‘“I am the resurrection and the life,” says the Lord.’ The vicar’s voice rang out across the pews and Georgie, head bowed, reached along to grip Charlotte’s hand. ‘“Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”’
It was the following Monday and Margot’s funeral was being held at the crematorium on Lewes Road. Georgie hadn’t been to many funerals, but was pretty sure the turnout for this one was out-of-the-ordinary, to say the least. The rows were all packed with mourners – and what a motley bunch they were too, ranging from silvery-haired ladies in neat twinsets, to a couple of luxuriantly bearded bikers, to bohemian types with colourful clothes and lots of beads, to . . . well, not that she was perving or anything, there at her former neighbour’s funeral, but Georgie was pretty sure there were a few candidates from Margot’s hotties’ safari as well, heads lowered, come to pay their respects.
Everyone had loved Margot, by the looks of things – and even though Georgie had only met her once, at Rosa’s supper club the other night, she had taken to her immediately too, mentally filing her in the category ‘Total broad’. She’d seemed so sharp and funny, and, according to Charlotte, had lived majestically up there in her attic flat, right until the end. That was the way to do it. Just as soon as Georgie could stop crying and feeling miserable about everything all the time, she fully intended to position Margot Favager as new role model number one. Catch Margot sighing and slumping about because a boyfriend had walked out on her? Hell, no. Catch Margot staring mournfully at photo after photo of Simon, rereading text after text, clicking on his Facebook page far too many times a day, and doing very little else? Never. Even after her brief time with the woman, Georgie was sure that Margot would have marched straight back out into the world, post-break-up, with her head held high, sending a gigantic two fingers to any ex-boyfriends in the process. If only it was so easy.
She’d still heard nothing from Simon up in Yorkshire. Not a word. It had been twelve whole days and nights now since he’d stormed out of the flat and driven home, and the radio silence had been at full volume despite all Georgie’s apologetic texts. Amelia had glimpsed him apparently, looking ‘miserable’ as he walked the family’s black Labrador around the village, but that was the sole piece of intelligence she’d managed to glean from her Stonefield spies so far. Either he was lying low with his parents, being well and truly cosseted, or he was out all hours having already steamed straight into some amazing new job, and forgotten about her. Neither scenario was much comfort.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t even badger her two best friends into further spying forays – peering through Simon’s parents’ front window, loitering in the bushes outside with a pair of binoculars, that sort of harmless, innocent thing – because they both had enough on their plates right now. Jade’s beloved granny had died and the whole family were in bits, whereas things had all kicked off for Amelia when horrible Chloe had brazenly made a move on Jason, Amelia’s fiancé.
‘Yeah! Actually grabbed him and tried to haul him out of the back of the pub for a snog,’ Amelia had ranted down the phone, all high-pitched and squeaky with indignation. ‘Can you believe the cheek of her? The nasty little snake. She daren’t show her face near me again, I’m telling you. Not if she wants to live to see next Christmas, anyway.’
It made Georgie feel more helplessly cut adrift than ever, being so far from her friends when all three of them were undergoing their various crises. By rights, she’d have gone to pay her respects to Jade and the rest of the family, all of whom she’d known since she was four. And it went without saying that she should have been firmly by Amelia’s side throughout the whole tawdry Chloe business, providing voodoo dolls for her friend to stab pins into, and thoroughly enjoying slagging the vile woman off over a bottle of wine or three. As for Georgie herself, needless to say, her two friends would have ordinarily been staunch pillars of support during her boyfriendless trauma. Although this did beg the question – would she have been in this situation at all had she never left Stonefield in the first place?
Best not to go there.
It had occurred to her, several times, that maybe she should just swallow her pride and drive back up to Yorkshire so that she could sort everything out. But then of course, Simon would probably get cross with her for following him again and . . . Oh, she just didn’t know any more. Because she kind of did want to follow him, she did want to be back with him. Did that make her a very weak person who couldn’t stand on her own two feet without a bloke? Or simply a woman who refused to give up on love?
One of Margot’s sons was speaking now. He had piercing blue eyes and a hooked nose and dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders. Plus he spoke English in a deliciously sexy French accent. Not that she was eyeing up a bereaved son at his mother’s funeral or anything so crass. Obviously.
‘My mother, she love living here. We – my brother and I – we say, come home. We want you home with us. But she say, and leave England? No. I stay. This is my home. I have friends here, I am happy. And so I want to say thank you, to her many, many friends. Thank you from her family. You gave her a good life right until the end. She felt loved, by you. And for us, her family, we feel . . .’ He thought for a moment to get the word, his bushy eyebrows colliding above his nose. ‘We feel – grateful? Grateful – for this. That you welcomed her and loved her and called her your friend.’
Charlotte was weeping beside her and Georgie had tears in her eyes too, for wonderful Margot and her hook-nosed sons but also, if she was honest, because she was feeling so sad about her own mess of a life. If she died tomorrow, would Simon come to her funeral? Would anyone? Viv probably wouldn’t, after Georgie had turned up snivelling in the office the week before, confessing that she couldn’t write the speed dating piece after all, she just couldn’t. Viv had been cross with her for two whole days before relenting and saying that perhaps Georgie could write a piece about ‘Brighton Women Doing It Their Way’ instead, and yes, all right, she could include Rosa and her supper club as one of the case studies, she supposed.
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.’