by Lucy Diamond
Lucy Diamond lives in Bath with her husband and their three children. Hens Reunited is her third novel.
By the same author
Any Way You Want Me
Over You
First published 2009 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
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ISBN 978-0-330-51494-1 in Adobe Reader format
ISBN 978-0-330-51492-7 in Adobe Digital Editions format
ISBN 978-0-330-51495-8 in Mobipocket format
Copyright © Lucy Diamond 2009
The right of Lucy Diamond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Contents
Katie’s Hen Night
Chapter One: How Deep Is Your Love?
Georgia’s Hen Night
Chapter Two: Rule The World
Alices Hen Weekend
Chapter Three: Everything Changes
Chapter Four: Love Ain’t Here Anymore
Chapter Five: Never Forget
Chapter Six: Another Crack In My Heart
Chapter Seven: Why Can’t I Wake Up With You?
Chapter Eight: Pray
Chapter Nine: Babe
Chapter Ten: A Million Love Songs
Chapter Eleven: Patience
Chapter Twelve: Shine
Chapter Thirteen: Promises
Chapter Fourteen: It Only Takes a Minute
Chapter Fifteen: Relight My Fire
Chapter Sixteen: I Can Make It
Chapter Seventeen: Sure
Chapter Eighteen: Once You’ve Tasted Love
Chapter Nineteen: You Are The One
Chapter Twenty: Greatest Day
Chapter Twenty-One: Back for Good?
Chapter Twenty-Two: Beautiful World
Lucy Diamond exclusive interview
Lucy Diamond’s guide to the perfect hen night
For all my hens: Ellie, Hayley, Jo, Jude, Marns and Rachel, as well as Fiona, Kate, Fran, Saba and Nicky. Cheers, girls!
Acknowledgements
2008 was the year I (finally!) got married and had my own hen night, so it was a very fitting year in which to write this novel. I’d like to thank the following people who all helped in various ways:
Imogen Taylor, Jenny Geras, Trisha Jackson and everyone at Pan Macmillan for their editorial input and all-round loveliness, plus Simon Trewin, Ariella Feiner and all at United Agents, for sound advice and support. Victoria Walker, Kate Harrison and Milly Johnson for feedback and encouragement during writing. The witty and talented members of BWBD and the Novel Racers who keep me writing week in, week out. My parents, Kate and Adrian Mongredien, for their love and support, and my children, Hannah, Tom and Holly Powell, who are just fabulous in every way. Huge thanks also to everyone who’s taken the time to write or email to say they enjoyed my first two novels – I really appreciate it (and you!). As for you, Martin, husband extraordinaire … you’re the best.
Katie’s Hen Night
February 1994
‘Cheers to the hens!’
Katie Taylor picked up her champagne flute and thrust it into the air. Seven flushed faces beamed back at her along the length of the restaurant table. Her best friends, Alice and Georgia; her younger sisters, Charlotte and Laura; two friends from work, and, down at the far end of the table, her future sister-in-law, Nicki.
‘Cheers!’ the chorus came back as they all lifted their glasses and clinked them against each other. ‘Yay!’ added Alice, her apple cheeks shining in the candlelight. ‘Cheers to the blushing bride, too!’
Katie adjusted the plastic silvery tiara on her head – it had slipped over one ear again – and slugged back a large mouthful of bubbly. ‘Well, I don’t know about blushing,’ she said, cocking an eyebrow saucily, and everyone laughed. ‘Seriously, though,’ she said, suddenly feeling a lump in her throat, ‘it’s so great that you’re all here for my hen night.’ Tears pricked her eyes as she gazed at them, friends and family out together in the new T.G.I. Friday’s off the ring road. She thought for a moment she was going to start blubbing all over her chicken-in-a-basket, and dabbed at her eyes with the paper serviette. ‘Thanks, Alice and Georgia, for organizing everything,’ she went on, her voice wobbling slightly as she raised her glass to each of them in turn. ‘You’re the best hens and bridesmaids a girl could ask for.’
‘You haven’t seen the strippergram yet,’ Georgia teased, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder so that it fell down her back in a sleek, shining mass. She arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘You might not be saying that later …’
Alice grinned. ‘She’s only winding you up,’ she told Katie, dipping one of her fries in ketchup and swallowing it whole.
‘Yeah, I’m only joking,’ Georgia said, and winked. ‘It’s a gorillagram really. Big, butch and hairy, just the way you like them, Katie.’
Everyone giggled. ‘Really, Georgia?’ asked Charlotte, Katie’s youngest sister, who was only fifteen and thought Georgia the most glamorous creature ever to be seen in Wiltshire. ‘Is there really going to be a gorillagram?’ She stared around eagerly, eyes wide, hoping for a glimpse of some male dangly bits to brag about to her friends at school. What with the alcopop she’d tried for the first time in her life AND the electric-blue mascara that Laura had let her borrow, this was turning out to be the most exciting night she’d ever had.
Georgia pursed her blood-red lips. ‘You never know,’ she said, tapping her nose confidingly.
‘Big butch hairy men aside,’ Alice said, raising her glass in Katie’s direction, ‘here’s to you, Mrs Watkinson.’
‘Oi, not yet,’ Katie retorted, laughing. ‘I’ve got one week left of being Katie Taylor before I’m a Mrs anything.’ She allowed herself a secret shiver of excitement at the thought of the wedding next Saturday. Mrs Watkinson. Mrs Neil Watkinson! It sounded so married. So grown up! She glanced down at her engagement ring, the gold glinting under the bright restaurant spotlights, and felt goosebumps breaking out along her arms. ‘I mean it, though. I’m having a fab night tonight. And I just know the wedding is going to be the best one ever!’
Two hours later, Katie was feeling decidedly ratted as she swung around the dance floor to Chaka Demus and Pliers. Georgia was shaking it up nearby with a bloke wearing stupid rapper trousers, and Alice was making Charlotte drink pints of water at the side, after some Pernod-and-black-related vomiting incident in the loos. Oh, it was so brilliant having Alice and Georgia here, Katie was really chuffed they’d come all the way from London for tonight. She’d missed them, more than she’d expected to. It had all been a whirlwind, meeting Neil, leaving London, making plans for the wedding and a whole new future …
The song changed and suddenly Georgia was at her side. ‘You’re Lulu, I’
m Robbie,’ she said, spinning around on the spot. ‘Alice! Over here! You’re Gary Barlow!’
Alice left her Charlotte-tending duties at once and ran onto the dance floor. ‘I’m Mark Owen,’ she bellowed over the pounding music, wiggling her hips. She wasn’t really a confident dancer, Alice, always too self-conscious about how her body looked (unlike Georgia, who was going for it big-style with her routine, punching the air and singing into a pretend microphone), but the first time the three of them had ever been out together to the Friday club night at the student union, they’d all had such a laugh dancing to ‘Could It Be Magic’ that, since then, hitting the dance floor for Take That had become something of a ritual.
‘Cos I neeeeeeeeed your love!’ Georgia screamed, grabbing Katie’s hand and spinning her round.
Katie laughed uncontrollably as she saw the looks her workmates, Beth and Andrea, were giving her. They both knew Katie as the rather quiet, sensible new girl in the office, helping with the accounts, mucking in with the tea-and coffee-making. They probably hadn’t realized they worked with a disco diva who had such mad Robbie Williams-impersonating friends. Oh, who cared what they thought anyway? It was only a stop-gap job until she sorted out another college course. And she hadn’t had a proper dance for ages – too long.
She made a hand into a pretend microphone of her own and went for it.
By two o’clock the next morning when the music stopped and the club lights suddenly went horribly bright, Charlotte was asleep on a velour banquette with Laura trying to shake her awake, Beth and Andrea had long gone, and Nicki had been picked up by her fella for a lift home. ‘See you at the wedding,’ she’d said, kissing Katie goodbye.
‘That was an ace hen night,’ Alice said, as the cab dropped them back at Katie’s mum’s house. Her fair hair was plastered to her head and someone had spilled a pint of lager down her side, but her eyes were sparkly with happiness.
‘I loved it,’ Georgia agreed, linking an arm through Katie’s as they walked up the front path. ‘What a laugh – my face aches from smiling all night. It’s not been the same without you, Kate, our Friday nights. Are you sure you can’t persuade Neil to move to London?’
Katie wrinkled her nose. ‘I doubt it,’ she said, unlocking the front door. ‘And now that I’ve got this job in his dad’s firm, I—’
Everyone jumped as a large figure loomed in the doorway. Alice gave a scream before clapping a hand to her mouth and giggling nervously. ‘Back so soon?’ slurred Mrs Taylor, leaning against the door jamb. Her skin was mottled and puffy, her eyes glazed. She was slaughtered, as usual. ‘Thought you might have pulled and gone off to some bloke’s house.’
‘We’re not all like you,’ Katie said tartly, elbowing her aside. ‘Come on in. Laura, are you all right with Charlotte?’ She could feel her skin prickling. Mum had to spoil everything. ‘Go up to my room,’ she hissed to Alice and Georgia. ‘I’ll be there in two minutes.’
‘I’ve told her, she’s making a mistake,’ Mrs Taylor said, her eyes small and mean. ‘But does she listen to her old mum? No. She’ll learn. She’ll soon—’
‘Oh, shut up, Mum,’ Laura snapped. ‘Or I’ll get Charlotte to puke on you.’
Mercifully – and surprisingly – Mrs Taylor sloped off to bed herself without another word.
Alice and Georgia were squeezing into Katie’s old bedroom for the night, and when they’d all whispered and giggled their way through make-up removal and teeth brushing, the three of them lay in their sleeping bags in the darkness.
‘Sorry about my mum,’ Katie said, still mortified at what had happened. ‘She’s such a nightmare.’
Alice reached out and held her hand. ‘Don’t let it spoil tonight,’ she said.
‘Yeah, come on, Mrs Watkinson, think of happier things,’ Georgia put in.
‘Oi, don’t start all that Mrs Watkinson stuff again!’ Katie scolded, but Alice had already launched into song.
‘And here’s to you, Mrs Watkinson …’ she warbled.
‘Georgia-’n’-Alice love you more than you could know,’ Georgia joined in, giggling. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa …’
Katie smiled in the darkness at her friends’ tuneless singing. They were right – she wouldn’t let her mum wreck her hen night. She was nearly Mrs Watkinson after all – and better times were just around the corner …
Chapter One
How Deep Is Your Love?
Friday, 13 June 2008
‘So don’t forget, this needs to be handed in to me on Monday, first thing, all right? Anyone giving in late coursework will—’
BRRRRRRINNNNNGGGGG!
The school bell interrupted Katie’s words. Half the class had had an eye on the clock for the last ten minutes, of course – who didn’t want to get away at breakneck speed on Friday afternoon? – and were up from their seats, bags packed and through the door before the bell had finished pealing without so much as a ‘Bye, miss’.
‘Coursework on Monday morning!’ Katie bellowed after their departing backs. They were not supposed to leave the classroom until she’d given them permission to go – headmaster’s rules – but it was the end of the week, and she decided she’d disregard it this once. Some battles just weren’t worth fighting.
She turned back to face the remnants of the class who were busily stuffing their algebra textbooks into their bags. She could see it in their eyes, their hungry expressions, that they too were desperate to escape the classroom, but they at least were still obedient enough to wait for the official release. ‘Okay, off you go, then,’ she said. ‘See you next week. Have a good weekend.’
Back scraped all the chairs from their desks as they got to their feet. A swell of chatter rose; you could feel the atmosphere change from that of endured confinement to sweet liberation. And off they went, iPods in, mobiles checked for new text messages (another blind eye turned – they were meant to wait until they were off school premises for that), talk of parties and shopping and sleepovers …
Their high, excited voices echoed for a while as they went down the corridors, then all was silent. Friday afternoon. Your weekend starts here.
She sat down at her desk, relishing the peace and quiet. It always seemed particularly dense, that silence, after thirty noisy teenagers had so recently vacated the space. She pulled over a pile of Year 8 homework books. Right, then. Now for an hour’s marking before she went to the supermarket; the traditional start to the weekend. Not for her, talk of sleepovers and parties and shopping. Katie Taylor liked a good solid structure at the centre of her life. It felt safe that way. There was no room for any silly fanciful notions when you had a watertight routine in place.
She pulled over the first book. Ella Townsend. With ‘I ♥ Zack!!!!’ in big letters on the front cover. Katie couldn’t help but notice that ‘I ♥ Danny!!!!’ and ‘I ♥ Miles!!!!’ had been crossed out elsewhere on the cover. If Ella Townsend could just pay as much attention to her maths homework as she did to her love life, she’d be top of the class. As it was, with Zack Richards to moon over and write love notes to, her homework had taken a swerve for the worse this year. What was it with teenagers and their hopeless crushes?
Katie wrinkled her nose as she red-penned her way through Ella’s equations. Cross, cross, cross, cross, tick, cross. Ella wasn’t daft, either. Only a year ago, she’d been one of the most diligent students in the class. Now hormones had kicked in and schoolwork had gone out the window. The sad thing was, she didn’t even seem to care.
Concentrate, Ella!, Katie wrote in red pen at the bottom of the page, having totted up the girl’s score as four out of twenty. I know you can do better than this!
Still, they all had them, didn’t they? Their silly romantic lapses of reason. Katie, too, had been like that, back when she was a teenager. But of course, she’d been even worse than Ella. She’d actually given up her degree to go and get married. To Neil Watkinson, of all people! So she was a fine one to talk.
Katie realized she was gazing out of the classroo
m window, almost as if she were expecting her ex-husband to gallop across the playground on a white charger or something. She stifled a giggle. Fat chance. Neil Watkinson probably drove a people-carrier these days, with a collection of kiddie seats in the back and his second wife in the passenger seat. Or third wife, even, knowing what he was like.
Neil bloody Watkinson, eh. It seemed almost unbelievable to her now, that she and Neil Watkinson had once spent all that money on the hired suit and dress, flowers, photos and a finger buffet, had pored over invitation lists, seating plans and honeymoon travel brochures. For what? A year of having to pick his dirty pants up off the floor every day, that’s what. Cooking all those bloody Findus crispy pancakes, his favourite food. Ironing umpteen work shirts of his – how had that happened? How had they morphed into those husband/wife stereotypes so scarily quickly, when she was just as useless with an iron as him?
All that she had now to show she’d ever been married were a few faded photos, that nasty gold Ratners ring stashed in the depths of her knicker drawer and the cheeseboard her Aunty Wendy had bought them, gathering dust in the kitchen. She didn’t even particularly like cheese; she was a Cheddar kind of girl, fine in a sandwich with a bit of tomato, but that was about it.
It seemed even more surreal to Katie that she’d ever taken her clothes off and lain there on the marital bed, letting Neil Watkinson clamber onto her and pump away, wearing his Bristol bloody Rovers top half the time (sartorial standards fell alarmingly, post-wedding). He was desperate for her to get pregnant as quick as possible. Not because he particularly liked children – he called the neighbours’ kids all the names under the sun if they woke him up on a Sunday morning – but because he thought it would prove he was a Real Man. And that was really where their marriage started to go wrong, of course …