by Lucy Diamond
Having started work at six that Wednesday morning, Rosa finished her shift at three in the afternoon and headed home, hurrying when she got caught in a sudden April shower with no umbrella. Max, she thought ruefully, as she always did, whenever it rained. Was it raining where he was? she wondered, pulling her jacket up around her neck and ducking under a shop awning. Or was he in bed with some other gullible woman and completely oblivious of the weather outside?
It had been so simple, in the end, for her to unravel his lies. After the Jeremy incident in the pub, they’d said goodbye outside Liverpool Street station because he was getting the train to Stansted airport as usual, while she was going to get a bus home. Only she didn’t stick to this plan. And nor, as it turned out, did he.
After assuring him there was no need for him to wait with her at the bus stop – it was going to take forever! He’d miss his flight! – she watched him walk away before slipping from the queue herself and stalking him through the station with exaggerated stealth. It would have been quite exciting, all the dodging into shops and café entrances, if it hadn’t been so devastating at the same time. The Stansted Express left from platform 4, according to the noticeboards, but he walked straight past it without so much as a flicker and hurried down into the Tube instead, where he got on the Hammersmith and City Line, heading west. Liar, she thought, tears springing to her eyes as she slid into the next carriage along, hiding herself behind a group of rugby fans, and peering out to check on him each time the train stopped.
King’s Cross. Euston Square. Baker Street. It was like a knife in the stomach, a physical blow, as they rattled along further and further away from Stansted. He wasn’t even going to Amsterdam, was he? Did he even work there at all? He had taken her to the little Prinsengracht flat, though, hadn’t he, so he must do! Some of it had to be true, surely?
On they went, to Edgware Road and then Paddington, where he got off the train and headed briskly into the main train station. Liar. Liar. She watched him board a train bound for Oxford – off to see the mysterious Ann-Marie and those kiddies? – and then her energy ran out, like air whooshing from a punctured tyre, and she had to lean limply against a coffee stand, watching the train as it chugged slowly out of the station. Goodbye, Max. David, whatever the hell your name is. You go off to Oxford and whatever other life you’ve clearly got waiting for you up there.
Me, I’m going back to our flat – your flat – and I’m going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.
It was still pouring as she reached Dukes Square and in her mad haste to get inside and under cover, she almost tripped over the woman sitting on the front steps looking hopefully up at her. ‘Hello!’ the woman said in a breathless, northern-sounding voice. She had blonde hair twisted up in Princess Leia-style buns either side of her head and enormous gold dangly earrings shaped like fish. ‘Do you live here? Only I’ve locked myself out, like a massive plum. Oh,’ she went on, jumping to her feet and sticking out a hand, ‘I’m Georgie, by the way. Flat 3. Hi.’
It was the same voice Rosa had heard floating down the stairs now and then, she realized; the same voice she’d heard singing all those power ballads so tunelessly above. The woman with the very loud laugh, who seemed to enjoy an astonishing amount of noisy sex. ‘Rosa,’ she said, taking Georgie’s hand and shaking it. ‘God, that was a very British introduction. Hello. Here, I’ve got some keys.’
‘Thanks so much. I’ve been sat there half an hour and my arse has been getting number and number. All I could think about was my mum telling me I’d get piles if I sat on cold walls. I hope it’s not the same for cold steps.’
In they went, Georgie shaking the raindrops from her polka-dot umbrella. She was wearing a dark denim jacket over a navy blue and white striped dress; bare legs, silver ballet flats and Rosa felt suddenly grubby and scruffy after her stint in a hot kitchen all morning. She hoped she didn’t smell too strongly of onions.
‘Christ knows what I’ve done with my keys, I thought they were in here,’ Georgie went on, patting the small red bag on her shoulder. She pulled a comical face, her blue eyes mischievous. ‘God help me if I’ve lost them and I have to tell Terrifying Ange the bad news. If you hear the sound of someone being murdered with a zebra-print stiletto later on, that’ll be me.’
Rosa’s lips twitched at the nickname for their landlady. ‘She is pretty scary, isn’t she? Although apparently her son’s a bit of all right, or so she told me. If you’re looking for a man, Rosa, I’ll send him round, he’s gorgeous, though I say so myself.’
Georgie burst out laughing. ‘No! She said the same to me too! And to Charlotte as well, we had a laugh about it the other night. Paul, I think he’s called. So gorgeous he needs his own mum to sort his love life out for him – mmm, sounds a right catch to me.’
‘It’s almost worth pretending to have a blocked sink or something just to get the guy round so we can all see—’ Rosa said, just as Georgie’s phone started ringing.
‘Absolutely – we so should do that,’ she agreed, plunging a hand into her bag. ‘Sorry, I should get this, it’s Simon, my boyfriend, ’scuse me.’ She swiped the screen. ‘Hi!’ she said, perching on the stairs, elbows on her knees. ‘I’ve left so many messages for you! Were you . . . ? Oh, right.’
Rosa hovered at her own door, feeling torn as to what she should do. She didn’t want to seem like an eavesdropper but if Georgie was locked out, it seemed churlish to leave her stranded on the stairs until her boyfriend came back. She put a hand surreptitiously to her nose while she was dithering and sniffed. Onions. Great.
‘So did you get my messages?’ Georgie was saying. ‘Yeah. I know, I’m an idiot. No, I’m in the building now but can’t get in the actual flat. You couldn’t pop back and let me in, could you?’
Rosa put her key in the door and was pushing it open when Georgie’s voice rose in dismay.
‘Oh, you’re kidding! Can I go to the office then and get them there?’ Rosa turned to see her clap a hand to her head, then pull a face. ‘Shit. Well, what am I supposed to? . . . Yeah, I know but . . .’ She sighed. ‘Never mind. No worries. You just . . . carry on. I’ll sort something out.’ She stabbed a finger at the screen to end the call and made a muffled screaming sound. ‘Bollocks.’
Rosa held her door open. ‘Do you want to come in here while you wait? I’ve got salted caramel muffins and you’d be doing me a huge favour if you stopped me eating them all myself.’
Georgie grinned and jumped to her feet. ‘That’s my kind of favour. Yes, please.’
Chapter Thirteen
As they left the motorway and the traffic melted away, Georgie gave a contented wriggle in her seat. It was the bank holiday weekend and like hordes of other people, she and Simon were getting away for a few days, in their instance heading back north to Stonefield to catch up with friends and family. She’d only been down south for three weeks but her heart had quickened with true gladness as they passed the Welcome to Yorkshire sign. Oh yes. Brighton was fabulous, and she had just enjoyed her best week there yet (meeting not one but two fabulous women in SeaView House, one who could roller skate like a demon, the other who could bake like an angel. Those muffins!). At the end of the day, though, home was home. Home was best. Just look at those gorgeous rolling hills. Just look at the sheep and the farms and the dry-stone walls; all of that great green emptiness. It was even quite sunny, to make the scene properly idyllic. Well, all right, so nobody would be parading around in their bikinis yet, obviously, but it wasn’t raining at least. Same difference.
‘This is more like it,’ she said happily, winding down her window and putting her bare feet up on the dashboard. ‘Breathe it in, Si, the air of Yorkshire. Ahh . . . delicious!’
‘It’s freezing,’ he grumbled, but he was smiling nonetheless. ‘And it smells of shit.’
‘I can’t imagine why the Tourist Board haven’t been after you for some inspirational marketing copy yet,’ she replied before affecting a gruff imitation of his voice. ‘Yor
kshire: It’s freezing and it smells of shit.’
He snorted. ‘You’re the writer, not me,’ he reminded her. ‘Still, you’ll be a dead cert for the Tourist Board job if this journalism lark goes pear-shaped, anyway.’
‘If the journalism goes pear-shaped?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know my editor loved my roller disco write-up. And she’s forwarded loads more problems for the problem page.’
‘Cool,’ he said, reaching over and squeezing her knee. ‘So when am I going to read this magazine, then?’
‘Um . . .’ Well, she definitely wasn’t going to let him read the current issue, that was for sure. ‘The next one’s out on Monday,’ she told him. ‘You can read that and then realize what a talented, awesome, amazing girlfriend you have. I’ll let you bask in my reflected glory, if you like. I’m generous that way, see.’
‘Ah, you’re too good to me,’ he said, indicating without warning to turn off the road and then heading down a winding lane.
‘Er . . . What are you doing?’ Georgie asked as he pulled over in a deserted layby.
‘I’m appreciating this talented, awesome girlfriend of mine, that’s what,’ he said, shooting his seat backwards and hauling her onto his lap in one slick move. ‘Hello, glorious. Fancy some basking?’
‘Ooh, hello,’ she said, feeling giggly. ‘Simon!’ she yelped in surprise as he started nuzzling her neck. Within moments she was powerless to resist, though. ‘Yorkshire: Freezing, Smells of Shit, and Gives You the Horn,’ she murmured, peeling her shirt over her head and leaning in to kiss him.
‘Hell, yeah,’ he agreed, unbuttoning his jeans.
‘Now that’s what I call a deviation,’ Georgie said, a while later once they were just about decent again and she was sliding back into her own seat. She hoped the tractor driver who’d passed them minutes earlier and given them a cheery wave was short-sighted and hadn’t actually glimpsed her bare bum. Maybe they were all at it around here, though.
‘Excellent deviant behaviour,’ Simon agreed, doing a U-turn and heading back to the main road. ‘I feel at home already.’
‘It’s good to be back,’ Georgie said, gazing out in contentment at the wide sky. Even without the impromptu roadside shenanigans, they were going to have a great time. Tonight they’d be down the Shepherd’s Crook with everyone, tomorrow she was taking a trip into Leeds with Amelia and Jade before dinner out with Simon somewhere romantic, and then a big old hike on Sunday before – obviously – a massive trouser-busting roast at her mum’s. Oh joy. It was shaping up to be the best weekend ever and they’d barely even started.
Half an hour later, Simon was slowing to a reverential twenty miles per hour as they passed the old village sign with its carved oak leaves still visible on the weathered stone. His shoulders seemed to drop the moment they crossed onto hallowed Stonefield soil. (Tarmac, then. Whatever.) There was the pub. The village shop. The primary school. Amelia’s parents’ house where Georgie had stayed for several million sleepovers as a teenager. The gate she’d fallen off the second time she’d kissed Simon. (It had been that good a kiss.) The stop where they used to wait together for the school bus, holding hands and sometimes having a cheeky snog. (The bus driver had honked them once during one particularly passionate clinch. ‘I’m not having any of that on my bus, you two, do you hear?’) It was all there, so familiar, so normal, so right. Just as she’d left it.
‘Everything’s exactly the same,’ she sighed in satisfaction and Simon shot her an amused glance.
‘George . . . you were only here a few weeks ago. Of course it’s the same. Stonefield’s always the same.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ she remarked in surprise.
‘No, but . . . Anyway. Here we are.’ He pulled into his parents’ driveway and turned off the engine. ‘Home.’
Ahh yes. His parents’ place. In her excitement at returning, Georgie had somehow managed to overlook this salient fact, that they would be staying with Christine and Harry, rather than in their own lovely little house. Their own lovely little house was now temporarily rented out to another couple, of course, both teachers, the perfect tenants, according to the lettings agent, and therefore out of bounds. It was kind of odd, though, thinking of other people being there. She wondered if she’d be able to walk past without pressing her face against the window and peering inside.
In Stoney!! she texted Amelia and Jade quickly as she saw the curtains twitch at the in-laws’ living-room window. That would be Christine, Simon’s mum, a woman who had her finger so firmly on the pulse of village goings-on she could probably tell you with precision timing who had last farted in the locality as well as what they’d had for their lunch. What time will you be in the pub? Can’t wait to see you!!! xxxxx she typed quickly before pressing Send.
‘Are you coming or what?’ Simon was already round at the boot, hauling out their overnight bags plus the bunch of sunflowers and wine Georgie had insisted they bought at the last service station. She was regretting splashing out now when she knew already that Janet would make some comment about imported flowers and Harry, Simon’s dad, would purse his lips as he read the wine label, before cracking a ‘joke’ about it coming in handy next time they ran out of vinegar.
‘I’m coming,’ she said, trying not to be so mean. Christine and Harry were very nice, she reminded herself, and it was good of them to have her and Simon for the weekend.
Her phone bleeped just then: Amelia. Yay! About 8? Everyone coming – inc Chloe and Daz! Xxx
Georgie frowned. Chloe and Daz? Who the hell were Chloe and Daz?
‘Hurry up!’ Simon called, as the front door opened and Christine appeared, her arms folded underneath her matronly bosom.
‘There you are!’ she said, with her usual martyred air. The world was totally out to get Christine, the poor woman; everyone conspiring to make her life that bit more punishing. ‘We expected you hours ago! Dinner’s ruined but never mind. Come in!’
‘Hi, Mum,’ Simon said, his arms full as he went over. ‘Good to see you. Sorry we’re late. Here.’ He presented her with the flowers. ‘These are for you.’
‘Oh, darling! Aren’t they beautiful! You shouldn’t have,’ she cooed, reaching up to hug him.
‘Georgie chose them,’ he said, as Georgie heaved down the boot with a clunk.
‘Oh.’ Christine’s face fell immediately and Georgie saw her squinting at the sticker on the cellophane bouquet. ‘From Kenya, I see. Ahh. You know, another time, some good old English lily of the valley would have done me just fine.’
Georgie made a valiant attempt at a smile. ‘Hello, Christine,’ she said, her voice sounding rather strangled. She tried not to think about strangling Simon’s ungrateful mother. ‘Thanks for having us.’
‘Oh, not at all. It’s always delightful to have my son back. Goodness, I’ve missed you!’
Christine was just being motherly and not deliberately leaving her out, Georgie reminded herself through gritted teeth, but still, she didn’t have to talk about having her son ‘back’ like that, as if she’d had to wrestle him from the clutches of awful Georgie. She took a deep breath as they went inside and did her best to keep that smile firmly in place.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she heard Simon say as he reached the kitchen before her. ‘Here – we brought some wine for dinner.’
‘Wine, eh? Let’s see. Good grief! Where did you pick this up, did it fall off the back of some Polish lorry or something? Ha ha. Still – if we ever run out of vinegar . . .’ He was slapping his own thigh with mirth as Georgie walked in on this touching reunion scene. ‘Only kidding, son. Let’s have a look at you. Eh, you’re a sight for sore eyes, you are.’ Harry clapped him on the shoulder, the nearest he ever came to an actual embrace with another male human being. ‘Welcome home.’
Georgie had never been so happy to walk into a pub when it reached eight o’clock that evening. Forget Christine. Forget Harry. Here she was in her nicest bootcut jeans, that hoisted her bum up and actuall
y made it look reasonably perky, as well as a pretty silky blouse, charcoal grey with a pink flower sprig design and a bow at the top, that she’d found in a second-hand shop in the Lanes. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, she had (for once) achieved really good smoky eye make-up and added some bold red lipstick, which always made her feel great. Nobody, but nobody, could say she’d ‘let herself go’ since leaving Stonefield, that was for sure.
The Shepherd’s Crook was one of the oldest buildings in the village. Built of stone, it had a cosy, cottagey feel inside with low ceilings and small windows, horse brasses nailed up on the rough plaster walls, as well as framed sepia photographs of Stonefield in years gone by, back when it was mostly farmland. It smelled, as ever, of chips and beer, and Georgie was pleased to see that Big Bill, the landlord, was there behind the bar, greasy curls glistening as he pulled old Barney Wheelwright a pint of Tetley. Everything was right in the world.
Georgie found herself reaching for Simon’s hand as they went in, a show of unity. How many Friday nights had they spent in this place with the old gang? Hundreds and hundreds. Too many to count. Pints on the table. Meatloaf and Bonnie Tyler on the jukebox (Big Bill was stuck in the Eighties and proud). Chat and laughter and private gossips in the draughty loos with the girls as they touched up their makeup. He didn’t! He did, you know.
‘There they are,’ she said, waving as she saw Amelia and Jason at one of the big tables in the back, along with Jade and Sam, Lois and her sister Mel, plus a few of the lads, Steve, Rob and Ed. Her heart swelled at the sight. Amelia had had her hair done in a sweet ringlety style that really suited her face and Jade wore a navy sleeveless top Georgie didn’t recognize but they both had their heads back in a simultaneous cackle which she did obviously recognize. ‘Hey, guys!’ she called, beaming. She dimly registered Simon saying something behind her about buying drinks as she rushed over to her friends, too excited to answer him.
‘Georgie!’
‘She’s back!’