‘The wedding?’ I say, another feeling of being punched in the gut.
‘We’ve chosen the Cotswolds, in late summer as soon as the divorce is through.’
‘Madeleine knows, does she?’
Georgie shrugs neatly. The waitress arrives and places our drinks on the table. She retreats quickly. Neither of us takes our eyes from the other.
‘Well, I presume he’s told you that I’m pregnant again,’ I lie, feeling it’s the only way I can return the blow. ‘So your wedding might have to wait.’
Chapter67Favour
Monday, 20 January
Three builders are surrounding me. It seems that they are keen to drill out the footing that contains Jason Mercer, as it’s cracking badly. I’m keen they don’t. They want to understand why, and I tell them that I’m representing Tor, and she wants to sell the house soon, so it’s imperative the pool house is built without delay.
They talk about insurance and I say that I don’t give a fuck about insurance, I just want Tor to have her pool house. The only way of curtailing the endless conversation with these persistent men is to offer them five thousand pounds. It is an expensive business, burying the dead, but the builders are happy with the deal and agree to inject some resin to strengthen the footing instead.
I find Tor inside shouting at various staff. I try to explain that I’ve contained the situation, and the pool house will go ahead on time. She doesn’t even seem grateful about the builders, but as soon as I reach out to comfort her, she lunges and hugs me.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. I’m such a fool, a bloody, bloody fool. I’m finished.’
‘What’s happened now?’ I ask.
Tor re-explains the situation with Zac, and canters through the various stages of her grief – denial, anger, bargaining, self-flagellation, and acceptance – with impressive efficiency.
‘It’s not you, Tor. He took advantage of you. He’s ruthless.’
‘He’s still doing the Facebook thing. I don’t understand why,’ she says, pushing me away and stomping around her kitchen island.
‘He wants more money,’ I say, with one of those empathetic tilts of the head that people so enjoy.
‘He’s been in touch?’ she says, and grabs my arm.
I nod and gently un-prise her fingers.
‘He’s not getting a penny more,’ she declares firmly.
‘But you want the Facebook image gone, right?’
‘Of course,’ she says, adding gin to a large, ice-filled glass for what is, I presume, not her first of the day. She holds the bottle out towards me but I shake my head as she heads for the mint.
The doorbell rings, and Tor, who would usually leave it to her maid, (for some reason feels that it might be relevant) rushes off. I can’t help thinking she’s imagining Zac arriving on a white charger to take her away from all this wealth and privilege.
In her absence, I take out my phone. The mums on the Facebook group have asked their next question after some intensive debate. I decide to give them an answer.
Their question is: ‘Does her first name start with a vowel?’
It’s such a good question, I’m impressed.
‘No,’ I write, and send.
Tor returns with a package from Net-a-Porter and puts it on the countertop.
‘You OK?’ I say, with the low tone people use when supporting others.
‘No,’ she says. ‘But shopping doesn’t stop for scandal.’
She glances at her phone, which she’s left out. A notification is sitting there. She reaches out and picks it up. A moment later, she is silently shaking her head and cradling her gin.
