Hens Reunited Read online

  As a student, she’d been envious of the relationship Alice had had with her parents – an easy-going, uncomplicated love. Her own family dynamic felt much more difficult – she’d always felt like the wild one in the family alongside sensible Carol; Georgia was the one who’d champed at the bit to be different and get away. She’d felt scornful of her parents – what did they know about anything? And what good were parents when they didn’t even realize you were so miserable you couldn’t wait to escape?

  But now … now she was older and maybe even wiser too. She’d realized just how much her parents and nan were ageing, how much more fragile they’d become. She didn’t feel that desperate need to run away from them any more. It was very odd.

  Still, everything considered, it was hardly surprising she felt peculiar. Since arriving in Stockport on Saturday she’d seen her grandmother, old and dying in a hospital ward. She’d suffered a panic attack over Michelle Jones walking past her in a corridor. And she’d had her job rubbished by Owen, just when she was starting to really like him, too …

  She bristled. Owen was another reason why she felt mixed up inside. He hadn’t shown his face at the hospital yesterday. Not that she’d been looking out for him or anything – she so hadn’t – but all the same, she was half-expecting him to seek her out and apologize for his temper tantrum the day before. Flinging her phone into the bin like that – her expensive prized-possession phone, thank you very much! – sheesh, talk about a strop. Just because she was trying to do her job! How would he have liked it if she’d chucked his stethoscope into the bin, or his stupid clipboard?

  Idiot. She’d been annoyed ever since. Who did he think he was anyway, speaking to her like that? Some morality crusader? Layla Gallagher was public property and so was her unborn baby. Didn’t Owen Goody-Two-Shoes McIntosh know anything about celebrity life? That was how it worked: if someone had done their utmost to secure tabloid column inches in the past with their footballer boyfriends and dirty-dancing nightclub displays, then they were fair game. Law of the red-top jungle, wasn’t it? He was naive if he didn’t know that much.

  All the same, something had prevented Georgia from filing any copy on the story. For some inexplicable reason, even though she knew a juicy headline about Layla Gallagher miscarrying would sell another few thousand copies of the paper and therefore earn her Isabella’s praise and thanks, Georgia hadn’t quite managed to press the Send button on the scoop email that lingered, unwritten, in her mind.

  Not because of Owen. No way! But because …

  She fiddled with her music player, flicking past a mournful song that had just come on. Oh all right, perhaps a little bit because of Owen, then, she admitted to herself. She had felt so judged, so criticized, the way he’d yelled at her. What was it he’d called her, in that horribly cold voice? A muckraker and a bully. Her, Georgia! Have a bit of respect!, he’d shouted before stalking off in his huff.

  Her skin prickled as she remembered. A bully – he’d actually called her a bully! Georgia knew about bullies – oh yes, she knew all about them. And she was certainly not a bully. She despised bullies after everything she’d been through at school. Loathed them. And for Owen to turn around and lump her in with the likes of Michelle Jones …

  Well. It took her breath away. It was pretty much the worst thing he could have called her.

  That wasn’t the only thing that had shocked her. It was the unexpected surge of empathy she’d felt for the pampered model afterwards, remembering her vulnerable and frightened, crying in the ambulance like that, when she was usually dolled up to the nines and flicking her hair around for the snappers. Sure, Georgia knew that celebs were real people too, with feelings and fears, she wasn’t completely dehumanized. But in her job, it was easy to see these people as meat on a rack. Puppets manipulated by their PR maestros. All players in a game.

  Owen’s words had broken the spell. And what had been front-page headlines suddenly became a woman in pain, a frightened, crying woman who thought she was losing her baby.

  Tears pricked Georgia’s eyes. She of all people should have known not to dehumanize a person in that situation. She’d been there herself, same spot, bleeding and scared in an ambulance. How had she become so numb, so desensitized?

  She found a tissue from the depths of her bag, wiped her eyes and then slid her shades down to cover her damp lashes. A tricky weekend, that was what it had been. Everyone made mistakes, didn’t they? And now she was going home, thank goodness, and back to normal life.

  She stared out the window, feeling numb, not particularly looking forward to being back in London. And wishing she could stop thinking about Owen for five bloody minutes.

  Two hours later, Georgia was there. She lived in an airy top-floor flat in a large Victorian house overlooking Clapham Common, a stone’s throw from the bars and restaurants of the High Street and Old Town. She’d bought the flat a few months after splitting up with Harry, once she’d got her head together again. That had been a mad, mad time – one that she didn’t like to think about too much. By then, Katie had tired of London and was studying for a PGCE in Bristol, but Alice was still in town, designing costumes at the theatre, having worked her way up from skivvying, and her flat in Streatham was the first place Georgia thought to take refuge.

  ‘Of course you can stay,’ Alice had said when Georgia had appeared in tears on the doorstep. ‘Oh, honey! Look at the state of you. Come in, let me take those bags. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  It had been a sanctuary, Alice’s flat, the perfect place to mend a broken heart. Georgia had slept on a camp bed in what Alice called the ‘sewing room’, where swatches of fabric were pinned up on the walls, half-made costumes were hung on a rack, and a hotchpotch of outfits were stuffed into the wardrobe – everything from Caliban’s mask to Cinderella’s ball gown. It was like sleeping in a strange dream.

  Georgia felt a twang of remorse thinking about it as she unlocked her front door. Alice had really looked after her, had listened to her vent all her hatred of Harry, hadn’t moaned once when Georgia had wanted to sit up talking until dawn for nights on end, had kept the fridge full of wine and dark chocolate. And then had come that day when Alice arrived home practically glittering with excitement. ‘There’s this gorgeous actor in rehearsals at the moment,’ she’d sighed. ‘Jake Archer. Oh my God, George, he’s absolutely lush …’

  Georgia banished the memory instantly and stepped into the hallway. It felt cool and quiet after the hot pavement bustle outside, and she dropped her bag and kicked her shoes off as soon as she’d shut the front door on the rest of the world, grateful to be back in her own space at last.

  She picked up the post, then walked across the honey-coloured stripped floorboards of the open-plan living space and into the kitchen area, where she poured herself a tall glass of water and sat at the table. She stared around her kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. Her clear, cold granite surfaces, clean lines and reflected light – such a contrast to her mum’s peeling beige worktops overrun by sticky spice jars, the fingerprint-marked toaster, piles of mail and old newspapers, recipes snipped from magazines …

  Thank Christ she was back here now, where it was all in order. No children’s paintings Blu-Tacked to the wall, no overflowing bread bin (a dieter’s nightmare) and no naff mug tree complete with full set of football mugs.

  The thought prompted her to phone home. Unexpectedly she found herself wanting to make that connection. Just so her mum didn’t worry, or anything, that was all.

  ‘Hi, it’s only me,’ she said when her mum picked up. ‘Just … letting you know I got back all right.’

  Her mum sounded slightly bemused. ‘Oh. Right. That’s very nice of you, Georgie. Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she replied, leaning back on the chair and putting her feet up on another. She wiggled her bare toes – must get a pedicure booked in soon. You couldn’t have too many in the summer. ‘How was Nan this afternoon?’

  �
��She was a bit drowsy, they’re trying her on some new medication.’ Her mum sighed. ‘Couldn’t get much out of her, to be honest. Maybe tomorrow.’

  Georgia hesitated. She wanted to find out if Owen had been round, but hated herself for even wondering about it. No. She wouldn’t lower herself to ask. This phone call was not about him. ‘Well, give her my love when you see her next, won’t you?’ she said in the end.

  ‘I will, pet. It was a real tonic for her, seeing you. We’re all ever so grateful that you came up.’

  Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. The words made her squirm. It wasn’t right that her family should be so grateful for one measly little visit when the rest of the time she’d deliberately stayed away. ‘I’m glad I did,’ she said, surprised by the truth of her words. ‘And … I’ll try and visit again soon.’

  ‘Oh, great!’ Her mum’s surprised joy almost lit up the phone. ‘She’ll look forward to that – well, we all will. Me and your dad were saying it was just like old times having you home. Ever so nice to catch up properly.’

  ‘Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?’ She meant it as well, she was taken aback to realize. She’d felt so relaxed on her parents’ old sofa, so comfortable.

  She stood up and gazed out of the window. Five o’clock now, and the first few office types were sauntering their way gladly into the pubs and bars. Down on the common, women were pushing prams in slow convoys while bare baby legs kicked in the late afternoon sunshine. Studenty types were sitting in big groups on the grass, newspapers, books and cans of lager dotted between them. Home, her mum had said. But this flat, this city, was Georgia’s home now, had been for a long while. If she felt like it, she could be down there too within five minutes, choosing a table on the roof terrace of the Sun pub and sipping a cold white wine while she read a book. Or she could call a girlfriend about meeting for tapas in Carmen, or buy herself a vodka in Revolution and hang out there eyeing up the talent. If she felt like it.

  She dragged herself back to the conversation. ‘Okay, Mum. Love to Dad and Nan. Speak to you soon, bye.’

  She pressed the red button to end the call. Right, she thought. Now what? She didn’t actually want to go to any of the places that had just popped into her head. She wanted to …

  No. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t want to sit at a Formica-topped table in a Stockport hospital and drink fizzy water with Owen McIntosh. Why the hell would she want to do that, when she had the best bars and restaurants in south London right on her doorstep?

  She groaned out loud and sank her head onto the table. What was wrong with her? Was she ill? She hated feeling like this – weak and muddle-headed. Why couldn’t she snap out of it, the way she usually did? Why couldn’t she get that man out of her mind?

  Two seconds later, she banged a fist down on the table. Enough, Georgia. Enough wallowing in this weird mood. Time to move on, yeah? She sat up and steepled her fingers together, putting together an action plan.

  First, she told herself, I’m going to take a shower and have some proper food. Then I’m going to call the office, kick Polly Nash’s butt and write some fabulous copy for tomorrow. Who gives a monkey’s what Owen McIntosh thinks anyway?

  Georgia felt fired up with energy and enthusiasm the next morning. She got up early, went to a BodyPump class where she squatted and lunged with the zeal of Paula Radcliffe, showered and blow-dried her hair, then threw back a vile wheatgrass concoction, followed by a latte and Danish on the tube (hell, she was only human). She strode into the office at eight thirty, feeling ready for action, swishing her hair behind her like someone in a Pantene advert. Make sure Isabella had clocked her early arrival … check! Isabella didn’t seem to need any sleep, she pretty much lived in her office. No wonder she was onto her fourth marriage by now. Georgia waved a hand at her editor, standing in her glassed-in box, hand on Armani-clad hip as she barked at somebody over the phone – she liked to be able to see her minions, did Isabella – then stalked smartly along to her own, slightly less glamorous, corner of the office.

  Right then! To work. She switched on her PC and slid into her chair, her bottom aching slightly from the exertions of her gym class as she lowered it to the seat.

  She grabbed the day’s paper to flick through while she waited to log on – but didn’t get past the first page before her jaw dropped open with an almost audible clunk. Win your very own Knight on the Town – with Georgia! screamed a caption to the left of the main headlines. And there was a mugshot of her – not the most flattering one of her either – and a See page 5 for details!

  Christ. What the hell was this? Nice of the editorial team to bother telling me about it! she thought sarcastically, as all the poise and energy she’d had two minutes ago deserted her. She whipped through to page 5 feeling hot with indignation.

  Our new competition – win a Knight on the Town! she read. Do you love celebrity gossip? Do you have what it takes to party with the best of them? If so, this competition is for YOU. We’re offering one lucky reader the chance to see and be seen in some of London’s most exclusive haunts. Imagine yourself drinking cocktails in the West End’s premier bars. Perhaps you’d like to dine where the A-list hang out? And then you can round off the evening by partying with the hippest crowds at one of London’s trendiest nightclubs! Best of all, you’ll be with our super-scooper Georgia Knight, as she gets the lowdown on all your favourite celebs and stars. It’ll be a Knight to remember, and that’s for sure!

  Great. Bloody great. Whose bright idea was this, then, to offer Georgia up as a competition prize? And which joker had dared describe her as a ‘super-scooper’, for crying out loud? It made her sound like some nasty dog-care accessory used for cleaning up turds on the pavement. Just the image she’d been trying to build – not.

  Her phone rang just then and she snatched up the receiver, feeling agitated. ‘Yes?’

  There was a moment’s pause and then Isabella’s voice snaked into Georgia’s ear. ‘I’d like to see you in my office,’ she said. That cold tone again. ‘Now.’

  Georgia flinched as the line went dead, then frowned. What was Isabella in a stew about, then? She got to her feet a little shakily (and ouch, her bottom was really starting to feel as if someone had whacked it with a bag of spanners), and brushed down her skirt in case any telltale Danish pastry flakes still lingered there. Isabella noticed these things, and always let you know she’d noticed them, too.

  She’s probably just going to explain this ridiculous competition, Georgia thought to herself as she wound her way back through the desks towards Isabella’s office. Or brief me about some new premiere or interview she’s lined up for me. That would be nice …

  She knocked on her editor’s door and went in.

  ‘Georgia, did you or did you not have an interview arranged at the Coronation Street set on Monday?’ Isabella snapped without preamble.

  ‘I …’ Words failed Georgia momentarily. She wondered whether or not she should sit down, but Isabella was still standing, and Georgia didn’t want to give her boss the advantage of height. She drew herself up and looked her editor full in the eye. Time to lie, she reckoned. ‘I’d set up a meeting with Anna Tate, the new Rovers’ barmaid, yes,’ she said coolly, crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘Unfortunately, it was cancelled at the last minute. Annoying, but one of those things. The good news is—’

  ‘Georgia, I’m not an idiot,’ Isabella said crisply. ‘So don’t mistake me for one.’

  Georgia stopped talking abruptly. Shit. What did Isabella mean by that? Her heart raced and her palms felt clammy. She’d have to try the innocence card in the hope that Isabella would explain. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure—’ she faltered.

  ‘I was at a dinner party with Isaac, Anna Tate’s agent on Saturday night,’ Isabella went on smoothly. ‘And coincidentally, I mentioned to him how we’d love to do a piece with Anna for the paper. Unfortunately, he told me he’d just signed up a big exclusive interview with Anna to go in the Mirror next week. All about her abu
sive foster parents, apparently. Dynamite stuff, he reckoned.’ She gave Georgia a long, disdainful look. ‘So imagine my surprise when you called the next day to tell me you’d got an exclusive with her. I double-checked with Isaac just to give you the benefit of the doubt but …’ There was a delicate pause, and then Isabella shrugged. ‘He didn’t seem to know anything about it.’ She left the words hanging in mid-air and stared expectantly at Georgia. ‘So … would you like to explain yourself?’

  Georgia thought fast. Her reputation was at stake here, job possibly at risk, even. Whatever she said had to be slick and convincing. She could not, for instance, make excuses that she’d been visiting her ill grandmother. Isabella would probably hurl a BlackBerry at her head if she came out with that line of defence. She could always wheel out her secret weapon, Layla Gallagher, she supposed, but did she really want to go there?

  ‘My contact let me down over the Anna Tate interview,’ she bluffed instead, just about managing to meet Isabella’s gaze. Sweat trickled down in a channel between her shoulder blades. ‘A false promise. It sometimes happens. But fortunately, I got something even better.’

  The dangled carrot got Isabella on the back foot at last. ‘What’s that?’ she asked. This had better be good, was the unspoken subtext.

  Sod it. Sorry, Layla, Georgia thought. But it’s your neck or mine on the line here. ‘I’ve got an exclusive on Layla Gallagher,’ she said. ‘She was rushed to hospital on Sunday with—’

  Isabella let out a contemptuous snort and tossed that day’s edition of the Sun at her. Georgia had to scrabble to catch it and even so, Mystic Meg’s page broke free and floated to the floor, the clairvoyant’s eyes staring into her as she fell to earth. Georgia tried to reassemble the newspaper, adrenalin coursing through her. And then, as she saw the front page, she felt a sinking sensation of doom.

  Layla: My Baby Scare – an exclusive report by Chloe Wells, our Showbiz Reporter!