Hens Reunited

by Lucy Diamond

  Hmmm. And here she was again – Groundhog Day! – with a big new story about Jake. So what should she do this time? It felt like a second chance, somehow, possibly even a means to put things right. The paper would run the story, that was a given, but perhaps this time she could …

  She frowned to herself, unable to think coherently, as London blurred before her eyes, the bus lurching away from the changing traffic lights. Why was she so sluggish today? Usually she’d have mapped out half a dozen snippets of feature ideas by the time she’d got out of the shower in the morning. Today, she felt about as much enthusiasm for going to work as she did for her smear test.

  Once she got into the office – result, arriving five minutes before Polly’s new blue shoes tip-tapped across the floor – the newsroom was humming with variations on the Jake Archer split. Georgia being the paper’s showbiz reporter, this was her stomping ground, and almost as soon as she had sat down at her desk, Hester, Isabella’s assistant, buzzed through with the news that they were holding tomorrow’s front page for the story.

  ‘Excellent,’ Georgia said briskly, but inside she felt nauseous. She couldn’t help her thoughts swerving to Alice. Did she know yet about Jake and Victoria? Was she over him by now, or still heartbroken and pining? Knowing Alice, it would be the latter. She’d always been one of those devoted one-man woman types, even as a student when everyone else was hopping in and out of bed with whomever they fancied. And Alice had been crazy about Jake ever since the day she’d met him. Georgia could still remember how blissfully happy Alice had been at her hen night at that chilly spa place, stuck out in the middle of nowhere. She’d positively glowed with excitement as they’d lounged around in their white waffle robes, hadn’t stopped smiling once, it had seemed. Georgia had found all the mushy stuff rather nauseating, to be honest. There was only so much gooey-eyed wittering that a hardened hack could stomach.

  Jealous? a cynical little voice piped up in her head now, remembering this, and Georgia scoffed at it. Jealous, what – her? Georgia Knight, jealous of Alice the Mouse? As if!

  All the same … it had been a lovely wedding, Alice and Jake. If you liked that sort of thing, of course. Smiling into each other’s eyes, holding hands at the altar, Alice with that beautiful velvet cape, like something from a fairy tale. Jake with a tear rolling down his manly cheek, even! Mind you, he was an actor, wasn’t he? They all knew he could cry like a tap if need be. But even so … there was something moving about it. And when she compared it with her own wedding day, with Harry coked off his head, buzzing around the ridiculously over-the-top reception like an overexcited hyena, then …

  But anyway, this was all past history. Come on, Georgia! Work to do! And if Isabella had trusted her with the big front-page showbiz write-up after Wednesday’s humiliation, then she had to nail it.

  So. Decision time. What angle should she take on this story? Jake Jilts Again? Not dramatic enough. Archer’s Shot to the Heart? Nah – too corny.

  She leaned forward on her elbows, thinking hard. She could always work in some goodwill towards Alice, by skewing the story so that it reflected her in a good light: Victoria: A Mistake, Says Jake. Would she be able to get away with that kind of an angle?

  Hmmm. Maybe not. He might get nasty and sue her for blatant fibbing.

  Unless … Perhaps she could use this as an opportunity for some more solid bridge-building. She, Georgia Knight, could reunite Alice and Jake for the big happy ending. Amends would be made. Her conscience would be clear, Alice would forgive her, and, more importantly, she’d have a piece of tabloid dynamite to set off in Polly Nash’s face. Who needed film-award ceremonies anyway?

  She picked up her phone and buzzed through to Jacquie, the features secretary, her mind spinning with good intentions. ‘Jacquie, get me Jake Archer’s number, would you?’ she asked.

  Jake Archer had gone to ground, unsurprisingly, and the incoming news wires were thick with rumours about where he was hiding out. A luxury yacht in Marbella, claimed one source. A secluded hunting lodge in the Highlands of Scotland, reported another. A third tip-off was that he’d been spotted in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in New York, although Georgia’s US sources had had no word on that.

  Georgia had her own private theory. What if he’d gone back to his and Alice’s old apartment? Or, even better, what if he’d tracked down Alice, wherever she lived these days, and was begging for her forgiveness?

  The problem was, getting hold of Alice had proved almost as hard as locating her famous ex-husband. She was ex-directory these days and despite Jacquie’s best digging around, no number could be found. Katie hadn’t been forthcoming either. ‘I saw on breakfast telly that Jake’s dumped his new woman,’ Katie had said with her usual candour when Georgia had called her mobile. ‘So no, you can’t have Alice’s number. I know you too well, Georgia Knight.’

  That stung, more than Georgia cared to admit. Even her best friend thought she was a troublemaker, bent on stirring things up. When, actually, she was trying to do something rather selfless, thank you very much!

  Finally, she’d managed to track down Alice’s parents (they were ex-directory too, just to make life more difficult) and had fibbed a line to Alice’s dad about her being an old friend from the theatre where Alice had worked. At last she’d been able to scribble down the sacred digits and dial.

  Throughout her life, Georgia had made all sorts of telephone calls that lesser mortals might have quailed at: she had phoned David Beckham pretending to be a call girl hoping to get a story (he’d hung up on her); she’d managed to wangle a direct line to Prince William once and had put on an American accent and impersonated Britney Spears, hoping he’d fall for her trap (no such luck); she’d even tried a phone scam on Elton John, pretending she was his long-lost love-child (he’d laughed and said ‘Pull the other one, darling’ before cutting her off). She’d done all that and millions of calls like them without batting an eyelid. So why the hell was her heart pounding now as she waited for Alice to answer?

  Ring-ring

  Ring-ring

  Ring-ring …

  Then a click, and Georgia took a deep breath. But instead of Alice’s sweet voice, there came a robotic automated one, telling her to leave a message at the tone. BEEP!

  ‘Alice, hi, it’s me, Georgia,’ she said, hoping the briskness in her voice was enough to cover any hint of nerves. ‘I’m ringing up with some news. It’s about Jake.’ She hesitated. Should she drop the bombshell into Alice’s answerphone? Best to tell her properly, in fairness. ‘Could you give me a ring, please? No catch.’ She swallowed. ‘Oh, and Alice? I’m sorry about what happened. Truly. I owe you one. So give me a ring and we can talk.’

  Now she just had to wait and see how badly Alice wanted Jake back.

  ‘So, are you telling me you’ve actually got photographic evidence of that?’

  Polly’s voice was more high-pitched than usual, and Georgia’s ears pricked up. What had Goody Two-Shoes got her paws on this time?

  ‘Oooh … sounds very juicy. Will you email me that, Clare? … Of course! You can trust me. You’re a star. This is hot, you know, babe! Isabella is going to love it!’

  Georgia gritted her teeth at Polly’s excited twittering. But it wasn’t just Polly. Everyone, it seemed, was gossiping around her.

  ‘What, Kate Moss really said that? Can I quote you on that?’

  ‘Yep, got that, nervous breakdown, Priory, overdose. What is he like? Cheers, sweets, I owe you …’

  ‘Oh God! Have you seen Popbitch today? She is such a slapper, isn’t she? … yeah, we’ve got a photo of it … ’Course we’re printing it! Slag deserves all she gets, if you ask me …’

  Georgia lifted her head and stared around at her colleagues as if seeing them clearly for the first time. There was Sandra, in her fifties now, a peroxide blonde with a vicious tongue and a heart of steel. Three divorces she’d been through, no kids, currently a twenty-something toy boy on the go. Then there was Lola, spoilt little Daddy�
��s girl, who’d only got her job because she was in with all the Chelsea it girls and brought in loads of fabulous gossip from Boujis and the other poshos’ hang-outs. And Leon, who read every single celeb mag going as if it was part of his religion, who could spot a WAG or wannabe from fifty paces, and who had a real knack for hunting down exclusives.

  They were all good journalists who could bang out 200 words’ witty copy at the drop of a hat, who could winkle out interesting morsels from even the most guarded of interviewees, but … Georgia rubbed her eyes. Today, she couldn’t help seeing the tawdry side of what they all did for a living: selling papers on the back of others’ misfortunes.

  She shook her head. She mustn’t think like that. Mustn’t go soft. She’d lose her job within seconds if Isabella detected any weakness in her.

  She got to her feet and went over to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. One of the assistants was in there waiting for the kettle to boil, a sweet-looking thing with wide eyes and a mane of red hair.

  ‘Hi,’ she said timidly, dropping a tea bag into a Battersea Dogs’ Home mug. Georgia could see she’d put a sticky label around it saying ‘Lily’s mug!!!!!’ ‘You’re Georgia Knight, aren’t you? We’ve had loads of entries for your competition, you know. Over a hundred already!’

  Your competition indeed. Like she’d had any say in it! ‘Really,’ Georgia said tightly. ‘Lucky old me.’

  Steam gushed from the kettle’s spout and the girl switched it off. ‘Some of them sound really nice,’ she said defensively. ‘One even phoned up, he was so keen to win, you know …’

  Georgia pulled a face. ‘Oh Gawd,’ she said. ‘Sounds a bit stalkerish to me. I’ll have to scan them for weirdo potential before I choose anyone.’

  The girl blanched. ‘Um … well, actually, Isabella said …’ She bit her lip as if steeling herself to finish the sentence. ‘Isabella said not to show you the entries. Said it would be more … fun that way.’ Her voice had become a whisper and she lowered her eyes.

  Georgia snorted, feeling furious. Was Isabella trying to make a monkey of her? ‘We’ll have to see about that,’ she retorted, to save face as much as anything, and stormed out of the room without making her drink. She’d pick up a coffee from the deli on the corner instead, she decided, grabbing her purse and stalking through the large glass doors. Suddenly the office felt a very toxic place to be.

  South Kensington was heaving – crowds of tourists en route to the V&A, fevered fashionistas on shopping missions, open-top buses rumbling along bound for Hyde Park, black cabs patrolling the streets. The sort of quintessential London scene she’d loved being caught up in not so very long ago. Today it felt too noisy, too fast. She wandered up to her favourite deli on Brompton Road to get herself a latte and was about to go inside when a stick-thin woman with big hair and even bigger sunglasses barged past her, almost knocking her over.

  ‘Watch it!’ Georgia growled.

  The woman turned and then raised her eyebrows to peer at her. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said scornfully. ‘I was about to apologize but I won’t bother. Not after the lies you’ve been printing about my daughter!’

  Georgia stared, not recognizing her accuser. Whose mother was she? ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling,’ she replied coldly. Passers-by were casting curious looks their way and the guy from the deli was blatantly leaning over the counter so he could listen. Oh Christ. Who had she offended now, then? She was so not in the mood for this.

  She took a step towards the door but the woman grabbed her arm. Red nails like talons; polished and buffed in the best Chelsea salons no doubt. ‘If you print another word about Sasha, I’m calling the lawyers,’ she hissed. ‘Got that?’

  Oh, right. Sasha’s mum? That figured. ‘Get stuffed,’ Georgia snapped, throwing the witch’s claws from her arm and striding into the deli. ‘Latte, please,’ she said crisply, hoping the guy behind the counter wouldn’t notice how badly her hands were shaking. Sasha Withington-Jones was one of this season’s it girls and a right royal pain in the arse, if you asked Georgia. Famous for nothing but being blonde, photogenic and minted, Sasha had made regular appearances in the tabloid pages and celeb magazines until she’d been photographed clambering awkwardly out of a cab, and Georgia had given her a new nickname. Unfortunately for Sasha, the nickname had stuck and Sasha the Flasha was now an object of mirth, rather than anything else. But for goodness’ sake … what did the girl expect?

  She rubbed her arm where Sasha’s witch-mother had dug in her nails. Just for that, the old bag deserved a horror story of her own. If Georgia had had the energy, she’d have gone back to the office and dug up all the dirt possible on the Withington-Joneses. She always rather enjoyed having a battle in public – it was great publicity for the paper, Isabella said, plus it invariably made the celeb in question look ridiculous by the end of it.

  Today, though, she lacked the firepower for a scrap. Her mojo seemed to have disappeared, along with her enthusiasm for the job.

  ‘Cheer up, doll, sun’s shining, the world’s a great place,’ the deli guy said, handing over her coffee.

  ‘Really,’ Georgia said flatly, dumping some coins on the counter and walking away.

  Back in the office, Georgia trudged across the newsroom with her latte. Sandra was eyeing her curiously. ‘Everything all right, kid?’ she asked.

  Georgia glanced around the room before perching on the edge of Sandra’s desk. She could see that the words Why We All Love to Hate had been typed on Sandra’s Mac and pointed at them. ‘Who do we all hate today?’ she asked.

  Sandra chewed hard on her nicotine gum. ‘Haven’t decided yet,’ she replied airily. ‘Maybe Lily Allen. She gets right on my wick. Or Sienna Miller, perhaps. She’s always annoying. Why, got anyone in mind you’d like to see publicly dissed?’

  Georgia glanced down at her bare arm where the red crescents from Mrs Withington-Jones’ nails were still visible. ‘Well …’ she began thoughtfully.

  ‘Ahh – got it. Jake Archer,’ Sandra said, interrupting. ‘Very topical. Why we all love to hate … Jake … Archer,’ she said as she typed, and then smiled to herself. ‘Prepare yourself for a flaying, Jakey,’ she said with a Benson & Hedges chuckle.

  Georgia cringed. She wanted Jake handled with kid gloves until she’d had a proper crack at sorting things out between him and Alice.

  Sandra looked more closely at Georgia. ‘Sorry – you were about to say something, before I went off on one. You’re not all right, are you? Aunty San can tell. What’s up?’

  Georgia hesitated. Would Sandra understand? She didn’t even understand how she was feeling herself. How was she supposed to explain her muddled thoughts to this seasoned old hack, with her hide like a rhinoceros? Sandra would laugh at her, say she was going soft. And then word might get back to Isabella and … game over. Goodbye, Georgia. Have a promotion, Polly.

  She forced her brightest fake smile. ‘Nothing. Just … just wondering how to blag myself into the Sugababes party next week, that’s all. Nothing I can’t fix.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Sandra said, her eyes a shade narrower. Georgia could tell she didn’t buy it for a second. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, yeah?’

  ‘Sure,’ Georgia said casually, sliding off Sandra’s desk and making her way back to her own. She could feel Sandra’s gaze, heavy with curiosity, on her the whole way.

  She sighed as she sat down at her desk. What was wrong with her? She’d hardly done a stroke of work this morning. Alice hadn’t called her back and there was still no word on Jake’s whereabouts. She began half-heartedly sorting through the images that had come in from last night – a nice one of the latest Big Brother evictee’s birthday party in the Zed Bar, yeah, she could probably do something with that – when her direct line went.

  ‘Is that Georgia Knight?’ A breathy, female, northern voice, slightly muffled as if the caller had her hand cupped around the mouthpiece.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Oh hi. F
irst off – I love your column. Always read it.’

  Georgia continued flicking through the images. ‘Cheers,’ she said, slightly impatiently.

  ‘And second,’ the girl went on, ‘I work at Malmaison in Manchester – the hotel, yeah? – and I were just ringing to say, you’ll never guess who’s checked in here in the last few minutes …’

  Georgia’s ears pricked up at once. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s that Jake Archer – you know, from Flying High?’

  Georgia gripped the phone so hard she thought it might shatter. ‘You’re sure? You’re one hundred per cent sure?’

  ‘Oh aye, yeah, it’s definitely him. I heard him signing in at the front desk. He’s up in one of the posh suites.’

  Georgia scribbled down a few more details, her spirits soaring. Jake Archer in Manchester – exclusive tip-off! It was a sign, it was definitely a sign. Fate had stepped in and was helping her with her bridge-building. Fate was sending her home.

  Just over an hour later, she was boarding the Manchester train in Euston, feeling lighter and more alive than she’d done all day. She was booked into Malmaison on the same floor as Jake. She would somehow or other bring about a resolution with him and Alice, she’d get to see her nan again, and then, she’d track down Owen McIntosh and persuade him he’d got it all wrong about her.

  She leaned back in her seat as the train’s engine started up, and watched the Euston platform slip away. Yes. This weekend was crunch time. She was going to make sure that everything – absolutely everything – ended up all right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Relight My Fire

  Friday, 20 June 2008

  Alice woke up on Friday morning with a smile on her face. Iris had slept brilliantly – waking at six for a brief feed, then dozing off again. The storm had passed, the sun was shining and the birds were twittering in the ash tree outside her window. And, best of all, she’d had a great evening with Dom the night before. How could she have got him so wrong? He was lovely. Really funny and charming and good-looking … and not Cathy’s ex! He wasn’t a farmhand either, she’d discovered to her mortification – he was a freelance photographer, who’d been working abroad for the last few years, specializing in landscape and wildlife shots. He’d come back to the village to support Cathy when her husband left her, and was currently doing some work for Somerset Life, one of the local magazines.