bright red. His eyes tiny pricks of black. He didn’t really want to know if I was okay. He was a bastard.
‘I’m going home,’ I said, trying not to think about the gorgeous guy at the bar and the enormity of my arms. (What if I couldn’t hold them up any more? What would happen? Would they drop off?)
‘Let me take you,’ Reece said, putting his hand on my back. His hand was as red as his face. Reece was a big red blob.
‘I’m never going to fall in love with you, Reece,’ I said, staggering out, my arms a few steps behind me.
13
Will had dealt with Georgie’s mood swings for years. Well, not so much swings as heart-wrenching unhappiness which manifested itself either in tearful hopelessness ( What if I die tomorrow? If I’m run over by a bus tomorrow I will have lived a shit life! ) or in terrifying fits of rage. (Once, she threw a mug of tea at the patio doors because the post was late. Will can’t remember now what letter she’d been expecting.) How on earth, he had wondered, would she cope if anything serious happened? When, aged seven, a friend decided not to come to her birthday party because ‘she just didn’t feel like going to a party’, Georgie vowed never to talk to the offender again, and never did. When an imminent maths test (second year) caused her to yell out of her window to the forty terraces in the street ( My father is a fuckwit and maths is a fucking waste of time ). When, on a family walk at the nearby wind farm, her new jeans sodden from the rain, she fell to the ground and screamed ‘I hate living here. I am not stepping foot outside again until you say we can move to Spain!’
So how on earth would this melodramatic knot of anger react to a life-threatening illness?
It surprised Will, because Georgie’s behaviour changed only marginally. Her rage just turned up a notch to unbridled rage.
It was after midnight when Georgie finally arrived home from the Bothy, which – unbeknownst to her – was the very place her parents had met all those years ago.
‘You look terrible,’ Will said.
‘Fuck you,’ she replied.
‘What did you say?’
‘Thank you,’ she lied.
Will decided, as usual, to let her get away with it. What was the point? And anyway, he had too many other things to worry about. There was mail to not open, bills to not pay. It’d been two weeks since his father had taken away his only income. Since then, he’d watched the reminder notices pile up at the door. The bank had started phoning already, so he’d turned all phones to silent, head firmly in the sand.
‘So are you sleeping with Linda Stewart?’ Georgie said. She was holding his mobile phone.
‘No.’ He wasn’t lying. They’d had an icky scary screw a fortnight earlier, but her husband had come home the following day and he’d heard nothing since. Technically, they’d slept together but they weren’t sleeping together.
‘She’s left a message on your phone,’ Georgie said, pressing loudspeaker on the mobile.
‘Give me that. It’s mine,’ he said, but Linda’s voice was already in the room. ‘Will, can I come over after the girls are asleep? He’s still here. But it’s over. I need to see you.’
‘Blah … how disgusting,’ Georgie said. ‘I have images. Youch.’
‘Please don’t listen to my messages.’ Georgie completely ignored her father, taking the phone off loudspeaker , and pressing 3 to listen to the next.
‘Mr Marion, I’m calling from the Hunters and Collectors,’ a male voice said into Georgie’s ear. ‘I have some news …’
14
The day before Preston MacMillan of the Hunters and Collectors Private Detective Agency had phoned Will Marion with the good news, Cynthia had been lying on the beach at Dahab, in Egypt. ‘It was the more difficult option,’ she was saying. ‘Leaving was actually the brave thing to do.’
‘Bloody right. You’re brave’s what you are. You’re a brave woman.’ She couldn’t for the life of her recall
‘I’m going home,’ I said, trying not to think about the gorgeous guy at the bar and the enormity of my arms. (What if I couldn’t hold them up any more? What would happen? Would they drop off?)
‘Let me take you,’ Reece said, putting his hand on my back. His hand was as red as his face. Reece was a big red blob.
‘I’m never going to fall in love with you, Reece,’ I said, staggering out, my arms a few steps behind me.
13
Will had dealt with Georgie’s mood swings for years. Well, not so much swings as heart-wrenching unhappiness which manifested itself either in tearful hopelessness ( What if I die tomorrow? If I’m run over by a bus tomorrow I will have lived a shit life! ) or in terrifying fits of rage. (Once, she threw a mug of tea at the patio doors because the post was late. Will can’t remember now what letter she’d been expecting.) How on earth, he had wondered, would she cope if anything serious happened? When, aged seven, a friend decided not to come to her birthday party because ‘she just didn’t feel like going to a party’, Georgie vowed never to talk to the offender again, and never did. When an imminent maths test (second year) caused her to yell out of her window to the forty terraces in the street ( My father is a fuckwit and maths is a fucking waste of time ). When, on a family walk at the nearby wind farm, her new jeans sodden from the rain, she fell to the ground and screamed ‘I hate living here. I am not stepping foot outside again until you say we can move to Spain!’
So how on earth would this melodramatic knot of anger react to a life-threatening illness?
It surprised Will, because Georgie’s behaviour changed only marginally. Her rage just turned up a notch to unbridled rage.
It was after midnight when Georgie finally arrived home from the Bothy, which – unbeknownst to her – was the very place her parents had met all those years ago.
‘You look terrible,’ Will said.
‘Fuck you,’ she replied.
‘What did you say?’
‘Thank you,’ she lied.
Will decided, as usual, to let her get away with it. What was the point? And anyway, he had too many other things to worry about. There was mail to not open, bills to not pay. It’d been two weeks since his father had taken away his only income. Since then, he’d watched the reminder notices pile up at the door. The bank had started phoning already, so he’d turned all phones to silent, head firmly in the sand.
‘So are you sleeping with Linda Stewart?’ Georgie said. She was holding his mobile phone.
‘No.’ He wasn’t lying. They’d had an icky scary screw a fortnight earlier, but her husband had come home the following day and he’d heard nothing since. Technically, they’d slept together but they weren’t sleeping together.
‘She’s left a message on your phone,’ Georgie said, pressing loudspeaker on the mobile.
‘Give me that. It’s mine,’ he said, but Linda’s voice was already in the room. ‘Will, can I come over after the girls are asleep? He’s still here. But it’s over. I need to see you.’
‘Blah … how disgusting,’ Georgie said. ‘I have images. Youch.’
‘Please don’t listen to my messages.’ Georgie completely ignored her father, taking the phone off loudspeaker , and pressing 3 to listen to the next.
‘Mr Marion, I’m calling from the Hunters and Collectors,’ a male voice said into Georgie’s ear. ‘I have some news …’
14
The day before Preston MacMillan of the Hunters and Collectors Private Detective Agency had phoned Will Marion with the good news, Cynthia had been lying on the beach at Dahab, in Egypt. ‘It was the more difficult option,’ she was saying. ‘Leaving was actually the brave thing to do.’
‘Bloody right. You’re brave’s what you are. You’re a brave woman.’ She couldn’t for the life of her recall
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