The House of New Beginnings

POLITE NOTICE TO ALL TENANTS

Please could you endeavour to keep all noise DOWN after ten o’clock at night. I have had complaints from the neighbours and would like to remind you that this is a respectable house NOT a DISCO.

Angela Morrison-Hulme

Property Manager

Georgie tossed a pebble into the sea with a plop and sighed. The new edition of Brighton Rocks magazine was out and she had three whole pieces in it this week, but the pleasure and pride that she might normally have felt at such an achievement was tainted by the conviction that she was probably the worst girlfriend in the world. Yes, she had submitted the women’s refuge interview, written under a pseudonym. Yes, she knew this would only add to the opposition Simon was facing at work. Yes, it was probably pretty unforgivable of her.

‘You’re taking over the magazine!’ Viv had emailed cheerfully when she sent over the link to the digital edition. As well as her interview, there was also the write-up of the Alternative Art Club which Viv had loved, and the Hey Em column, which was getting more hits than ever, as well as a whole inbox of new problems. The interview itself had had a lot of feedback online, and someone had even started a petition to save the house, which had gathered almost a thousand signatures already.

There was no way she could tell Simon of her writerly success, though. It had been bad enough him finding out about the whinging agony letter she’d written and accidentally got into print, but this was far worse. He was not easily prone to forgiveness either, being the kind of man who liked to have at least one grudge simmering away at any given time. In the past he’d had it in for the binmen, former colleagues, the manager of Leeds United, the Prime Minister . . . the list went on. The last thing Georgie wanted was to go straight to the top of his chart.

Anyway, the magazine was tiny, she reminded herself. Petition or not, hardly anyone read it; it wasn’t like she’d stitched Simon up in the national press, or on television. He never had to find out. Maybe in years to come, she’d confess and they’d roar with laughter about it, she thought optimistically, lobbing another pebble overarm into the waves. Maybe they’d even show their grandchildren. Yeah.

Her phone was ringing in her pocket, she realized, and she pulled it out to see her editor’s name on the screen. ‘Hi,’ Georgie said, turning her back on the roaring sea, and cupping her other ear in the hope of better hearing. A gale was whipping up around her, snatching at tendrils of her hair, and she bowed her head against it and began clambering back up the pebbly bank in the hope of finding shelter.

‘Well . . .’ There was Silent Witness on later, and a steak and ale pie in the fridge (Simon’s favourite), but that was about the extent of it. ‘Not really,’ she admitted.

‘Great, because I’ve got the next challenge for the You Send Me column, and it’s a doozy.’ Viv was smiling in a very pleased-with-herself sort of way; you could hear it behind her words. ‘Get your best frock on, girl, because . . .’

A seagull overhead chose that moment to let out a screech and Georgie, back up by the arches now, ducked into a small trendy gallery selling hand-painted cards and crackle-glazed earthenware bowls, where silence reigned. ‘Sorry, I missed that,’ she had to say into the phone. ‘Could you tell me again? I can hear you now.’ Get your best frock on, she was thinking. It must be somewhere posh. The theatre, maybe. The opera. Ballet, perhaps! She hoped it would be something romantic so that she could drag Simon along with her. She pictured them holding hands in the audience, maybe sharing a tentative smile and reconnecting once again.

‘Are you there?’ Viv yelled, so loudly Georgie had to hold the phone away from her ear. ‘I said, we’re sending you speed dating. Only it’s speed dating with a difference. Have you got a pen? I’ll give you the details.’

‘Well, I . . .’ Georgie found herself meeting the eye of the woman behind the counter in the gallery, a woman with hennaed hair and a pierced nose who looked a bit too interested in the speed dating conversation for Georgie’s liking. She turned away and lowered her voice, pretending to be browsing through a rack of birthday cards. Bloody hell, six quid each, she noticed. No chance, mate. ‘The thing is . . . I’ve got a boyfriend, and . . .’ She could just imagine the gallery assistant’s ears now flapping with nosiness and cringed. ‘Look, I’ve got a boyfriend,’ she repeated, more firmly this time. ‘So . . .’

‘So you don’t have to do anything, Jesus, I’m not asking you to shag around. Come on, Georgie. You don’t have to tell anyone there that you’re boringly hooked up. You don’t have to tell your bloke either. Just go along, have an open mind and report back. That’s all I’m saying.’

Georgie hesitated. ‘But . . .’ It was all very well saying ‘You don’t have to tell your bloke’ but if her name was printed alongside the speed dating piece, it was going to be pretty easy for him to find out, wasn’t it?

A snap of impatience had entered Viv’s voice, the smile abruptly dropped. ‘Look, love, this was your idea. Send me anywhere, I’ll do it, I’m up for anything, that’s what you told me. And now you’re wussing out?’

‘Right, well, I’ll give you the address, then. Have you got that pen ready? First rule of journalism, always have a pen ready.’

Georgie sighed. She didn’t have a pen ready, obviously, because she was not that organized, so there was the journalism test failed. Cursing herself – and Viv too, for her stupid bloody ideas – she eyed up the gallery’s selection of pens displayed in a small pot nearby, for five pounds each apparently. They could bog off and all, she thought crossly, rummaging in her bag for her lipstick and a crumpled old receipt. ‘Ready when you are,’ she said through gritted teeth.

Just another secret from her poor mistreated boyfriend, then, Georgie thought glumly as she loitered outside the Olive Grove cocktail bar that night, wishing she still smoked so she could light one up in order to kill some time. She wished too that she had put her foot down more vehemently with Viv, told her in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t cooperate. Did she have the nerve, she wondered, to file copy for a completely different ‘You Send Me’ night, one that she actually wanted to do? She could write the column about a new comedy place that had opened in Hove, or the samba group she’d seen advertised, for instance. The readers would be interested in both those things, let’s face it, way more than they’d want to read about someone who already had a boyfriend going speed dating.

Glancing through the steamed-up windows of the bar, she could see that there was already a big crowd of people inside. Women in little black dresses with their hair up in gravity-defying dos. Men in jeans and pastel-coloured shirts, a couple in suits as if they’d just stepped off the London train. She bet it stank in there, of bad aftershave and nervous sweat. Shit. And she was meant to join them and go along with it all, flirting and bantering and listening to chat-up lines flying about, while there was poor unsuspecting Simon, grafting away at work. This was all wrong. This was not ideal girlfriend behaviour, was it? Yet again.

Georgie looked down at her own outfit – a rather tired plum-coloured dress bought in the Hobbs sale about three years ago and a pair of court shoes that were scuffed at the toe. Her hair was decidedly undone – and could do with a cut, moreover – and she had grudgingly slapped on some make-up as a token effort, without really caring how she looked. Bloody Viv, she thought, scowling and wondering what to do. Was the woman deliberately trying to sabotage Georgie’s relationship, or something? Speed dating, indeed. And not just that – this was silent speed dating, where you couldn’t even have a laugh about how awful it was but instead were meant to communicate through your eyes alone. Georgie had googled the event details earlier and it sounded absolutely excruciating.

Sod it, she decided; she’d had enough of secrets. There was no way she’d be able to relax tonight and go along with any of this tosh if the whole time she was feeling racked with guilt about Simon. Sorry, Viv, it’s not going to happen. She would call her unsuspecting boyfriend who was working late again, the poor thing, tell him about this cringeworthy new stunt and – yes, that was it, she thought as an idea came to her. Instead of slinking in there alone and going through the whole naff pantomime, she would persuade Simon to come along too. Genius! They could both pretend not to know one another and then catch each other’s eye across the room. It could actually be quite sexy!

A smile spread across her face as she pictured the scene; her beckoning him over in a sultry come-to-bed sort of way, undressing each other with their eyes, desire building to fever pitch as perhaps she licked her lips suggestively, leaned forward, pressing her knee against his under the table . . .

She dialled at once. Viv never had to know that Georgie was sneakily bending the rules, did she? As far as her boss was concerned, Georgie was merely doing what she’d been asked; she would write up the evening, accidentally on purpose leaving out the bit where she snogged the face off her boyfriend and then went home and had wild electrifying sex with him all round the flat.

After ringing about six times, a woman finally answered. ‘Hello, Simon’s phone?’ she said.

Georgie stiffened at the unexpected voice down the line. ‘Oh. Er . . . Where is he?’ she asked, hearing the frostiness of her own reply. There was music playing in the background, which was strange, she thought, remembering the rather basic Portakabins she’d seen on the site. It must be someone’s radio.

‘He’s at the bar,’ the woman said, her words slightly muffled by a gale of laughter in the background. ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’

Georgie’s jaw dropped. ‘He’s at the bar?’ she echoed, her eyebrows twitching in a frown. That was weird. Simon hadn’t mentioned anything about going drinking after work.

‘Yeah, he’s getting the drinks in, and about time and all,’ the woman replied. ‘We were starting to think his wallet had been surgically attached to his trouser pocket.’

‘Right,’ Georgie said as another roar of laughter went up. She could feel herself bristling at the way the woman was joking about her boyfriend. Who the hell even was this person anyway? And how dare she be so rude about Simon like that? After a suitably disapproving pause, she said, rather coldly, ‘This is Georgie. Please could you let him know that I called. And ask him to ring me back as soon as possible.’

‘As soon as possible,’ echoed the woman – and maybe it was Georgie’s paranoia, or the line was crackly, but she could have sworn that the woman was mimicking her Yorkshire accent. ‘Right you are, chuck,’ she said – yes, she definitely was – and then the line went dead. No doubt there were further peals of laughter across the pub table at her expense right now.

Georgie stood there fuming for a moment, wondering about calling straight back and demanding to know where this pub was, so she could march in and have a word with the cheeky cow who’d answered the phone so cockily just now. But then she imagined how irritated Simon would be as a consequence, how he’d tell her, probably quite shirtily, that he didn’t need any battles fighting on his behalf, thanks all the same, and, Christ, couldn’t she take a joke?

A couple of women tottered up just then, arm in arm, their voices already high-pitched and shrieky as they laughed together. ‘Here we go, the Olive Grove,’ said one. ‘Ready to find Mr Fabulous?’

‘Fuck, yeah, babe,’ replied the other. ‘Where is he? Let me get my hands on him!’

And in they went, their laughter hanging in the air for a moment like a smoke trail after the door had swung shut behind them.

‘Come on, Simon,’ Georgie muttered, turning the phone over in her hand, but it remained smooth and silent, seemingly in no hurry to announce an incoming reply call. What should she do? Her fingers itched to send him a text, just in case old Cocky McGobby in the pub hadn’t passed on her message – but then if Simon had the kind of colleagues who thought nothing of answering his phone when left on the pub table, what would stop them from nosily picking it up again when her text made its appearance? They’d be all over it like a rash, she bet, remembering the cackles of laughter heard down the line.

Ooh, look, it’s her again, she doesn’t trust me, the mouthy one would crow, seeing Georgie’s name on the screen. What’s this, then? She’s asking him to join her on a speed dating evening? Whoa, kinky! Look out, here he comes – oi, Si, over here, your girlfriend’s been in touch. Open relationship is this, then, eh? You dark horse, you . . .

Bloody hell. Rock, meet hard place, Georgie thought grimly. Can I just say, it’s really crap being between you guys right now? Then came a sudden patter of rain on the pavement which forced the decision. She would go into the speed dating bar, she vowed, but only until she heard from Simon. And in the meantime, she’d have a large drink and keep dry.

Trying not to look as if she was walking to her certain doom, she pushed her phone back in her bag and went up to the door.

‘Okaaaay, beautiful people, so let’s start off with a few icebreakers before we get all silent and intimate on each other,’ said a woman in a tasselled red dress, with a neckline so plunging it was probably a deep-sea diver in its spare time. This woman, their self-appointed host for the evening, had introduced herself to the gathered throng as Dominique, although Georgie could have sworn she heard one of the bar staff calling her ‘Dawn’. Whatever her real name, Dominique had a mane of tousled black hair, sunbed-orange skin, half a ton of smoky eye make-up and cherry-red lips that seemed glued into a permanent pout. ‘Could everyone make their way over to this side of the room, please?’

Off they shuffled, Georgie draining the rest of her Throbbing Orgasm in one apprehensive gulp (the cocktail list consisted of one ridiculously sexualized name after another, so that merely by asking for a drink, you were effectively demanding some X-rated performance from the staff). She was yet to speak to another person here, because she’d been checking her phone every ten seconds to see if Simon was calling back. So far, she’d heard nothing.

There were about thirty of them gathered at the far end of the room now, all covertly checking each other out as they awaited their next instruction. ‘First time?’ asked a florid-faced man leaning too close into Georgie’s personal space.

‘Sorry, what?’ He was wearing a striped shirt and his gut ballooned over the waistband of his too-tight jeans. His low husky voice and strong Belfast accent meant that it took Georgie a moment to decipher his words. ‘Oh, right. Yes, first time,’ she replied, trying to edge discreetly away.

‘Right then, my darlings! Let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we?’ Dominique asked coquettishly, rubbing her hands together so that her cleavage wobbled, bronzed and fleshy, beneath the spotlight, momentarily distracting Striped Shirt man. ‘Or maybe quite a lot better, who knows?’ More pouting and a wink. ‘We’ll begin with a few naughty home truths to warm things up and then move on to the speed-dating part of the evening. But first, it’s confession time!’

There was a round of nervous titters, while the man next to Georgie closed in on her again. ‘You should really put your phone away, sweetheart,’ he murmured, his breath hot and repellent in her ear as he bent towards her. ‘It’s all about animal attraction in here.’ And then – no word of a lie – he made a low growling noise in the back of his throat, which presumably was meant to sound sexy, although it just made Georgie think of the choking sounds emitted by Mrs Huggins’s cat back in Stonefield whenever it was about to cough up a furball in the garden.

It was on the tip of Georgie’s tongue to primly inform him that she already had a boyfriend, and that even if she didn’t, overweight sleazeballs had never been her type but she managed to restrain herself. It wouldn’t do to be outed as someone coupled up right now for one thing; the other prospective daters might drive her out with pitchforks or, worse, take it as some kind of challenge. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, ‘I just need to . . .’ And then she squeezed through the crowd, so that she didn’t have to listen to him any more. Now wedged between a woman in a leopard-print catsuit and chandelier earrings, and a man in a rugby top who had nuclear-strength BO, she did her best to concentrate on what Dominique was saying, while the phone remained resolutely silent in her hand. Hurry up, Simon. Hurry up!

‘So, tell me,’ Dominique purred, looking across at the throng through her mascara-heavy eyelashes, ‘has anyone here ever had sex outside, in broad daylight? All those who have –’ She beckoned a scarlet-nailed finger. ‘– cross to my side of the room.’

There were a few red faces and another ripple of giggles as everyone glanced at their neighbours and wondered who would respond first. Georgie looked down at her uncomfortable shoes, remembering the summer when she and Simon had been eighteen, in that gorgeous post-A-levels lull when they had spent long lovely afternoons in beer gardens with friends for much of the time. He’d borrowed his mum’s car one hot day at the beginning of July, and they’d driven out into the Dales, taking a picnic blanket and iPod speakers with them. The sun had been so warm on her bare skin, she could remember it now, as they fell, laughing into the prickly dry grass. ‘Someone will see us!’ she’d squeaked, suddenly fearful, as he began peeling away her clothes, but he’d muttered, ‘Who cares?’ and kissed her so passionately that she had stopped caring too.

Back in the room, a cheer went up as a man in tight white jeans and a black silk shirt brazenly stepped out from the crowd and strode over towards Dominique. A pair of grinning women followed suit, and then other people braved the walk of confession, some rather pink in the cheeks, while others seized the chance to show off their naughtiness with a sexy insouciance. Georgie sighed. If Simon was here with her, they could have caught each other’s eyes right now, maybe squeezed one another’s hands, remembering together. Instead, she felt as if she was somehow tarnishing her golden summer’s day memory by admitting it under these circumstances, and joining the walkers. But it was either that or be left behind and look like a total stiff, she reasoned. So, eyes straight ahead, so as not to meet anyone’s gaze, she quickly crossed the room, dying a little inside.

‘Cool, there we go. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Next I’m wondering how many of you have ever had a threesome?’ Dominique asked, arching an eyebrow. ‘If so, stay on the naughty side of the room with me. If not, slink your butts back over there.’ To the boring side, in other words, Georgie thought, gritting her teeth and smiling fixedly as she and about half of her group returned across the room once more. ‘Okay, so we’re building up a bit of a picture here, aren’t we? Keep an eye on anyone you fancy . . . you might discover you’ve got things in common, if you know what I’m saying!’ She pouted, just in case anyone was stupid enough not to get her meaning. ‘Next question! Who’s had sex on a beach? Magaluf, Margate, any beach will do. Walk that walk!’

On it went, and on. Who liked to dress up, who had ever had a one-night stand, who was into spanking . . . Georgie could feel herself becoming primmer and primmer about the whole affair, and definitely not drunk enough. She was no prude but compared to this lot she was starting to feel distinctly vanilla; an old maid who’d been out of the singles market for too long. (Thank goodness; a cuddle on the sofa with Simon in front of Emmerdale had never been so appealing before.) God help anyone who had come along with lovehearts in their eyes, hoping for a romantic encounter tonight. This event seemed to be more about washing your dirty (post-coital) linen in front of a host of complete strangers. Rubbing it in their faces, more like (and having been here for half an hour now, she got the feeling that some of the people here would probably quite enjoy that).

Finally, just as Dominique was asking about whipping, Georgie’s phone went and she was able to escape with it to the loo. Simon. ‘Oh, hi, thank goodness,’ she said, leaning against the cool tiled wall, the noise of the pub receding as the door closed behind her. ‘Are you okay? I was hoping you’d ring, I’m stuck at this—’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. His voice was thick and slurring, as if his batteries were running down. ‘Got caught up at work. Busy day.’

‘Oh. I thought you were in the pub?’ she asked. He wasn’t seriously trying to kid her that he was still slaving away at his desk, was he?

‘Yeah. In the pub now,’ he confirmed, like it needed any confirming, when she could hear for herself the thud of music and raised voices behind him. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m . . .’ She shut her eyes briefly, wondering what to say. She had a feeling that he was already drunk enough that she wouldn’t be able to explain her whereabouts without him getting the wrong end of the stick. If she tried to tell him about the speed dating, and how she hoped he’d join her, he just wouldn’t get it, he’d leap furiously to the wrong conclusion. ‘I’m out too,’ she said eventually, lacking the energy to go any further.

‘Cool. Think it’s gonna be a late one here – Maz’s birthday,’ he told her, then she heard laughter and a clamour of voices in the background with Simon replying, ‘Yeah right! No, I didn’t!’

Some laddish argy-bargy was going on by the sound of things, whooping and shouting. Georgie caught sight of her reflection in the dingy loo mirror and felt her spirits sink. Her eye make-up had all but melted into her skin with the warmth of the bar, and a blob of mascara had smudged on her cheek. And had her dress really been that wrinkled when she left the flat? It looked as if she’d slept in it. ‘Are you still there?’ she asked plaintively after a moment when Simon showed no signs of tearing himself away from the conversation with his mates.

‘Sorry, love. There’s talk of going on to some other place, I’m just trying to . . . Yeah, in a minute!’ he called.

Sensing his attention waning once more, she made one last try to pull him back. ‘Listen, why don’t I join you? It’s a bit crap here actually, so . . .’

‘Hang on, I can’t hear you – ahh, sod off, you bloody knobhead. Listen, I’d better go, this lot are going mental. Don’t wait up, all right? I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And then he was gone, and she was left staring at her blotchy-faced reflection in defeat. Oh Christ. Now what? She didn’t feel like going back into Dominique’s humiliation zone, she couldn’t bring herself to listen to any more shagging exploits, and she certainly didn’t feel as if she could fake any kind of flirtatious speed dating, silent or not. Yet if she went back to the flat now, she would be pacing around, wondering where Simon was and lying in bed wide awake until he eventually crashed back in there.

The door banged open just then and two women came in, both laughing and talking about some bloke they had their eye on, a blast of sweet perfume and hairspray in their wake. Georgie pretended to be rummaging in her bag for a lipstick so as to hide her face, feeling her heart boom-boom-boom in her chest. This was all wrong, she thought, her hand trembling as she searched. What was happening to them? Simon was off boozing with all these new mates – and that rude woman – apparently not giving a toss for whatever she had to say. Meanwhile, here was Georgie deceitfully taking part in a speed dating night elsewhere in town, having recently admitted to a room full of utter strangers all sorts of candid truths about her sex life. She had another rapid flashback to that gorgeous June day – them as teenagers stretched out on their picnic blanket in the middle of nowhere – and remembered with a pang how madly in love they had been at that time, how the whole world had shrunk gloriously to contain just the two of them, Georgie and Simon Forever. Thinking about it made her clutch hold of the sink all of a sudden because, for a horrible moment, she thought she might cry. What had they become? How had things gone so wrong?

‘You all right there, darling?’ One of the women – the older blonde, with a voice that bore witness to thousands of Marlboros – had just come out of the cubicle and eyed Georgie in concern. ‘Bit full-on in there, isn’t it? More sharks than the bloody ocean, if you ask me.’

Georgie smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say though she didn’t feel fine at all. She wasn’t even sure who she was any more. The Stonefield Georgie would never have come in here, never in a million years. Yet this new Brighton Georgie kept getting herself into scrape after scrape. ‘Thanks.’

She had two choices, she realized dimly, as she found a couple of lipsticks at the bottom of her bag – one a traffic-stopping red, one a softer caramel – and stared unseeingly at them both. She could dredge up some enthusiasm, remind herself that this was part of her Dream Job and didn’t mean anything, and join in with the silent speed dating. Or she could trudge back home, put this whole sorry evening behind her, and instead spend her time thinking up ways to repair her relationship before the last thread of it snapped clean through.

‘Red,’ advised the woman beside her at the sinks, now dusting blusher on her cheekbones. ‘Your lippy, I mean. Go for the red one, every time. Makes you feel a million dollars. And all the men love it, don’t they?’

Georgie attempted another smile in response. Red for danger, red for love, she thought but duly rolled it on anyway. Not because the men loved a red lipsticked mouth, mind, but because she needed all the million-dollar help she could get right now. Then she stared hard at her reflection, took a deep breath, and made her decision.