by Lucy Diamond
The first strains of Mozart’s Requiem sounded, marking the end of the service and the congregation rose to their feet, dabbing eyes, blowing noses, putting their arms around each other. If Georgie took anything away from today, it was that Margot had been a spirited, passionate woman who had acted out of love, and followed her heart at all times. ‘They just don’t make ’em like that any more,’ said a woman in the row behind.
When in doubt, have coffee. Preferably in a gorgeous beachside setting with someone to make it for you, and – oh, go on, then – a massive fry-up as well. Georgie had come to Ned’s café for solace and sustenance and a reminder that there were still some things in life to be enjoyed. It was only as she went to the counter and saw the freckled face of Shamira, the waitress, that she remembered her very first Hey Em problem, and the person behind it all. ‘Hello,’ she said, suddenly feeling awkward. She probably should have popped in earlier, she realized belatedly, just to make sure that Shamira wasn’t pissed off with her kind-of-brash Em-ish response. ‘How are you? How did it go with . . .’ She had forgotten his name. ‘The guy, and your sister?’
Shamira made her coffee, dimpling as she replied. ‘John? It’s going really well,’ she said and gave a soppy sort of smile. ‘I’m madly, stupidly happy. We both are.’
Georgie felt taken aback. ‘What, so . . . ?’ So you ignored my advice, she wanted to ask, me telling you to put your sister’s feelings first? She couldn’t quite get the words out. ‘You . . . decided to make a go of it, with him?’
Shamira nodded. ‘He’s my true love,’ she said simply. ‘I always thought so. And my sister . . . she understands.’
‘She does?’ Whoa. Seriously? Would any woman be that understanding? ‘So . . . you’ve sorted everything out?’ She couldn’t get over quite how surprised she felt, she realized. Surprised and actually sort of disappointed that this woman had completely disregarded her advice, but somehow ended up living apparently happily ever after. It made Georgie feel – well, a bit stupid, if she was honest. Sort of redundant.
‘Apparently, she knew things weren’t right between them for ages,’ Shamira went on blithely over the hiss of the milk-frother. ‘She reckons the two of us are much better suited. We all sat down together and talked it through . . . we’re cool. Everything’s cool.’
‘Cool,’ Georgie echoed dumbly. ‘I mean . . . Great. That’s really great. I’m . . . pleased for you.’ Was there anything she could do right? she wondered as she went to sit down, feeling unexpectedly glum at the waitress’s beaming face. Anything at all?
‘So she’s left already, apparently. Moonlight flit. And good riddance, Chloe Phillips, is what I say. Don’t bloody come back either!’ Amelia’s voice had a victorious ring to it but despite being separated by approximately two hundred and fifty miles, Georgie knew that her best friend would still be feeling deep hurt by the betrayal of this woman she’d considered a mate. She remembered the adoring way Amelia had gazed at her in the pub that night: there was ‘girl crush’ written all over her face. It was always worst when people you admired let you down.
‘What an absolute cow,’ Georgie said loyally, but then her thoughts turned to her house, now sans Chloe. ‘Has he gone too, then, her fella? Is the house empty?’ She was still wearing her black dress from the funeral but had hauled the duvet off the bed and was currently cocooned in it on the sofa along with a bottle of red wine, three cut-price and probably out of date Creme Eggs from the corner shop, as well as one of her favourite rom-coms on DVD. She paused the film in order to concentrate, realizing that this was potentially big news. If their house was now vacated, there was nothing to stop Simon moving back in, without her, and she felt a pang as she imagined him there again, sprawled out on their sofa alone. In their lovely cosy bed alone. A single glass, plate, knife and fork in the kitchen sink where he’d eaten alone. It was too weird. It was all wrong. What if he found himself loving the single life after all those years together? What if he changed the locks so that Georgie couldn’t get back in?
‘Daz? No, he’s still there, mooching about with a face like death,’ Amelia replied, mercifully interrupting this dismal train of thought. ‘What with him and Simon, the village is practically overrun with unhappy men right now.’
Georgie’s heart contracted with pain. ‘You’ve seen him again?’
‘Yeah, he was in the pub last night. Didn’t stay long. I heard him telling Jase something about wanting to keep a clear head for a job interview the next day. In Harrogate, I think he said.’
‘Right.’ Winded by this piece of news, Georgie took such a big gulp of her wine that she splashed some of it on the duvet. A job interview, she repeated to herself numbly. In Harrogate. Off he went cheerfully without her, getting on with the rest of his life, then. And how awful, how crushing to find this out through a friend rather than from Simon himself! Once upon a time she would have been the first person he’d told; they might have run through some practice questions the night before, she’d have helped him choose the right tie and wished him luck. She’d have crossed her fingers all day for him, dying to get a text or call about how it had gone. But now, in this strange new world, Simon did these things alone, he didn’t need crossed fingers or tie-assistance. ‘God,’ she said dully.
‘Yeah, I know. So that’s the latest from the Stonefield News bulletin,’ Amelia said before her voice softened. ‘How do you feel about him, George? Are you okay?’
Georgie’s throat was so thick for a moment she couldn’t immediately reply. ‘I miss him,’ she said eventually. ‘I can’t get used to him not being here. I want to make it up to him but I don’t know how; he was just so angry when he left, I feel like he’s . . .’ She swallowed down the lump in her throat. ‘Like he’s washed his hands of me. It’s horrible.’
‘Oh, love.’ Amelia’s sympathy was so sincere and warm, it made tears spring yet again to Georgie’s eyes. (She was starting to think there might be something wrong with her tear ducts. They no longer seemed to have an off-switch.) ‘Listen, I’ll tell you what you need.’
‘What?’
‘You need your mates. You need a proper girls’ night out. What are you up to over the weekend? It’s about time I came to visit you, and I’ll see if Jade is around too. Fancy a bit of company?’
‘Yes,’ gulped Georgie, feeling pathetically grateful. ‘Yes, I do.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dear David Chandler,
Congratulations! You have been selected to join the prestigious Wankers Incorporated Alumni. Your womanizing, bullshitting and general wankerishness mean you are a prime candidate for our brotherhood. And poor Ann-Marie doesn’t have a clue, does she? Amazing work there, fellow wanker. Welcome!
Here’s how it works. We know you’re a modest kind of guy who doesn’t like to boast about all your many different conquests, affairs and – let’s not put too fine a point on it – shags. Not you, David! But there’s no need to be shy about being a wanker. No way! So we hope you’ll allow us to blow your horn a little, if you’ll pardon the expression. We’ll be getting in touch with your colleagues, your boss and – of course! – your wife to inform them what a prize wanker you are. Oh yes, and you know that enormous billboard opposite your offices, right on Old Street roundabout? We’re planning a special announcement there – a huge poster with your face on it and full details of your wankerish behaviour. Hey – we just want to celebrate our members! (So to speak. We know quite well how much you like to celebrate yours!)
Not only that, David, but we’ve done some research in your village as well and one of the local farmers is willing to rent us space in his field, enabling us to put up a huge sign there too, telling all your neighbours what a wanker you have been lately. No need to thank us, mate! We champion wankers have to look out for one another.
We’re assuming you’re happy for us to go ahead with all of this? Don’t be shy now! To that effect, please find attached an image of our proposed poster – pretty eye-catching, I’m certain
you’ll agree. It’s sure to get your colleagues and neighbours talking once they know what a prize wanker you are!
However, in the spirit of wanker brotherhood, if for any reason you would rather we didn’t proceed with our Wanker Incorporated plans, then that’s cool too. Whatever you say, pal! All you would need to do, in that case, is just stop being a wanker. Simples! That’s really it! Just stop cheating on your wife, stop living a double life, stop sleeping with other women and lying to them . . . You know the sort of thing we mean. Oh, and with a third baby on the way – congratulations, by the way, dude! – you’re probably going to want to ‘resign’ from that made-up ‘job’ that means you have to ‘travel’ so much during the week, too, aren’t you? Spend a bit more time at home with your wife and kids. If you hear what we’re saying.
In the meantime, we’ll be keeping an eye on you, David, and waiting to see which way you choose. Cheers, mate!
All the best
The Board of Directors, Wankers Incorporated
PS Just a thought. Seeing as you love the ladies and all that (you legend!), how about putting your money where your mouth is and making a donation to this women’s refuge project in Brighton? Prove what a real man you are, yeah?! Details are here.
‘Do we send it?’ said Gareth, his finger hovering above the mouse.
Rosa grinned at him. ‘We send it,’ she replied.
Gareth clicked the button with a flourish. Your message has been sent, a line at the top of the screen informed them. And then the two of them high-fived giddily and Rosa burst out laughing as she imagined her ex’s face dropping as he read the damning email. We’re watching you. We know you. We’re on to you.
Ha. Revenge was brilliant. Forget getting over a man in quiet, miserable dignity, sniffling alone through the pain. Getting your own back and socking it to him was way more satisfying. ‘You are a total genius,’ she told her partner in crime and he raised his glass at her in salute. ‘God, that feels good,’ she sighed, leaning back against the sofa.
This was the second self-styled ‘Revenge Meeting’ the two of them had had now – the first had been in the Regency Arms where they’d come up with various ideas and settled on the Wankers Incorporated one as their favourite. Then Gareth had gone away and done all the hard work, setting up a complete site, with its own logo and email addresses, so that if Max – David – bothered clicking through to find out more, he’d soon realize the threat was genuine. Tonight, Rosa had cooked dinner for them and over platefuls of spaghetti carbonara and quite a lot of sauvignon plonk, they had concocted the killer email.
‘Happy to be of service,’ he replied, sloshing more wine into their glasses, and she caught a waft of his rather nice woody cologne as he leaned forward. He was wearing a smart dark red shirt too, ironed and everything, by the looks of it. Was he going on somewhere after hers? she wondered. ‘Here’s to giving David Chandler the fright of his life,’ he added, sliding her glass over towards her.
‘Hell, yeah,’ she agreed, smiling at him. Far from being the worst person in the world as Bea had once said, Gareth was definitely one of the good guys, Rosa thought. He and Bea had totally sorted out their differences now, and were getting on much better, with Bea spending two nights a week at his place, and the pair of them recommending music and weird zombie films to each other with great eagerness. They were even going to see some obscure band next week together, apparently.
A strange sort of silence had fallen. Now that she and Gareth had finished what they’d set out to do, Rosa wasn’t sure what else to say. ‘Listen, can I give you some money for your time by the way?’ she blurted out. ‘It must have taken you ages to build that site.’
‘You don’t have to give me any money,’ he said, sounding surprised. There was something very sincere about him, she’d come to realize. His dark eyes were soft as he looked at her. ‘You’ve cooked me dinner, that’s enough. Anyway, to be honest, I quite enjoyed it. A bloke mucking you around like that deserves everything he gets – it felt good to dish out a bit of justice. Proper men don’t treat other people that way.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘And you’re a “proper man”, are you?’ The words were meant to sound teasing but somehow came out sounding cheesy, as if she was trying to flirt with him in a really bad way.
‘Yeah! Well, I wouldn’t treat a woman like shit, anyway. I wouldn’t treat you that way.’
It was quite late by now and Rosa was feeling swimmily drunk but there was something in Gareth’s tone, a loud sort of earnestness, that made her sharpen up all of a sudden. He wasn’t flirting with her, was he? she wondered, remembering the ironed shirt, the cologne. Then she dismissed the idea in the next second. No. Surely not. ‘Mmm,’ she said, noncommittally. ‘Well, I think it’s fair to say that most people don’t go around inventing second lives for themselves in which to play two different partners off against each other. Unless I’ve wildly underestimated the rest of the human race, that is.’
‘No, I mean . . .’ He looked as drunk as she felt, his face flushed, his voice sliding about. His dark hair stuck up on end as he raked a hand through it. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t treat you that way. If we were dating.’
‘Ahh. Hypothetically. Yes.’ Good old ‘hypothetically’ and its depersonalizing qualities. Even if it was quite difficult to pronounce all those syllables in the right order when a person was three sheets to the proverbial.
‘I didn’t mean hypotheck – hypothetal –’ Gareth wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily, despite coming a cropper trying to get his tongue around the word. ‘I didn’t mean it in an abstract way,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I meant. If. We. Were. Dating.’
Oh God. He really was flirting with her, even through her squiffiness she could see that, and Rosa had absolutely no idea how she felt about such a development. What about Jo? she thought in a panic. What about Bea? ‘Listen,’ she said, thoughts scrambling, ‘maybe this is not a conversation to be having when we’re both r—’
But before she could finish her sentence, he had moved towards her and was kissing her in a wine-fumed, clumsy sort of way. Actually, even with the clumsiness, it was pretty good. His arm snaked around her back, and her insides went all trembly . . . ‘Rat-arsed,’ she said weakly when they came up for air.
‘I’ve wanted to do that for ages,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘Rat-arsed or not.’
‘Oh,’ she said, gazing back at him, feeling conflicted, surprised and awkward all at once. Part of her wanted to carry on kissing him to see what happened. He was attractive, after all, and she’d come to like him very much. But another part of her – a more sober part – was holding back. Because it was Gareth! Ex-husband of her neighbour! And this could turn out to be a spectacularly bad idea. ‘The thing is . . .’ she began, inching away as she tried to find the right words.
He gave a rueful sort of laugh. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to say it. Just friends, right? Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Couldn’t help myself.’ He put his glass down on the table. ‘You are a lovely woman, that’s all. Sorry if I overstepped the mark.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ she said, feeling awful now. She had enjoyed the kiss, that was the odd thing, but she hadn’t thought of Gareth in a romantic way before then, and the moment had caught her off-guard. Plus, she had made enough mistakes with other people’s husbands already. ‘Um . . .’
‘I’d better go,’ he said, getting to his feet, face turned away. She’d embarrassed him, or he’d embarrassed himself, she wasn’t quite sure which. Both.
‘Well . . . If you’re sure,’ she said. Now she felt worse, as if she’d pushed him out. ‘But thanks so much for everything. For the revenge plan. I love it.’
‘No problem.’ He was shrugging his jacket on, still not looking at her, feelings hurt. The joyousness of their joint efforts, the laughter and triumph, it was all gone, snuffed out in an instant.
‘And do come along to the next supper club if you’re free,’ she
went on. She couldn’t stop prattling on all of a sudden, anything to fill the uncomfortable silences he kept leaving. ‘I’m doing a French theme this time, in honour of Margot, so . . .’
‘I think I’m busy,’ he said, even though she hadn’t actually specified which day it was. So that told her all she needed to know.
*
‘You are okay? You are quiet, I think.’
It was the following morning and Rosa and Natalya were both taking a snatched coffee break, around the back of the hotel so that Natalya could smoke one of her evil Russian cigarettes.
Rosa reached up to touch her head and grimaced. It was the first day of June and the sunshine seemed painfully bright in her eyes. ‘Headache,’ she replied. ‘Hangover. Too much wine last night.’
‘Ahh. You should try vodka next time. Is better. Not so much pain.’
Rosa smiled weakly. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ If there ever was a ‘next time’ with Gareth, of course. The way he’d left so hastily after she’d knocked him back, she wasn’t holding her breath. Sipping her too-hot coffee, she leaned against the rough brick wall feeling tired of thinking about him, tired of replaying the awkward conversation. ‘Natalya,’ she said, almost before she knew she was going to. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
Natalya arched one of her thick eyebrows. ‘Love?’ It sounded as if she was tasting the word in her mouth. But then she smiled, almost girlishly, and nodded. ‘I have been in love,’ she confirmed.
Rosa wasn’t sure what to be more surprised about – the fact that she’d just seen Natalya smile and look bashful, or the words she’d heard from her lips. ‘How could you tell?’ she asked. The question had been on her mind ever since Gareth had tried to kiss her. She was so wary of making the same mistake twice, of falling for another inappropriate man and being strung along all over again, that she no longer trusted her instincts. ‘I mean, did you just know straightaway, or did it take a while before it dawned on you?’