed, loathing herself for the knee-jerk thought that it might be Aiden again.

'Jen?'

'Tom?' She blew her nose into a sodden tissue.

'Are you all right? You sound like you've a cold.' Tom was cheerfully sympathetic.

'Oh just a sniffle.'

'I thought perhaps you might have dinner with me? On Saturday? If you're free?'

'Oh Tom, I'm sorry. I'm going away for the weekend. To Totnes.' She wasn't sure how she felt, it seemed much too soon to be going out to dinner with a stranger, but at the same time it was mildly enticing.

'Totnes?' He sounded enthusiastic. 'One of my favourite haunts. First visit?'

'Yes. I'm going with Georgina and Meg. It's to do with the search.'

'How about when you get back? Any day next week work for you?'

She hesitated, remembering Georgina's admonition to have some fun. Tormented by two unavailable men, did she really want to throw a third into the equation? But Tom was available and reasonably attractive with a generous share of charisma. She had to admit she'd enjoyed their little flirtation. Could he be what the doctor ordered? A diversion away from the heartbreak hotel?

'That'd be great, Tom. Why don't you call me?' she said.

Jen found Helen perched at the end of the bar, clutching a garish-looking cocktail. 'My my, to what do I owe the pleasure?' Helen said, barely looking up to greet her. 'New friends left town?'

OK, she probably deserved that. As often as she'd tried to avoid Helen in the past, rarely had more than a week gone by without her reluctantly knuckling under and agreeing to some outing. But recently she'd been genuinely too wrapped up in her own life to have time for her old friend. No wonder Helen felt neglected. Jen plonked a wrapped package in front of her, a peace offering she'd found at the charity shop.

'Not exactly. And I can't stay long, I'm afraid. The girl across the road's babysitting. Thought I'd see what this place was all about.' Jen grabbed a vacant stool. 'Wasn't there meant to be a gang of you?'

'They may still turn up.' Helen pulled Jen's stool next to her and half smiled. Someone was attempting a poor rendition of Slade's 'Merry Christmas Everybody' on the karaoke. 'So, dinner party a rip-roaring success? Hors d'oeuvres OK?'

'It wasn't a dinner party. It was a council of war. We're still trying to look for . . .'

'Yeah, your old classmate.' Helen ripped the paper off the present. 'And the reunion came to zilch.'

'Actually, yes,' Jen said, surprised. 'How did you know?'

'Ollie told me.' She pulled out a china pig wearing dungarees and carrying a pitchfork. Helen hoarded a huge pig collection, mugs, plates, cushions, you name it, she had a pig-decorated version of it. 'Thanks. I know just the place for this.' She sounded pleasantly surprised, even a little touched.

'Ollie?' Jen was confused.

'I was passing the school at pick-up time yesterday – saw him chatting up Goldilocks.'

'Goldilocks?'

'Hair like spun gold.' Helen clapped as the Slade song ended. 'Or was that Rapunzel? Frances Hutton.'

'How did he look?'

'I'd have to say . . .' she paused, seeming to consider, '. . . happy. In fact he was laughing – quite a lot in fact.'

'Laughing?'

'Yes, you remember. You open your mouth and go ha ha ha.' She broke out into a mock trill of laughter.

'Good for him.' Jen felt a chip of ice lodge in her heart.

'Yeah, and it's about time you got your old laughter muscle working again too.'

Who says I haven't?
The words rose in her throat and she squashed them back down, unsaid. She was here to mend fences, not set them aflame. No point in rubbing in all the hilarity she'd been sharing with Meg and Georgina.

'Especially if you're hoping for a new relationship. Men don't go for mopey.' Helen shuddered, stirring her brightly coloured cocktail with its glass rod. 'It's not like it was in our twenties. The good ones are married and the others only interested in younger models. There's hardly anyone available but anoraks and geeks and there's even a queue for them. Can't remember when I last went out with anyone worthwhile. You'll see.' She flicked Jen a knowing glance under mascara-heavy eyelashes.

'Ye-es. You're probably right. Although talking of that, someone did ask me out.'

Helen's interest was sparked now, but she looked like she was chewing on a bitter olive. 'Who?'

'No one special,' Jen muttered, already wishing she'd kept her big mouth shut. Not only was she guilty of having a dinner date when Helen had declared it impossible, she'd failed to fill her in on Tom sooner. But really, why should she be made to feel like a miserable worm because a man showed interest, an event incompatible with Helen's predictions of doom and gloom? Sometimes it felt as if Helen preferred it when Jen was in the same sinking boat, with Helen holding the bailing bucket. Why couldn't she be happy for the good moments too? 'My old English teacher.' She felt obliged to downplay it, felt like saying he was twenty stone, bald with bad breath. 'Mr Dugan. I'm not that bothered, but . . .'

Helen slumped over her drink again.

'Oh well, that's good,' she said flatly.

Jen felt sorry for her suddenly. Where were the rest of the crowd she was supposed to meet? Had everyone stood her up?

She signalled to the barman.

'OK if I stay for a drink?'

'Hey, listen,' Helen said as Jen drained her gin and tonic, 'why don't we go for that meal on Saturday?' She stood up suddenly and waved. Two women in high heels and full warpaint spotted her and started heading over.

Oh shit. Would this never end? It was like one of those nightmares where you were running in quicksand, sinking deeper with every step.

'Saturday? Oh, er, you see, I can't. I'm away for the weekend. But as soon as I get back, we should . . .'

'Don't do me any favours.' Helen pursed her lips and rummaged in her handbag, looking for God knew what. 'You know, I'll see you when I see you.' Her tone held no promise of future meetings.

'Actually,' said Jen, taking a deep breath, knowing she had little option but to ask, 'I was wondering if . . . if you'd do me a big favour? Could you look after my dog?'

Helen's jaw fell. She looked truly flabbergasted and not just at Jen's sheer nerve.