Hens Reunited Read online

  ‘Sounds fab to me,’ Georgia said. ‘I think winter weddings are lovely – really magical. How are you decorating the church?’

  ‘Lots of holly and ivy garlands, big fat candles and fairy lights,’ Alice said dreamily. ‘And poinsettias too.’ She giggled. ‘Jake quite fancied some fake snow, but I drew the line at that. No sleigh bells either.’

  ‘It’s going to be brilliant,’ Katie said. ‘Go on, then, who have you put us on a table with? Has Jake got any sexy single mates you can seat us next to?’

  Georgia glugged back her wine. ‘Please tell me he’s bezzy mates with Daniel Craig, Alice. Please!’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Jake’s mates are all scruffy indie-kid sorts. Anyway, what are you on about, I bet you’re always bumping into Daniel Craig at your glam parties, Georgia. You don’t need me and Jake to sort you out with some totty, surely!’

  Georgia wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no,’ she replied. ‘It’s wall-to-wall WAGs and bimbos for me these days. I’m getting a bit fed up of it, to be honest. I reckon another year and I’ll be done on the showbiz circuit. Any longer and I’ll be burned out, or an alcoholic. Or just a hard-hearted bitch, like some of the other gossip girls.’ She poured everyone another glass of wine. ‘It eats away at you after a while, this job. Sometimes I wonder about giving it all up to write my best-selling novel.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Katie looked up with interest. ‘What best-selling novel is this, then?’

  Georgia shrugged. ‘Oh, you know, just a little pipe dream. Something I’ve been thinking about for a while. But I need to stockpile some savings first if I’m ever going to manage it, so I guess I’m stuck where I am for the time being.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway, enough about me. We’re here for Alice after all. Lovely Alice and lovely Jake. Here’s to years of happiness and hot sex.’

  Alice blushed, but Katie was already raising her glass. ‘Happiness and hot sex!’

  Chapter Three

  Everything Changes

  Saturday, 14 June 2008

  Alice turned the key in the lock and pushed the door. It didn’t budge. Great. That was a good start.

  She wiggled the key tentatively, twisting the door handle at the same time. Still nothing.

  Behind her, on the front path to the cottage, Iris was crying in her car seat and kicking her bare feet. A bead of sweat trickled down Alice’s back. Just her luck that she’d decided to move house on the hottest day of the year. Just her luck that she couldn’t even get in her new house!

  She yanked the door handle a degree more fiercely, turning the key so hard now she almost expected the top half to snap off in her fingers. ‘All right, Iris, just a sec,’ she murmured, trying to sound as soothing as she could, while her daughter ramped up the volume, veering dangerously towards full-throttle sobs.

  ‘You need to give it a shove, my love,’ came an amused voice from further behind her. A rich country burr, strong enough to churn the butter, as her mum would say.

  Alice turned and wiped her sweaty forehead with her bare arm. A man was leaning over the front gate, her dad’s age, white curly hair, his face nut-brown, the colour and texture of shoe leather. ‘Hello,’ she said, feeling flustered as she joggled Iris’s car seat with her foot. Still Iris wailed, becoming redder and redder in the face.

  ‘Give the door a shove,’ the man said again. ‘It’s swollen in the heat, is all. Always sticking, that door.’

  Alice wasn’t sure if she liked how familiar this complete stranger was with her new front door. But he was watching her expectantly and Iris was still grizzling, hot tears spouting out of her grey eyes, fists banging up and down. So she put the key in again, twisted it (hard), turned the door handle (hard), and gave it a smart shove with her bottom.

  The door swung open, and Alice went stumbling in after it.

  The man hanging over the gate laughed. ‘There she goes!’ he said. He gave her a mock salute. ‘Cheerio now!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alice said, righting herself and standing on the threshold. But he was already off, whistling as he went down the road. ‘Um … cheerio!’ she called after him, and he raised a weathered hand in the air in acknowledgement.

  She bent down to Iris, who looked as if she were about to explode, and released her from the straps. ‘Come on, tired girl,’ Alice said, scooping her up. She could smell the lavender from the dusty flowerbed nearby now that she was crouching. Bees droned around the purple heads, dive-bombing through the leggy grey stems. Alice stood up and patted Iris’s back. ‘Let’s go and see our new house.’

  Iris sobbed into her shoulder, her tears wetting Alice’s top, as they stepped over the threshold. Alice could see her daughter’s point. It was dark and dingy in there after the glaring sun outside. Dark, dingy, cluttered with old furniture, and ripe with a choking musty smell. Oh God. It was so much smaller than she remembered it.

  She walked across the room – which took all of three steps – and sank into an armchair that had stuffing leaking from its side like Father Christmas beards. It creaked under her weight and she leaned back gingerly, Iris still attached to her like a sniffling baby monkey. Oh no. What had she done, agreeing to this?

  By rights, she should be with Jake, in their Chelsea flat, bought three years ago when his career went into orbit and he landed his first big Brit-flick deal. By rights, they’d be snuggled up on that ridiculously large bed he’d bought, all three of them, one big happy family on the Egyptian cotton sheets. By rights, Iris would be dressed top to toe in organic fleecy baby clothes, instead of charity-shop bargains, and …

  The tears were leaking down her cheeks, dripping into Iris’s tufty black hair like rain. Instead, here she was, making a so-called new start, in this grotty little cottage in the arse-end of Nowhere. How had things gone so spectacularly wrong?

  ‘I never liked him,’ her mum had said loyally. ‘Never thought he was good enough for you. Nor did your dad.’

  But that wasn’t the point, was it? Alice had thought Jake was good enough for her (too good, actually, if truth be told). And once upon a time, Jake had seemed to think they were good enough for each other, too. He’d married her, hadn’t he?

  She looked down at her wedding ring, still on her finger. She couldn’t bear to take it off. Her fingers had puffed up so much during the pregnancy that the ring had hurt her, cut into her, the metal leaving red tracks on her tender skin. But Alice – stupid, devoted Alice! – had ignored the pain and carried on wearing it. It was a symbol, wasn’t it? A symbol of eternal love.

  Ha. That was a laugh. Eternal disappointment, more like. The puffiness from her swollen fingers had long since gone; after Jake had unceremoniously ditched her (‘In your condition, too! Has the man a heart of stone?’ her mum had railed), she’d seemed to shrink with misery. The ring spun loosely on her finger now. One of these days it would drop off when she wasn’t paying attention, and she’d lose it. Her mind, as well as the ring, that was.

  Alice hoisted Iris higher on her shoulder and delved into her skirt pocket for a tissue. It hit her every now and then, the full sick horror of what had happened. She almost thought it would have been easier if Jake had died. At least then she could grieve his loss wholeheartedly, safe in the knowledge that a line had been drawn, a chapter closed. At least then nobody would say such bloody irritating things to her.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly seen his true colours now, Alice.’ That had been Georgia, of course – before Alice had slammed the phone down on her. Like Alice gave two hoots for anything Georgia Knight had to say any more, after what she’d done. The bitch.

  ‘You’re well shot of the cheating pig.’ Katie, trying to be supportive. But it was all right for Katie, wasn’t it? She was super-confident and super-independent. She’d never bought into the ’til-death-do-us-part line in the first place – well, if you discounted that moment of matrimonial madness with Neil whatever-his-name-was.

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea!’ And that tactless, completely unh
elpful reminder had been from her mum. Fish – ha. Who wanted a fish? And why hadn’t anyone thought to warn Alice about the sharks?

  Alice got to her feet. She would not think about Jake anyway. The whole point about this wretched new start was that she was moving on from those miserable, exhausting months at her parents’ house, where she’d stayed in the aftermath of the split. There she’d slept in her old bedroom, with the Eighties’ grey-and-red zigzaggy wallpaper still miraculously intact, tossing and turning under her old Snoopy duvet on that single bed until her belly had been like a distended, vein-riddled space hopper.

  Even then, she’d held out hope, through the last waddling days of pregnancy and right through the agonizing blur of labour. She kept expecting he’d stride into the delivery suite, clutching flowers, chocolates, helium balloons, soft velvety teddy bears. ‘I’m her husband,’ he’d announce to the midwives in his rich actor’s voice, his eyes moist with emotion. ‘I’m the father.’

  But no. No such announcements. No plush teddies or balloons. It seemed as though being husband and father was too much for Jake to take on board. He hadn’t shown. Not through the messy screams of the birth (and all that blood! Alice was quite glad he hadn’t witnessed the full-blown gore of it. He’d never have wanted sex with her again). Not through the sweet moment of triumph when the midwife had placed Alice’s warm wet baby into her arms and said, ‘It’s a girl!’ And not for all those days and weeks after the birth, when Alice and her daughter had clung together, overwhelmed and bewildered, like sole survivors on a shipwreck.

  She’d called him with the news, obviously. Well, tried to, anyway. She had left the news on his voicemail because he never took her calls. She’d sent him a card too, and some photos of her beautiful girl (their beautiful girl), face like a fuzzy peach, eyes tight shut, dreamy milky smile playing around her lips. Alice knew – absolutely knew – that once Jake saw just how gorgeous, how utterly enchanting their daughter was, he’d be back.

  He wasn’t.

  She’d waited until the last possible day to register Iris’s birth because she’d hoped Jake would sweep in at the final hour – his greatest romantic lead role yet – so that they could discuss baby names together. She felt unqualified to bestow a name on their daughter without his help. What if she chose a name and he didn’t like it?

  ‘Then it’s his hard cheese, isn’t it?’ her mum had sniffed. ‘He’s had more than enough chances. How about Sophie?’

  It had plunged Alice into despair, the naming business. It seemed such a huge responsibility to choose a name for another person. What if she got it wrong? ‘Jake used to have a golden retriever called Sophie when he was growing up,’ Alice had replied dolefully. ‘I can’t call her that.’

  ‘Hmmph, and I bet he treated that dog a damn sight better than he’s treating his own daughter,’ her mum had muttered. ‘How about Rosie, then? That’s pretty.’

  Rosie was pretty, admittedly, but what if she went on to be a lawyer, a politician, an engineer? Was Rosie substantial enough a name? Besides, ‘Rosie’ always made her think of the Websters’ daughter in Coronation Street and Alice found herself saying it ‘Rurzeh’ as Sally Webster did, to rhyme with ‘jersey’.

  The name Iris had come to her at the last. Yes, okay, if she was honest, it was partly because Jake had given her a bunch of irises on their first date. (Alice could still remember the way they’d dripped down her skirt through the soggy paper at the bottom of the bouquet. She’d pretended not to notice at the time.) It was partly the Jake connection, even though she doubted he’d get the link, doubted he even remembered where they’d been on their first date (a sweet little pub just round the corner from the National Theatre).

  Flowers aside, there was also something wild and free and romantic about the name Iris. That was what Alice wanted for her daughter. Maybe not so much the wildness (she was already dreading the teenage years – Iris had a ferocious enough temper on her at the age of eight months). Freedom – that was what she hoped Iris would have. Freedom and romance. Two of life’s most wonderful experiences. Until everything went pear-shaped, obviously.

  The only thing she’d had from Jake since the split had been a cheque for a lot of money which his manager had forwarded. Jake had sold the Chelsea flat and had given her half the profit. Which was very handy and meant Alice wouldn’t have to work for a while, but all the same … There wasn’t even a note from him, just a Post-it from his rotten manager explaining the sale. Big deal.

  The last Alice knew of him – via a paragraph in Heat magazine – was that he was in LA auditioning for something with Orlando Bloom. No doubt her devoted husband would be knobbing every starlet he could get his hands on.

  She sighed, ruffling the downy hairs on the back of her daughter’s head. Iris reached out a pink fist and grabbed Alice’s ponytail in return. Tug, tug.

  Get over it, Alice. Move on. New start, remember?

  She got to her feet. ‘Let’s look round our new start,’ she murmured to Iris, who let go of her hair and began to make sucking motions on Alice’s shoulder, nuzzling the fabric of her T-shirt to one side, in order to get a gummy suction seal on her bare skin. Alice kissed her daughter’s head. It was nice, she reminded herself, having someone else crave her body, her bare skin, even if it wasn’t her husband.

  So this was the living room. Why did it look so titchy today, this gloomy little square of space? Cosy, the letting agent had called it, when he’d showed her the cottage the other week. Sweet, Alice had thought to herself back then, gazing around. The windows had been flung open, and there had been fresh white roses in an earthenware jug on the mantelpiece, scenting the room. The person who’d rented it before Alice had had colourful pictures on the walls, photos of grandchildren (she guessed) and bright drapes of material across the sofa. It had felt like a safe place. A place where good things happened.

  ‘Of course, it’ll be let fully furnished,’ the letting agent had assured her with yet another smarmy smile. And Alice had gazed around at the small oak bookcase stuffed with paperbacks, the rich red rug in front of the fireplace, and the grandchildren beaming out from the photos with their brushed hair and spotless school uniforms, and said, ‘I’ll take it.’

  Since then, Alice had stupidly remembered the cheerful accessories of her predecessor whenever she’d thought about moving in. She’d remembered the feel of the place, rather than what lay beneath the cushions and photos and roses.

  Now the room seemed bare, with its rough-plastered walls, tiny window and manky greying net curtain blocking out the light with its dirt. There was a telly that looked as if it had been salvaged from the ark – she doubted she’d be able to get E4 on that – and dust on the old stone mantelpiece.

  The front door, which she’d left open, cast a slant of sunlight over the grubby carpet. The rug had gone, too, of course.

  So, suicide-inducing living room aside, what other delights were in store for her here? She hardly dared look now. She’d probably discover there was no running water, or no electricity or something. Why hadn’t she been more thorough about checking over her new home? Why had she been won over by someone’s photos and flowers? What a sucker the letting agent must have thought her.

  Into the tiny kitchen she went. It was clean, at least; she could see the faint smears of Flash or something similar on the hob where some well-meaning person had wiped around the gas rings. The bright blue teapot she’d seen on the previous visit had gone, along with the cluster of mugs. No checked tea towel lay drying on the radiator now. The dripping tap competed with a ticking clock as to who could mark time better.

  Who lives in a house like this? Loyd Grossman said in Alice’s head. Let’s consider the evidence. It’s shabby and small. It’s dingy and dusty. Of course! It’s single-mum loser Alice and fatherless Iris!

  Upstairs wasn’t a whole lot cheerier. One titchy bathroom with pink tiles and a smell of mould. (Why hadn’t she noticed those pink tiles? Too busy looking at all the nice toiletries lined
up on the shelves probably.) Two dinky bedrooms with ceilings that sloped so sharply Alice considered checking out bargain crash helmets on eBay. She sat on the bed in one of the rooms, the bare mattress prickling her legs, and joggled Iris on her knee, wishing that she’d taken her parents up on their offer to help her move in.

  Right now, she wanted her mum to make her a cup of tea and produce a Tupperware box of butterfly cakes from her bag.

  Right now, she wanted her dad to be checking the boiler wasn’t about to blow up, and that there was a nice solid lock on the front door.

  She wasn’t going to cry. She was not going to cry. She was thirty-five, for heaven’s sake, it wasn’t like she’d never been away from home. It was just that after nine months in the safety of her parents’ house, where the washing and ironing were always done, the fridge was always full, and the hot water was always piping, this felt like a serious crash back down to earth.

  She’d been existing in some kind of safety chamber all the time she’d been staying there. A bubble of creature comforts – clean bedding, cups of tea every half an hour, the crossword to tackle with her dad every evening once Iris was asleep. A bubble where she was protected from all the horrors of the real world.

  Alice Johnson has left the bubble, a deep Hollywood voice said in her mind, and she sighed. She just had to get used to normal life again, that was all. She was taking her first wobbling steps alone, after Mum and Dad had helped her along for so many months. She couldn’t help wondering what they would be doing, now that she and Iris had finally moved out. When you spent a lot of time with people, you got to know their rhythms, you tuned into their daily routines. So let’s see, Saturday afternoon. Mum would probably be out in the garden, watering her tomatoes or picking peapods to shell for tea. Dad would be listening to the cricket on the radio while he—

  Alice froze. The front door had creaked downstairs. Was that the wind, or had someone just pushed their way past it?