Saturday 9th December 2023
Georgie
‘Please come inside the pub!’ Georgie springs into action, shouting to the agitated crowd. ‘Refreshments will be served!’
There are a few glances her way, but most people are still twittering about what’s going on with Alice and the police and the pub sign.
So is it called the Raven again, now?
Never liked that bloody bird.
Oh, really? I was kind of fond of it. Always been there, hasn’t it?
Kind of inappropriate now, though …
Georgie watches them for a few moments, then tries once more to move things on. ‘FREE DRINKS INSIDE!’ she yells, like a market stall owner hollering about their produce. She can imagine her sister watching her with an arched eyebrow, but it seems to have the desired effect; people turn towards her, torn between freebies and gossip. She walks purposefully to the door of the pub, saying, ‘welcome, welcome,’ as if the place is hers and hers alone. And she flings one last glance towards the raven, meeting its black eyes before she disappears inside.
Following her into the bar area, the crowd falls slowly quiet. For most of them, it’s their first glimpse inside the pub since the night Robbie died. People ogle the new tables and chairs, stare at the stripped and varnished floor. Georgie senses them drawing ghosts in the air, conjuring up the last things they saw here. The initials in the wall are now hidden by the fire extinguishers, but eyes dart inevitably to that corner.
Georgie draws the black folder from her handbag and takes out the photos and written memories of Robbie she collected before the memorial. She weaves around the room, distributing them on tables. The villagers gravitate towards them, murmuring sadly, pulling up seats. Georgie watches once again, noting who becomes more quickly at ease, who still seems spooked. She feels a little unsettled herself, she realises, by the events that have forced them into the pub earlier than planned. Slipping behind the bar, she starts pouring glasses of wine and juice and cups of coffee and tea. Some of the locals gawp at her, and she wonders if they’re seeing Chrissy, feeling the strangeness of Georgie in her place. If only they knew just how strange. She knows she should take off her ring, so conspicuous as she pours and stirs, but she can’t bear to; it would feel like a betrayal.
I miss you, Ethan. I miss you so much and I still can’t make sense of any of it.
Every drink she prepares, she imagines what he’d think. His compliments were everything. His disapproval, on the rare occasions she experienced it, was always the end of the world. She remembers the first time they met, in London, when Georgie was hosting a cocktail-making session for some of her clients in the same hotel he was staying in for a teachers’ conference. How he complimented her French martini, said he’d been thinking about introducing cocktails at the pub he owned, but his wife was dead against it. She’s not the martini type, he added, as if sharing a cheeky confidence. His smile was like a pool of golden light for Georgie to bask in. And the comparison between her and Chrissy was set up right from the start.
How could a man with such an appetite for life now be dead? A man who’d wanted a life with her? Georgie had been with him the week before his suicide. They were supposed to be together that night, their usual hotel, the highlight of both their weeks. What happened in between? What changed? She thinks of Chrissy, earlier, desperately thrashing around for answers about Leo. Georgie had felt everything from anger to fleeting empathy, but mostly she had burned to shout back at her: tell me why the love of my life is dead.
‘Let me help you, Georgie!’ Rowena barges past her and begins to slosh milk into coffees at random.
‘Honestly, Rowena, I’m fine. I’ve got this. Those two actually need to stay black—’ Too late, the milk has gone in. ‘Why don’t you sit down, relax?’
‘No, we’re in this together! I know I didn’t necessarily approve of doing this today, this little sneak preview …’ She glances around the half-finished pub. ‘But we’re here now, and we’re a team.’
‘Right.’ Georgie’s smile strains. ‘Well, these red wines are for—’ But Rowena has picked up two coffees and taken them over to a table who have already ordered wine.
‘Where’s Alice?’
Georgie jumps, startled, and turns to see Peter standing at the end of the bar looking frazzled.
‘Peter.’ She is tongue-tied for a second. Impossible not to think of the skip, the scrapbook. ‘Alice is …’ There’s another twinge as she remembers her pushing towards the police, shouting about the sign. And earlier, questioning Georgie’s motives, her interest in Robbie and the memorial. ‘She’s … just talking to the police, actually. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Can I get you a drink?’
‘The police?’ A deep frown line appears between his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Well … I don’t know whether you noticed … but somebody put the pub sign back up. It was probably just a mistake, but Alice found it very disturbing. Which is completely understandable! I’m worried about her; she seems—’
‘Why has she gone to the police about it?’ Peter cuts her off. ‘She shouldn’t be …’ He presses at the frown line as if he can push it back in.
Georgie watches him carefully. Why does he seem so nervy about the police, given that he was a high-ranking officer himself, not so long ago?
Probably for the same reason he hid a book in a skip. A book full of photos of a missing person.
She considers mentioning something pointed, hinting that she saw him, but before she can decide what to say, he fires out another question.
‘Is it Kiri and Ben who Alice is talking to?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Where are they?’
‘They were out on the square—’
‘She should’ve called me,’ he half-growls, pulling out his phone. He passes a hand across his jaw, then strides out of the pub.
Georgie stares after him. When she turns away, she catches Marianne’s eye. She is sitting alone at a table near the window, hands clasped in her lap, clearly watching their exchange. Georgie pins on a smile and goes over to top up her glass.
‘What did he say to you?’ Marianne surprises her with a question as direct as Peter’s.
‘Peter?’ Georgie’s wine bottle hovers. ‘He asked where Alice was.’
‘Has he gone to find her?’
‘I think so.’
Marianne stares at the wine as Georgie finally pours. ‘Always sorting out other people’s situations,’ she mutters.
Georgie raises her eyebrows. ‘Does that come from having been in the police himself?’
‘I don’t know.’ Now Marianne’s gaze roams the pub, sharp yet distant. ‘Avoiding his own stuff, I often think. And, God, there’s plenty …’ She stops and shakes her head, as if remembering she’s having a conversation, and not just with herself.
Georgie waits, hoping she’ll say more. There is an advantage to appearing impartial. A trick to a well-timed silence.
But Marianne sighs and shakes her head again. ‘Sorry. Today’s been … a lot.’
‘I’m sure Alice is really grateful you came.’
‘Alice is …’ Marianne glances at the window out onto the square. It looks like an ice rink from here, shining in the weak sunlight. ‘I don’t really know where Alice’s head is at, either, to be honest. Shit, it’s all such a mess.’ She closes her eyes, touches her forehead. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come.’
Georgie leaves another pause. Marianne’s eyes move back to the table, drawn by the photo Georgie placed there earlier. It’s one of the pictures with Ethan in the background, the school fete one. Georgie doesn’t know how well Marianne knew Ethan. Doesn’t recall him ever mentioning her name. But she must’ve been around when he was, and when he died. She must’ve seen and heard things.
‘Poor Robbie,’ Georgie murmurs, hovering her fingers over his smile in the foreground of the photo. His skinny arms wrapped around the giant teddy bear he’s won. She leaves a careful pause before she lets her fingertips drift to the edge, to where Ethan is rearranging the remaining prizes on his stall. ‘That’s Leo’s dad, isn’t it?’
Marianne flinches. ‘What?’
‘Ethan, right?’ Georgie keeps her tone soft, even though saying his name out loud feels like opening up her chest to expose a tattoo of it on her heart.
‘I …’ Marianne’s hands close around her glass. ‘Yes. Ethan.’
‘He … passed away too, didn’t he?’
Georgie hears a slight change in the rhythm of
Marianne’s breath. ‘He took his own life.’
A stillness comes over the table and Georgie stays in it for a moment, making sure she can keep up the pretence of ignorance, of distance. ‘I did hear that,’ she says, in a voice that isn’t quite her own. ‘How awful. Chrissy must’ve been devastated. And Leo. And all of you.’ After each mention of a different person, she leaves a small beat, watching Marianne. Marianne sits back in her chair and Georgie can feel her disengaging, almost deliberately, tactically so.
‘Of course,’ Marianne says, looking away from the photo.
‘Chrissy’s been through so much,’ Georgie says. ‘I guess that explains some of her … behaviour.’
Another flicker in Marianne’s face.
‘I just mean, like earlier, outside the church …’ Frustration rises and Georgie is suddenly desperate to ask some direct questions after months of just laying groundwork, watching, pretending. ‘Were they a happy family?’ she blurts.
Marianne’s shoulders stiffen and she turns to examine Georgie, as if seeing her properly for the first time. ‘I don’t really know what you’re asking me,’ she says. ‘Or … why?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘I don’t know you.’ Marianne speaks coldly now. ‘I came here for Robbie, and Alice, and …’ a slight hesitation ‘… Peter. I don’t know what your involvement is, but … I’d rather just sit on my own for a bit.’ She turns her head away, lifting her wine. ‘Rather not take any more trips down Memory Lane.’
For a moment, Georgie doesn’t move. Defiance locks her in place, standing over Marianne. Talk to me. Answer me. Tell me what you know. Then she catches sight of Rowena looking over, others too, and she snaps back into character.
‘Of course!’ She lifts her palms as if to say, my mistake. ‘No problem. Sorry. Please, let me know if you need anything else. On the house, of course …’
She backs all the way off, but can’t stop staring as Marianne pushes the photo away from herself, screwing up her face as if the wine – or the conversation – has left a sour taste in her mouth.