The House of New Beginnings Read online

  ‘Oh, come here!’

  There was much hugging and exclaiming and complimenting as the five women were reunited whereas the men barely looked up from their conversation about fell-running routes, other than to give Georgie a brief nod and smile.

  ‘I love that top, is it new?’ Amelia said. ‘You look fab.’

  ‘Thanks! It’s from this little boutique in Brighton,’ Georgie said, feeling very cosmopolitan. She wouldn’t mention that it was second-hand, she decided. ‘I love your hair! It looks really cool.’

  ‘Oh, cheers, Chloe did it actually,’ Amelia said, touching it with her fingertips. ‘She’ll be here in a minute. You should get her to give you some tips, she’s brilliant with the old tongs.’

  ‘She’s going to do my wedding hair,’ Jade put in proudly, twiddling a chestnut lock around her index finger. ‘I’ll have to show you the photos, George, we’ve had a little practice session already. Where is she, by the way? I thought she was going to come early.’

  ‘Who’s—’ Georgie began, confused by mention of this Chloe person again but Amelia was already in full flow.

  ‘She was popping a pie round to Mrs Huggins, I bet she got stuck listening to her going on about that mangy old cat of hers again.’ Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll chew your ear off, that one. Mrs Huggins, I mean, not the cat!’

  Georgie was feeling rather nonplussed as the others fell about laughing. Mrs Huggins was her former neighbour in Orchard Road, who was as creakily arthritic as she was gossipy. ‘Um . . . Who are you talking about?’

  They stared at her. ‘Chloe! Chloe Phillips. She lives in your house, you daft pillock,’ Amelia said. Her ringlets fell around her face as she laughed again.

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgie, taken aback. Had Amelia always laughed in such a loud honking way, her head thrown back in hilarity? New hair, new laugh, new friend . . . What was it Simon had said earlier, that Stonefield never changed? She was starting to think there were a few too many changes around here already; too many for Georgie’s liking. ‘Right. The lettings agent did everything, I never actually met—’

  ‘Here she is. Chloe! Over here!’ And then Georgie was momentarily forgotten as Amelia, Jade, Lois and Mel all turned to greet the new arrival.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘About time!’

  ‘What kept you?’

  What had kept her? Georgie thought, glancing up at the brass-edged clock on the wall. It was only five past eight. What was the big deal? And why were her oldest mates all seemingly in such thrall to this other woman, when – hello? – Georgie, their real friend, was back again following a three-week absence. It was the longest she had been away in years! She put her hands in her lap, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden. Hurry up, Simon. How long did it take a man to buy a few drinks, for heaven’s sake?

  Chloe was small and busty in a tight black cleavage-revealing dress and spindly heels, the sort that Georgie would catch in a broken paving slab within about two minutes of squeezing her foot inside. She had coppery hair pulled up in a chignon with a few artfully tousled tendrils loose at the front, green eyes and pale freckled skin, and Georgie felt underdressed immediately as Chloe tottered over. Since when had anyone come to this pub in a little black dress, she wanted to ask, other than on New Year’s Eve?

  ‘Dudes!’ called Chloe as she approached. She even had a swagger on her, Georgie noted, feeling rather sour. A swagger, and she had only been in the village five minutes. Who did she think she was? ‘Hiya. Sorry I’m late. Mrs H was telling me about her son – he was out in Afghan, you know, and she’s that proud of him. The big news is, he’s going to be a dad, anyway, and she’s well happy.’ She tapped her watch and pulled a funny face. ‘Twenty solid minutes’ worth of being happy, mind, where I couldn’t get a word in edgeways, but what can you do?’

  ‘Aww.’ This was Jade, head tilted on one side, expression sappy. ‘Bless. She just loves you, Chlo. Nice for her to have someone to talk to.’

  Georgie stiffened. The way Jade said it made it sound as if Georgie had always shunned her elderly neighbour when she so hadn’t. You could hardly step foot in the back garden without Mrs Huggins hurrying out in order to buttonhole Georgie for a chat. And how many times had she sat in her neighbour’s musty-smelling living room, legs itching on the prickly velvet chair, listening to her spout on about her cat, her son, her sadly deceased husband . . . ? Many times, thank you. Certainly many more than this Chloe interloper had.

  ‘Come and sit here, I’ve saved you a place,’ Amelia said, shuffling up and patting the banquette with great eagerness. And then everyone was moving up, rearranging themselves so that Chloe could take centre stage, while Georgie found herself shunted to the edge of the table beside shy Mel, who only tagged along with Lois because she didn’t have any friends of her own. Effectively she’d been edged out into the wilderness, she thought, trying not to look hurt. Edged out, by her own mates, in her own local pub, thank you very much. This was not exactly the welcome home she’d been anticipating.

  ‘Cheers, babe,’ said Chloe, wedging her bum into the gap with a wiggle.

  Babe! If there was one thing Amelia hated it was being called pet names. Babe. Sweetie. Hon. Crimes against vocabulary, she’d said before. Cheesy words for cheesy people. Georgie hid a tiny smirk waiting for her friend’s usual waspish response but Amelia said nothing, just patted her stupid ringlets and smiled goofily at the vocabulary criminal.

  ‘Hello, hello.’ Chloe had noticed her now. ‘Who’s this? A new member of the gang?’

  Georgie’s hackles rose. ‘New? I don’t think so, love,’ she scoffed with a little laugh. She’d intended to sound jokey but it came out sounding rather aggressive. ‘I should be asking, who are you?’

  ‘It’s Chloe, you muppet, we told you that a minute ago,’ said Amelia disloyally, pantomiming slapping a hand to her head as if Georgie was the thickest person in the room. ‘And Chloe, this is Georgie, our mate who’s been down in Brighton. She’s your landlady, so watch what you say!’

  Was it Georgie’s imagination or did Chloe’s green eyes sparkle with mischief at this news? ‘Ooh God, nobody tell her about the party last night, then!’ she cried, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Don’t worry. I’m kidding. We haven’t broken that much yet although we did paint the front room purple, I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Purple?’ Georgie echoed uncertainly.

  ‘Kidding again! Of course we haven’t. We’ve been very well behaved, honest. If you don’t mind us having shagged all over the place, ha ha!’ She gave a meaningful wink. ‘Nice bed, by the way. Oh, we’ve christened that bed all right.’

  ‘Here you go. Sorry it took ages.’ Simon was back, plonking drinks on the table – and thank goodness, thought Georgie, because she was in sore need of a distraction from this utterly repellent Chloe person. Shagging all over the place indeed. In her house! On her super-comfortable memory-foam bed! She was so going to borrow her mum’s steam-cleaner before she moved back in. The mattress could go on a bonfire too; there was no way she wanted it back now it had been forever ruined by horrible Chloe cavorting all over it.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully, taking a massive swig of her pint. She wasn’t enjoying tonight as much as she had expected. In fact, if Chloe could kindly sling her hook now and butt out of Georgie’s circle of friends forever, that would be very much appreciated. She watched rather dolefully as Simon wandered down to the far end of the table where the other blokes were gathered and greeted him with an enthusiastically slappy round of man-hugs. Don’t leave me, she suddenly felt like calling after him but that was ridiculous. Barring Chloe, these were her best and oldest friends, the women she loved more than any others. Normally she couldn’t wait for him to leave her and her mates to it, so that they could get down to a proper meaty gossip.

  Dragging her attention away from Simon and the men, she feigned polite listening as Chloe blah-ed on at length about some incident at work that day. Yes, that was right, she was a teacher, Geo
rgie remembered now, as was her tall, rugged partner, currently being served by Big Bill at the bar. Somehow she’d pictured the two as sensible tweedy types, who would be respectful with her soft furnishings and sit quietly marking their homework books every evening, rather than this pintsized loudmouth who seemed to have muscled in on her mates in Georgie’s absence. That would teach her to go around making lazy assumptions, she supposed.

  Talk turned – inevitably – to Amelia and Jade’s wedding plans, and to Georgie’s annoyance, Chloe insisted on hearing the last tiny detail of everything. Even when Amelia and Jade started looking embarrassed and saying things like ‘Oh God, I’m getting boring now, aren’t I?’ and ‘Sorry, am I going on?’ to which the answers were obviously, Yes and HELL, YES, Chloe waved them aside, and said ‘No way! If it’s important to you, it’s important to us. Right, girls?’

  ‘Right,’ the others chorused dutifully, apart from Georgie who pretended she had just seen something really urgent on her phone.

  ‘How are things in Bournemouth?’ asked shy Mel just then.

  ‘It’s Brighton,’ Georgie replied, thankful that they might actually be changing the subject at last. ‘And yeah, it’s great. Different from here, obviously. It’s a bit . . . wilder. And outrageous. Loads of bohemian types.’

  Lois pouted. ‘She’s saying we’re not wild enough for her any more,’ she joked.

  ‘Of course I’m not!’ Georgie laughed. ‘Don’t forget, Lois, I was there at your twenty-first when there was the stripper and cucumber incident. That’s all the wild I will ever need in my life, thanks.’

  Amelia immediately began humming the Stripper tune, batting her eyelashes coquettishly and pushing her top slightly off her shoulders in a suggestive sort of manner, and everyone burst out laughing. Then they laughed even harder when Lois accidentally sprayed a mouthful of vodka and tonic through her nose.

  Chloe looked a bit put out not to be sharing the joke and turned her eyes, like laser beams, on Georgie. ‘So what are you up to down beside the seaside?’ she asked. ‘I heard you followed your boyfriend down there. Sweet!’

  Georgie bristled at the implicit criticism. ‘Actually I’m writing for a magazine,’ she said loftily. So shove that one in your hole, Chloe. ‘It’s really cool. I’m their agony aunt, and I’ve got this column where—’

  ‘Ooh, what’s it called?’ Chloe said, whipping out a tablet and opening her browser.

  ‘I . . .’ All of a sudden, Georgie didn’t want to tell her. She was sure that Chloe would only try to belittle her work somehow, make a joke about it. ‘You won’t have heard of it, it’s a local thing,’ she said, waving a hand. ‘But yeah, it’s really fun living by the sea. There are loads of arty people and famous actors and the shops are ace . . .’ Her voice trailed away. The others weren’t listening. They were all poring over Chloe’s tablet as she typed into a search engine.

  ‘Brighton . . . local . . . magazine,’ she said. ‘Let’s see. BN1 . . . Regency Magazine . . . Brighton Rocks . . . ’

  Georgie gave a guilty start and unfortunately for her, Jade noticed. ‘Try Brighton Rocks,’ she said. The traitor.

  ‘No, don’t, my stuff isn’t on there yet,’ Georgie said, feeling a flutter of panic. Shit. The first thing they would see if they tracked down her Hey Em page was that awful whinging letter about Simon. He was still blissfully ignorant of the whole thing, and that was most definitely how she wanted him to stay. ‘Anyone want another drink?’

  Chloe stared her down. ‘Georgie! Chill!’ she instructed. ‘Anyone would think you were embarrassed about your new journalistic career. Or even that you’d made the whole thing up!’ She elbowed Amelia. ‘I’m dying to read this agony aunt page now, I’m telling you. Gagging to!’ She clicked a link and began scrolling. ‘Aha – this looks promising. Hey Em! That you, is it?’ She sniggered. ‘Did they not think your name was cool enough for them or something?’

  ‘No, I—’ Georgie thought for a moment about snatching the tablet out of Chloe’s hands – she was like the worst kind of school bully, sensing prey and going in for the kill. Then she heard Amelia’s sharp intake of breath and knew her fate was already sealed. Too late.

  ‘Wait,’ Amelia said, who had always been a fast reader and was ahead of the others. ‘Is this about—?’ And then, bless her for her loyalty, because she did try to close the page down before anyone else could see it, shooting Georgie an aghast look. Yikes, said the look. Really?

  Yep, said Georgie’s unhappy face in reply. Really. Unfortunately, Chloe had wrestled the tablet away from reach and was already reading out the second letter in a sing-song voice.

  ‘“Hey Em, Do you know what, my boyfriend is being a real arse. He’s got this hot-shot new job and now thinks he’s like this super-amazing professional.”’ She raised an eyebrow and read on. ‘“We’ve moved down all the way from Yorkshire so that he can indulge his wet dream, I mean, take up this wowzers job” –’ Her eye fell upon Georgie as she, too, realized the unfortunate predicament for the new writer. ‘Oh dear,’ she said with slow relish in her voice. Gotcha. ‘No wonder you didn’t want us to read it. Trouble in paradise, eh?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Georgie, does Simon know you’ve written this?’ Jade said, craning her neck to read to the bottom. ‘Oh my God, there’s even a vote thing at the bottom. You can choose whether to . . .’ She stifled a snort – ‘lump him, dump him or hump him!’

  ‘Look, it was just a joke, it’s not even—’ Georgie gabbled but then there came the worst question she’d ever heard in her life.

  ‘Does Simon know about what?’ Right on cue, there was the man himself. He’d always had bat-ears, worst luck. He caught her eye and winked but she was unable to do anything but slide her gaze unhappily away. Oh shit. Oh, Simon, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry but I cocked up big-time.

  ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled but Chloe, sensing mischief, spoke louder.

  ‘Awkward!’ she sang, then held the tablet aloft. ‘So are you going to tell him, George, or shall I?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  As the senior management team had previously decreed, the office of Dunwoody and Harbottle closed promptly at three-thirty on Friday afternoon, ensuring the staff could troop out into the city and spread some brightness and cheer amidst the elderly community. That was the theory, anyway, although Charlotte had heard quite a bit of grumbling and muttering from her colleagues about the endeavour being a waste of everyone’s time, and that they had way better things they’d rather be doing. It was the bank holiday weekend and some of them were clearly planning to make their befriending visit as brief as possible, the length of a gulped-back cup of coffee by the sound of it, in order to make a break for the motorway and weekend plans elsewhere.

  Charlotte had completely forgotten it was a bank holiday. It was only when her boss called out, ‘See you all on Tuesday’ before whizzing out of the building in a perfumed dash, that Charlotte clicked why everyone had been discussing their weekend activities in a way that they didn’t usually. Camping trips (ambitious, she thought, having seen the drizzly forecast), a spa weekend, an exclusive gourmet supper club night, visits to in-laws and siblings . . . everyone, it seemed, had lots to keep them busy over the next few days. Apart from Charlotte, obviously.

  She pondered on this as she went home, picking up a bunch of velvety white roses (for Margot) and a microwave curry meal (for her), plus a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc that was on special offer (definitely for her). Weekends were lonely enough anyway when you lived by yourself and didn’t have any local friends, but when that weekend was increased by a whopping fifty per cent to become three whole days of emptiness . . . frankly, there wasn’t enough cleaning in the world to fill that time. Not when you had a flat the size of hers, anyway. And look what had happened last weekend when she had braved it onto the pier only to end up in such an embarrassing situation with the man and his lost daughter!

  Once back at SeaView House that afternoon, she slung her curry and wine in th
e fridge, thinking distractedly as she did so how her ex-husband Jim would have told her off for that particular combo. ‘You’re meant to have beer with curry, not wine!’ he’d have said, shaking his head at her poor etiquette. Bit of a booze snob, Jim, really, now that she thought about it, whereas Charlotte was happy to have wine with anything, pretty much. She’d have wine with a plate of chips and beans if she felt like it, actually. She’d have wine with a nice sandwich and packet of crisps, even. And yes, okay, so when Kate had died and her breasts had swollen to beachball proportions, ginormous and tender and still hopefully producing milk that was no longer required, Charlotte had poured herself a glass of wine at breakfast one morning and proceeded to polish off most of a bottle by the time the postman arrived with yet more condolence cards.

  They had been terrible days. The worst. Days she really shouldn’t be dwelling on now either, when she was due to see Margot Favager again in five minutes. Come on, Charlotte. Pull yourself together. Onwards we trudge.

  Spritzing on some perfume she peered into the mirror to reapply her lipstick – Margot was the sort of person who made you feel you should take care of these things – and caught her own gaze. Jim had fallen in love with her eyes, he’d always said. Big and brown and trusting; ‘Don’t give me those cow eyes now,’ her mum had warned whenever Charlotte had gone begging for something as a child. It had been a while since she’d actually stared into them herself, she realized, her breath gently misting the mirror. She had avoided looking at her unhappy reflection after Kate had died because it had seemed as if there was nothing there behind her eyes any more. Now she practised a smile, realizing in the next moment that she had lipstick on her teeth. There – see? Maybe smiling was good for something after all, she thought, wiping it off with a square of loo roll.

  Deep breaths, she told herself as she headed up to the top floor a few minutes later. Everything would be okay. If you kept on saying it to yourself, you eventually believed it, according to the self-help articles her mum still emailed her.