‘What’ll I tell everyone?’ It was Geraldine’s turn to wail.
Lorraine hauled her off the floor and into a chair, and handed her tea. ‘They already know, love. You’re the last one. Do something about it. Crack cocaine’s the big hitter now – you don’t want to go down that road when the vodka’s not taking you into your happy place as quickly.’
‘I’d never touch drugs,’ said Geraldine, shocked.
‘Bet you never thought you’d come to work pissed but hey, here you are. Life’s always surprising us,’ said Lorraine cheerfully.
Lorraine had Geraldine’s mother –grey-faced andred-eyed – waiting in her car outside and between us, we hauled Geraldine into it. She was a sobbing mess now, plus dirty because the lift was broken and we’d had to womanhandle her down the stairs, which was hard as she was, no kidding, already quite plastered.
‘I’m so – so sorry,’ I said incoherently to Geraldine’s mother, whom I had known for years. At that point, it was hard to know who was crying most – me or Geraldine. Geraldine’s mother just nodded mutely.
It killed me. Killed me. Still does when I wake in the middle of the night.
7
Today’s the day to be the best you ever!
Finally, I reach the studio where today’s magic will happen.
‘Hello Freya, hello! When do I get to see the house?’ Lorraine, who lives inthick-soled cool trainers, jeans of all lengths and never a sock in sight, even in the snow, bounces over from her car, an upcycled Mini which shehand-painted to look as if Dali had a hand in it. She gets stopped regularly by the police just so they can look at it and point. The upside of this is that people in squad cars regularly wave at her and she has dated a few motorbike cops.
‘It’s the leather,’ she says. ‘I see the leather, the bikes ... I can’t say no.’
‘Stop right there,’ I say when she goes all dreamy. ‘I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know.’
‘Hello yourself,’ I say now, and hug her, stifling a tear.
What is wrong with me? Have I transmogrified into Granny without noticing? Will I cry at every even vaguely emotional moment? I sincerely hope not.
Lorraine has been handling things in Team Freya for the past few days and I’ve missed her. She’s my friend as well as a huge part of my career success, and with Lorraine you never have to ask her not to sugar coat the truth.
It’s been two years since I – well, really Lorraine – fired Geraldine, and she’s still working in the chef industry. Horribly, she blanks me every time she sees me, which upsets me no end.
‘We helped her,’ I said to Lorraine once after one such incident when I had to run into the loo to breathe deeply. Lorraine followed
Lorraine shrugged. ‘She wants someone to blame, won’t take responsibility and has decided the evil person is you. Her loss.’
You see: tough. Without Lorraine, I would be doing every charity event from one end of the island to the other but Lorraine merely says no: politely, but no. She has a charity pack she can send and charities we support.
‘You run a business, not adrop-everything-to-help-other-people organisation,’ she says as she fires off another ‘would love to help but Freya supports X charity’ email.
She could write her own version ofGirl Bossand no mistake.
We hug and I snuffle deeply, pretending I have a cold to cover up the fact that I feel tearful. Thinking about Geraldine has that effect on me.
‘The house is lovely,’ I say now. ‘But it needs work.’
‘I hope you’ve got pictures on your phone,’ Lorraine says, opening my car boot. ‘I want to see it all.’
We start moving our boxes of kitchen magic out. Photographic studios have assistants but they do not help with this type of thing.
The food stylist is already there and it is Maxwell, a man who can make atired-looking strawberry appear so juicy on the page that you might just bite into the magazine to eat it.
He is that good.
Maxwell is outside, having alast-minute cigarette, talking to his fiancé on the phone and working a jeans, skinny white T and white runners combo with his muscles – a hideously fashionable outfit, no doubt. He ignores us, our boxes and our struggles.
‘You going to help?’ I demand, as I stagger past.
