by Lucy Diamond
And before Katie could argue, Laura had clicked off.
Bloody hell. Since when did her little sister get so bossy and assertive? Katie tried ringing back but the line was engaged. No doubt Laura would be on to a cab firm already, dishing out her orders.
Katie sighed and looked over at her reflection in the living-room mirror. Pasty-faced, blotchy around the eyes and nose, plus a grid of worry lines etched deep in her forehead. How attractive.
She could always send the cab away again, she told herself. Just because Laura had spun into Emergency Rescue mode, it didn’t mean Katie had to go along with it. And oh, this whole taxi thing was just reminding her of Steve’s proposal at the hotel all over again, that ridiculous farce outside school with the cabbie asking her all those stupid questions …
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop herself crying. Come on, deep breaths. If she didn’t go and meet Laura, she’d be stuck in all evening, moping and weeping. That was not a good option. Mind you, the prospect of moping and weeping in public wasn’t exactly doing it for her either.
Oh sod it. Laura was good at cheering people up, she was one of those naturally ebullient types who managed to make you laugh whatever mood you might be in. She was straight-talking too – called a spade a spade. Out of everyone Katie could think of, Laura was probably the best person to be with tonight.
Okay. Decision made. She’d better trowel some makeup on as Laura had instructed. Hell, she’d even put on something nice to wear too, rather than the frayed old denim skirt she’d worn all day.
Just ten minutes later, the taxi was beeping outside her door, and she was off.
Katie and Laura always met at the same place on Monday nights: a bar on Whiteladies Road in Clifton, the nicest, poshest part of Bristol. Laura lived round the corner (lucky thing) in a leafy Georgian street – her small flat (‘bijou’ she liked to call it) was worth way more than Katie’s house, despite it being about half the size. But then Laura was a high-flying PR woman who seemed to know all the Bristolian celebs – well, the Holby actors and actresses anyway – and earned the sort of salary that maths-teacher Katie could only dream about. Katie often thought that go-getting Laura should have been the oldest sister of the three Taylor girls – she’d probably have coped a lot better than Katie had with all the responsibility.
‘Oh, at last, here she is,’ Laura said as Katie got out of the taxi. Laura was sitting on the terrace outside the bar, two lurid orange cocktails on the table in front of her, one half-drained. ‘I was starting to think you’d chucked yourself in the river or something.’
Katie paid the taxi driver and smiled wanly. ‘That’s a cheery thought,’ she told her sister, rolling her eyes. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
Laura pushed the full glass across the table. ‘Sit down. Drink that. And tell Aunty Laura all about it,’ she instructed.
So Katie began, uncertainly at first, feeling as if she must be some kind of loser to be pouring out her love-life woes at the age of thirty-four to her younger, sassier sister. The truth of it depressed her. ‘How come I still can’t do relationships?’ she burst out, when she’d finished the update. ‘I’m the oldest sister, yet you and Charlotte seem to have it all sussed. I’m the only crap one. What am I doing wrong?’
Laura snorted. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve got it sussed, mate,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m not about to go up the aisle any day soon. Charlotte – okay, so she’s married with a couple of sprogs. But who’s to say that’s the most desirable thing in life? Honestly, Kate, I’m not being mean, but her life does sound kind of dull these days. She’s gone all housewifey; can’t talk about anything other than our lovely nieces. And they are gorgeous, of course, but … well. Nappies and vegetable purees don’t exactly rock my world in the conversation stakes.’ She pursed her lips suspiciously. ‘So are you really telling me that’s the Holy Grail to you, all of a sudden?’
‘No,’ Katie replied, ‘but the thing is, she’s happy doing that, isn’t she? In her eyes, she’s got everything she ever wanted – husband, kids, farmhouse in Devon, Labrador, blah blah …’ She sipped her drink and winced at the sharp citrus tang. Charlotte had done what Katie had done – got married quick, to the first person who’d offered to look after her. The difference was, Charlotte had made a better choice. ‘And then there’s you – all sorted with your brilliant career, your swanky flat and famous mates. You know what you want, you know where you’re going …’
‘Yeah, speed dating at Po Na Na’s on Saturday,’ Laura told her, pulling a face. ‘That’s where I’m going – I must be mad.’
Katie was barely listening. ‘But me … I thought I was on track, doing all right chugging along, you know? Suddenly I’ve swerved off the rails and don’t know where I’m supposed to be any more.’
Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice analogy, Kate, but this doesn’t have to be complete derailment, does it? You can still mend things with Steve. He might just have gone off to get some space for a few days, clear his head. He’s probably trying to phone you right now!’
Katie glanced down at her mobile, which remained reproachfully silent. ‘No, he’s not,’ she replied. ‘He’s more likely out with his mates, drinking good-riddance pints and getting lairy.’ She gazed up and down the street. ‘We’ll probably see him in a bit, doing the Whiteladies pub crawl on his hands and knees.’
‘He’ll get a Sloe Comfortable Screw over his head if he is,’ Laura told her bracingly. ‘Oh cheer up, Kate. Steve’s not like that anyway, I bet you’ll straighten things out with him. And if not, well, then, you can always come speed dating with me on Saturday, can’t you? Twenty-five quid and there’s a wine-tasting session too, so booze is thrown in for the price. I’ll get you a ticket if you want, I know the manager there.’
The thought of speed dating made Katie feel old. And afraid. She didn’t relish the idea of a conveyor belt of sneering men sizing her up then marking contemptuous black crosses on a scorecard; rejection after rejection. ‘Thanks for the offer, but …’
‘You think about it,’ Laura interrupted. ‘We’d have a laugh, you know we would. You don’t have to take it seriously or anything, it’s only a bit of fun.’ She glanced past Katie’s shoulder suddenly, then lowered her voice. ‘Although if we play our cards right here, we might be in for something a bit sooner …’
Before Katie could look behind her to see what Laura had noticed, a couple of guys had plonked down a large jug of bright red liquid swimming with clinking ice cubes and lime wedges on their table. ‘Evening, ladies,’ the first bloke said. He had a white T-shirt and jeans, and tanned, hairless arms and face. ‘I’m Gary and this is Mick. Just wondering if you’d like to have some Sex on the Beach with us?’
Katie stared at confident Gary’s smooth forearms – had he put baby oil on them? They had some kind of sheen – and then at Mick, just behind – blond and sweet-faced and about ten years younger than her – oh Christ! – and was just about to say a polite no thank you, when Laura got in first.
‘Sure, the more the merrier,’ she said blithely. ‘Pull up some chairs, lads. I’m Lulu, by the way, and this is Roxie. Cheers!’
Katie woke up the next morning feeling as if she’d been run over by the 41 bus. Her arms and legs ached. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry, her tongue seemed cumbersome and unwieldy, and she could feel last night’s makeup still on, tight and uncomfortable across her face. She peered at her watch through her thick, crusty-mascaraed lashes. Six in the morning. Ugggghhh … And she had school today, too! She’d have to squeeze in another hour’s shut-eye and hope that a shower before breakfast would make her feel semi-human again.
She was just about to drift back into sleep when she heard an unfamiliar snore rumble behind her, and her blood ran cold. Oh no. Oh no! Suddenly she was wide awake and fearful. Who was she sharing a bed with? She opened her eyes again and blinked. And whose bed was it, anyway? She definitely wasn’t on her own clean sheets.
She shut her eyes hurriedly, ho
ping it was a dream. A bad, couldn’t-possibly-happen dream. But vague shadowy images of the night before were taking shape in her mind now, like a horror show flickering before her eyes. Necking that jug of Sex on the Beach with Mick and Gary – oh, and Lulu, of course. (Bloody Laura, what was she like?) Oh, and then they’d bought another jug of … what had it been that time? Tequila Sunrise. Ugh. She couldn’t do tequila any more, she always lost the plot on it. And then …
The flimsy memories melted away to nothing. What had happened then?
It was a blank. She just couldn’t remember. Please don’t let me be in bed with Gary, she prayed under her breath. Or Mick. I’ll be arrested for child molestation if it’s Mick. Probably be struck off as a teacher; branded a pervert …
She opened her eyes again in a fit of boldness. She had to know the truth.
Oh. Duh. She was in Laura’s bedroom. Of course. White walls. Fairy lights around the mirror on the dressing table. A framed Frida Kahlo print on the far wall. Wardrobe door flung open, revealing Laura’s colourful clothes and shoes, handbag handles spilling from the bottom shelf in bright snaky coils. Her own clothes dumped all over the floorboards. Oh Gawd. Did that mean she was lying here stark naked?
She peeped under the cover. Still wearing knickers. That was a good sign at least. Then, taking care to move stealthily so as to go unnoticed, she turned over so that she could see who she had been sleeping with.
Laura. Just Laura. Thank God for that.
Katie had never been so relieved to see her sister’s face in her life, her auburn hair curled on the pillow, cheek slightly flushed. So she hadn’t ended up in bed with Mick or Gary then, thank goodness. And presumably she hadn’t done anything too awful, no ‘tampering and fumbling’, as Laura would put it.
Although she did vaguely remember Gary – or was it Mick? – leaning in close to her, face looming as he tried to kiss her …
God. Please let me not have kissed him. She wasn’t even sure if she had or not. How teenage was that?
She sat up carefully, wincing with the hangover as she levered herself upright. Ouch. She hadn’t been so drunk for a long, long time. And on a Monday night, too! What had she been thinking? It had seemed such a good idea at the time, yeah, another jug, let’s do another jug, and she’d been in a fuck-you-Steve kind of mood, so was up for complete debauchery.
Yes, but now here she was, stuck in Clifton, a good mile from her own place, with school to prepare for and …
An awful thought slammed into her. Oh shit. Shit! It was the Year 7s’ parents’ evening tonight at school on top of everything else, wasn’t it? Hordes of parents to whom she’d have to talk coherently about their son or daughter’s progress (or lack of). Even Katie – super-organized Katie – found parents’ evening a long slog of a day, and that was when she’d spent the night before preparing and writing notes. Which – obviously – she’d neglected to do this time.
Why oh why had she drunk so much?
She padded off to Laura’s monsoon shower filled with self-loathing and despair as she remembered the pile of marking she’d left at the school too, back on Friday afternoon before everything had gone so horribly wrong.
‘Standards are slipping!’ she heard Matt Dawson, the head, say in her ear. Yes, and he was right, too. Skiving off yesterday, having left her unfinished marking in school the whole weekend, no preparation for parents’ evening, and, worst of all, suffering the mother of all hangovers on a Tuesday morning.
Standards had plummeted, worryingly quickly. Any moment now and the standards would reach rock bottom.
She bit her lip, feeling ashamed and queasy all at the same time. This was just not like her. Katie Taylor was usually fully in control, hands tightly on the steering wheel, knowing exactly which direction to take. Steve teased her for her conscientiousness, and she was known for it in the staffroom too – a professional through and through, with her spreadsheets and highlighter pens mapping out every occasion in glorious detail.
But now look at her! Hungover, waking up in her sister’s flat presumably because she’d been too sloshed to make it home in one piece, whole hours of the night before a complete mystery, and totally unprepared for the working day ahead.
What had happened to her? How had she let her life get so messy so fast?
She stood beneath the shower spray and hung her head as the water rained down on her.
Chapter Eleven
Patience
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Georgia was fuming. It was Tuesday morning and she was on the train heading back down to London. She’d already been in a pretty foul mood by the time she got to Stockport station to set off for home, but this was the icing on the cake. The cherry on the icing on the cake, in fact. Georgia had picked up a copy of the Herald to while away the journey, and had nearly keeled over when she’d seen the front page: GIRLS ALOUD – GOSSIP SPECIAL! by Polly Nash, Showbiz Reporter.
Er … hello? Polly Nash was not the showbiz reporter. That was Georgia’s job, thank you very much. Which moron in the subs team had cocked that one up, then?
But then, when she flicked through to her page, there was Polly’s ugly mug splashed at the top of it for all to see. And worse – Georgia Knight is away.
‘No, I’m not!’ Georgia had muttered furiously, gripping the pages so tightly the newsprint marked her fingers. ‘I’m on my way back to the office right now, and you bloody know it!’
The cheek of Polly Nash, muscling in on her territory like that! Talk about dog eat dog. She’d have that little mutt for breakfast next time she saw her in the office, with ketchup on.
Georgia glared out of the graffiti-etched window as the train rattled down the track. She hoped this wasn’t Isabella’s idea of edging Georgia out. As editor of the paper, Isabella would have undoubtedly given the front cover her approval before it went to print. She clearly thought it was all right for Polly Brown-Nose Nash to be labelled ‘Showbiz Reporter’, didn’t she? So where did that leave Georgia?
Hmmm. Georgia didn’t like to think about that too much all of a sudden.
‘Well, when can we expect you back?’ Isabella had asked, in a rather chilly way, when Georgia had phoned her on Sunday to say she’d be out of the office for a couple of days. Isabella didn’t like having surprises sprung on her. But then control freaks never did.
‘As soon as possible,’ Georgia had assured her. ‘Wednesday at the latest. I’m going onto the Coronation Street set first thing tomorrow and ‘I’ll try to sew up the interview there and then. Hope you don’t mind, it’s just I bumped into one of my connections in Manchester yesterday and thought it was too good to turn down.’
‘Right,’ Isabella had replied. Deadpan, as if she were suspicious of Georgia’s motives or something. Mind you, she was quite right to be suspicious, seeing as Georgia hadn’t been anywhere near the Coronation Street set, and had had no intention of heading in that direction either.
Isabella didn’t have to know that, though. These things fell through all the time. Georgia could pretend the teenage actress had thrown a hissy fit and changed her mind at the last minute about being interviewed. ‘Pain in the arse,’ she planned to grumble once she was in the office again. ‘She’s a right diva by all accounts – but I’ll pay her back in the gossip column, you wait.’
And her boss would just have to swallow that. In the meantime, Georgia vowed to chase up some of her Granada contacts, see if they could get her a snippet of gossip that might conceivably have come from an on-set visit.
She sighed and closed the newspaper, folding it so that she didn’t have to look at Polly’s name any more. Tomorrow’s column was sure to run with Polly’s face on it again, much to the glee of that little amateur. Polly was probably already planning to move into Georgia’s nice corner desk just as soon as she could get her Topshop-skirted bottom into Georgia’s swivel chair.
Well, she could forget that idea. Georgia was going to work from home this afternoon, taking back her page with a mountai
n of articles and snippets that she would bash out. And she’d be back in the office proper first thing tomorrow and she’d bloody well stand over the layout person if she had to, making sure that her name and photo were back where they should be for Thursday’s column, and for every column from then on. And she’d make a point of reminding Polly Nash exactly where her place was by dumping some dreary admin stuff on her: updating their celebrity database or something equally tedious and time-consuming. That would shut her up for a while.
Shit. This was all Georgia needed. She scowled out of the window feeling bad-tempered.
It had been heartbreaking saying goodbye to Nan the night before. She’d planned to go back to London on the last train yesterday but had ended up staying and staying at the hospital, not quite able to bring herself to go. Just in case it was the last time, although even thinking that was unbearable.
Georgia had brought flowers as promised, but she knew that flowers didn’t make up for leaving. And oh, the twist of guilt at the sight of those tears leaking from her grandmother’s eyes, it had made Georgia wince.
She sniffed, just remembering, and blew her nose. She was all muddled inside, as if someone had stirred her up with a big stick. She didn’t feel the same Georgia who’d travelled north along this line just a few days earlier. She’d been so cocksure, so confident about her life then. In her mind, her family had been shut firmly in their own compartment, quite separate from Georgia, as if they were an accessory she could put on and take off at will. But now she felt as if it wasn’t quite so easy to shrug them away, or put them back in their box. The family ties seemed suddenly to be tight around her, like bindweed.
No, not bindweed. That was the wrong word. That made it sound as if the ties were a bad thing and, to Georgia’s great surprise, they didn’t feel like that any more. For the first time in years – perhaps ever – she didn’t have the usual upsurge of relief about saying goodbye to her family and leaving them behind. Instead, she just felt … sad. Sad, and a tiny bit lost. Which was very peculiar, and not at all pleasant.
