Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond Page A

trivial. Why was she even looking at that lonely brown sausage on his plate, the triangle of toast?
    He gently removed his hand from hers. ‘I’m not hungry. Look – I just need to get my head round this, that’s all. It’s not a drama, okay?’
    She looked away. Not a drama? A tear was rolling down her cheek. Get a load of this, everyone! she wanted to shout hysterically to the other hotel diners, some of whom were now looking up from their newspapers at them. Check us out, we’re splitting up! Right in front of you! No charge for the entertainment round here!
    ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said, and left the room.
    She stood there for a second, and more tears fell. She sat down heavily and saw them land plop, plop on the starched white linen tablecloth. ‘They’re all bastards,’ she heard her mum’s voice say in her head. ‘Didn’t I tell you? You’re better off without him, girl. Let the sod walk away – and good riddance!’

 
    Chapter Five
    Never Forget
    Saturday, 14 June 2008
    The train seemed to be taking forever. Not that Georgia minded terribly. Part of her wished it would take forever, that she’d be stuck on it eternally, caught in its juddering limbo halfway through the Pennines. In many ways, thought Georgia, the journey was preferable to the arrival, particularly since she knew that her homecoming would mean the usual cocktail of recriminations and criticism that the Knight family excelled at.
    So, what would it be this time? She’d forgotten to send a present for Ned’s birthday the other week. And when she had remembered to get a card in the post, she’d bought one that said Happy 5th Birthday! on it. ‘Only two years out,’ Carol had snapped humourlessly. ‘He’s seven, Georgia, not five!’
    Yep, she was due some grief for that little faux pas. Oh yeah. She could already see her sister’s un-lipsticked mouth twisting with bitterness, could imagine her un-toned arms folding across that belly of hers, bingo-wings bulging at the sides. Just because she was a mum, just because she had given birth to two hulking infants, Carol thought she’d earned some kind of All-Woman badge of honour. It had always been like that with Carol, though. I’m better than you! All the way through their childhood like a broken record.
    Ha. As if a boring husband like David and two gormless kids was something to aspire to, something for Georgia to feel jealous of. Dream on. Don’t flatter yourself, Cazza , she muttered under her breath.
    What else would she be in the doghouse for, then? She might as well prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught.
    Not having phoned.
    Not having visited.
    Not having paid proper attention to the Hatters’ performance last season.
    Not having leapt at the chance to go to the Warrington IKEA.
    STILL not having a steady boyfriend.
    Having married the wrong man in the first place.
    Getting so old and decrepit that her eggs would be shrivelling in her ovaries. Her mum was always clipping out articles from the Sun about women’s fertility nosediving once they hit thirty-five. Big deal. Georgia would rather die in a car crash than ever wear maternity slacks like Carol.
    Still, perhaps the black sheep of the family would be overlooked for once, with all the hoo-ha of Nan’s stroke . . .
    She wrinkled her nose as the train slowed to a halt in Stoke-on-Trent. That was seriously bad taste , she told herself. Naff of her to even veer in the direction of being grateful for Nan having had a stroke. Nan was the best member of Georgia’s family by a mile. Statuesque, with hips like Blackpool Tower, and boobs like suet dumplings, Nan was a matriarch to be reckoned with.
    Georgia shut her eyes, and a flood of images rushed into her head. Her nan wearing that big floral pinny to make jam tarts with Georgia and her sister when they were tots, the kitchen sweet and hot.
    Her nan singing as she pegged out the washing in the back garden. ( My old man said follow the van, and don’t