Heartswap

by Celia Brayfield

  ‘Brilliant stuff!’ he shouted at Georgie as she opened the car door. ‘But you’ve missed him. He’s gone off to the tip. And here’s his address. Go get him girl!’

  Georgie thought of being reserved and enigmatic, then thought again. ‘But where’s the tip?’ she squeaked in alarm.

  He drew her a map and she roared away.

  On his way to the tip, Dillon’s thoughts finally took shape. Georgie was an amazing woman. He wanted to see her. If he had to choose between being irredeemably wronged without her and magnanimously forgiving with her, he’d go for the second one. Which meant that he might be going through some temporary love thing for her. So the Rod Stewart plan was on hold. She seemed to like him. In fact, she must like him a lot. He had erased her telephone number. At least he could stop by and say goodbye. He drove to the Eon Tower.

  Georgie drove to the tip but did not meet Dillon. The supervisor was positive that nobody with an old black Saab 900 had been there all morning.

  The reception guard at the Eon Tower recognised Dillon and told him regretfully that Ms Lambton had not yet arrived. Great Lats, grand with his new responsibilities as acting senior fund manager, came down to assure him of this personally. Dillon extracted the information that Ms Lambton was on extended leave and was not expected to return. Great Lars, wondering if this fazed-looking bloke with good thighs could possibly be a stalker, refused to give Dillon any more information.

  When he had returned to his office the reception guard, who had seen the way this man and Ms Lambton had looked at each other, rang through to Human Resources, gave them a story about redirecting a courier, and obtained Georgie’s address.

  Dillon drove to Notting Hill Gate and found no one at home.

  Georgie threw Flat Eric on to the M25, hurtled off on the M3, whistled off on the A339, zipped around Alton and found herself skidding to a standstill in front of a small but elegant Regency house. A cuckoo was calling. The blooms of a wisteria dripped from the front wall. At the side of the house was a spacious Regency-style garage, into which the two moving men were carrying Dillon’s coffee table.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the woman who was watching them, ‘are you Mrs MacGuire?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said the woman brightly, ‘but I am Dillon’s mother. You aren’t Flora, are you?’

  ‘No way,’ Georgie assured her.

  ‘Then you must be the other one,’ Dillon’s mother concluded. ‘I liked the sound of you. You’d better hurry, dear. He’s getting the ferry at one. Portsmouth to Bilbao. Get back on the A339 then take the A3. Fast as you can! Not a moment to lose!’

  ‘Thank you!’ called Georgie, jumping back into her car.

  ‘See you again!’ Dillon’s mother waved energetically.

  Flat Eric ate the rest of the route, zipped through the back streets of Portsmouth and got her to the docks at 12.23. The woman on the gate sent her to the ticket office, where another woman listened to her story and suggested her best bet was to buy a day ticket for Le Havre. ‘You won’t need your passport for a day trip. The ticket’ll get you through the barrier to the embarkation area. The Le Havre boat is that one.’ She pointed with her biro through the office window. ‘And that’s the Bilbao boat on the next quay. So what you do on the embarkation side is up to you.’

  As if it was advising her to chill out, a light drizzle began to fall. Georgie put Flat Eric at the end of a queue of cars waiting for the Le Havre boat, got out and ran across the quay. She checked every vehicle queuing for the Pride of Galicia. She looked behind the caravans. The truckers whistled appreciatively as she made sure there was no black Saab on the far side of their rigs.

  At 12.35, the queue of trucks began to move. In distraction, Georgie dashed to the edge of the water and watched them rolling aboard the ferry.

  When the last truck had rumbled up the gangway, the caravans began to follow. Georgie stood on tiptoe to see the entrance to the quay. Nothing. No black Saab. No Dillon. He had changed his mind. She tried his phone one last time, but only the voicemail answered.

  The cars fired up and followed the caravans. At three minutes to one a platoon of Hell’s Angels swooped through the entrance gate and spluttered aboard.

  The stewards who had directed the drivers conferred in a group, their collars turned up against the dropping wet. Finally, the senior steward broke away and walked over to Georgie. ‘Excuse, miss, are you booked on this crossing?’ He nodded behind her.

  Georgie turned around to see Flat Eric all on his own in the middle of the empty quay. The boat for Le Havre had loaded up and sailed. She had never even noticed.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she told the steward.

  ‘Well, do you want to be? Because there’s one berth left.’

  ‘Oh.’ Georgie’s instinct told her that it would be a really good idea to get on the boat. It mentioned that she had never been to Spain, that she had nothing better to do, that if she couldn’t have Dillon she could at least have an adventure and that recklessness always worked.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone? Because we can’t hold the boat more than five minutes.’

  ‘I’ll get on,’ she agreed.

  When Flat Eric’s front tyres were six inches from the gangway, Dillon’s old black Saab hurtled through the entrance and drew up beside him.

  Dillon got out of his car. Georgie got out of her car. The stewards exchanged anxious glances. The Pride of Galicia sounded its siren.

  A group of truckers gathered around the entrance to the hold, watching the action.

  ‘My God, you’re here!’ Dillon’s mind broke up. Things like this did not happen to him. ‘I went to your place to find you.’

  ‘I went to your place to find you.’

  The truckers started cheering. It seemed best to go for a kiss.

  The senior steward assumed all the authority of his position and went to have a word. ‘I don’t want to break this up, but the boat is ready to sail and I’ve only got one berth.’

  ‘We can take mine,’ Georgie offered.

  ‘The long-term car park is just over there,’ prompted the steward.

  ‘OK. Give me one minute.’ Dillon took another kiss to be going on with and prepared to leave his car.

  After ten days in Bali, Donna, Flora and Des felt they had done justice to the island’s culture, that they were bored with the beach and deserved a full day by the pool. They lay side by side in the soft, fierce heat an watched the humming birds visiting the hibiscus.

  ‘Do you think they get bored, flitting from one flower to another?’ Des drained the last of his vodka cranberry and wondered how many calories there would be in another. He didn’t want to go home looking like a blimp. Especially since he’d got a date with that boy with the great lats.

  ‘Their brains are too small,’ Flora murmured. It was the right day to get her back brown. Bali was so spiritual. She was really inspired by the way the people lived, in harmony with nature. Perhaps Donna would lend her the money to take home some batiks.

  ‘What am I going to do? Speaking of small-brained creatures.’ Donna snapped shut her PowerBook.

  ‘Checking your e-mails?’ Des suddenly felt weary.

  Donna had messages from Smiley-and-Beefy and from Felix. She had no intention of letting Flora know these identities. It wouldn’t be important once they got home. Flora was on the way out with Donna. She had realised in Bali that Flora was never going to be a fast-track woman. All right for a holiday, but a waste of time in real life.

  Blissfully unaware, Flora murmured, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Sex,’ hazarded Des. ‘Is there anything else worth worrying about?’

  ‘I’ve got two blokes on the scene,’ Donna told them complacently. ‘I can’t decide which one to go with.’

  ‘What’s the choice?’ Des propped himself up on one elbow. He was interested.

  ‘The arty shagmeister or the guy next door. Actually, the guy three floors down. New neighbour.’

  ‘Could be
embarrassing if it all goes horribly wrong,’ Elora suggested. She was glad to have been able to master the concept of relationships going horribly wrong. Every day she gained in wisdom.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s kinda suave.’ Donna gave a wistful sigh. ‘And the other one’s a business contact. That could be difficult.’

  ‘Have they got any money? That’s the real question.’

  ‘Of course they haven’t got any money. They’re as broke as each other. Like I care. I mean, what’s the point of having money if it can’t get you what you want?’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Flora.

  ‘Then why do you have to make a choice?’ Des asked what he considered the obvious question.

  ‘That’s true.’ Donna rubbed some SPF30 with aloe vera into her lips to keep them kissable. ‘Why am I obsessing about this? It doesn’t matter, does it? They’re all the same.’

  Copyright

  First published in 2000 by Little, Brown

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  www.curtisbrown.co.uk

  ISBN 978-1-4472-3081-6 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-3080-9 POD

  Copyright © Celia Brayfield, 2000

  The right of Celia Brayfield to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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