Georgia

  ‘Suppose I got him down to London?’ Phillips smiled. ‘Asked for his help. It would be easy for me to discover his circumstances without obligating him in anyway.’

  ‘Could you do that?’ As much as she wanted to rush down into the office further down the corridor, force them to give her Peter’s address and rush there immediately, she knew that wasn’t practical. The memory of his mother’s chilly face was still in her mind. ‘Peter when I knew him was the sort that hated injustice. That’s probably the only reason he rang here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Phillips laughed.

  ‘You don’t know him,’ she said quietly. ‘Look, he’s known who I was all along. If he’d still held a torch for me he would have got in touch. That means he has someone else doesn’t it?’

  ‘I can hardly believe what I’m hearing,’ Phillips sat back in his chair his lips twitching with amusement. ‘You’ve been portrayed as a cross between Lizzie Borden and Lucrezia Borgia, yet you are apprehensive about causing a few ripples in an old love’s life.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you if you turn it into a circus,’ she threatened.

  ‘I promise you no one will know about this until you say the word,’ he smiled. ‘And that’s one helluva promise for a newspaper man!’

  Georgia stood up and held out her hand. ‘Ring me at nine tonight. I’ll put the phone back on specially.’

  He took her hand and shook it.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said warmly. ‘I’ll get this story ready for tomorrow’s paper and start the hunt for your mother. By the way,’ he blushed bright pink. ‘In all this I forgot to ask you. What are you going to do about Mr Anderson?’

  ‘I’d like to kill him,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘But please don’t quote me on that!’

  Chapter 25

  Georgia walked up the steps of the President Hotel, through the double glass doors and paused in the foyer.

  She had butterflies in her stomach, her pulse was racing and she was no longer certain she was doing the right thing.

  ‘He’s at the President, in Bloomsbury,’ Phillips said on the phone at nine. ‘He wasn’t keen to stay overnight. I had to twist his arm by pretending I needed more information tomorrow.’

  Why hadn’t she asked questions? Why hadn’t she stopped to think? If Sam hadn’t already left for a gig in the West End, he would have stopped her. The President wasn’t even a cosy little boarding house as she’d imagined, but instead a huge, red brick Gothic hotel, the sort she hated.

  She had grown accustomed to the grandeur of places like the Savoy and Claridges. The staff so well trained that they treated everyone with the same courtesy whether they were rich and famous or just stepping in to make an enquiry. But this was one that catered for international business men. The heavy red velvet drapes with ornate gold tassles, the rich red and gold carpet, the dark flocked wallpaper and the padded leather reception desk gave an impression of illicit encounters, deals and intrigue. The sort of place where the staff wouldn’t balk at calling up a few journalists just to get their name in the paper.

  ‘I should have phoned and arranged to meet him somewhere,’ she thought as she approached the reception desk.

  It was almost ten at night. She was attracting speculative glances from a group of middle-aged Americans in the lounge to her right, and a swarthy porter lounging by the lift. Down some stairs to her right came the sound of male laughter and clink of glasses.

  Why hadn’t she asked Phillips how Peter reacted to his call? An hour ago it had been enough to know he’d got the first plane out of Manchester. But lack of hesitation on his part might only mean he had a day free.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Radcliffe, please.’

  The two women manning the reception desk were formidable fashion plates, in dark suits and candy-striped shirts. One peered at her suspiciously, glancing over the leather and wood counter at Georgia’s jeans and white sweater and sniffed in disapproval.

  The younger of the two opened the register, and slid one red talon down the page. Her hair was cut in geometric Mary Quant style, it swung forward over one eye, sleek and dark.

  ‘He’s in 309,’ she said in a bored voice. ‘Would you like me to try his room?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Georgia could see the second woman studying her closely. It was that same expression people often had when confronted with her. Her face looked familiar, but they couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘No reply,’ the dark haired woman put the phone down and flicked back her hair. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

  On the fast drive across town Georgia hadn’t considered for one moment Peter might go out. She had merely visualized knocking on a door and Peter opening it. Now what should she do?

  ‘Is his key there?’ she asked. She could feel herself blushing and she knew the porter was now giving her bottom his undivided attention. Worse still, a man in a flashy checked suit had paused to consult a display of tourist information just to her left, and she sensed he was listening, about to offer her the kind of attention she didn’t want.

  The woman turned to examine the board behind the desk.

  ‘No,’ she said curtly over her shoulder. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything, they always forget to hand them in.’

  Georgia turned away in disappointment.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Georgia looked round. The second receptionist who had been studying her was leaning on the counter.

  ‘Is Mr Radcliffe young, tall, with blond hair?’

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia’s heart leapt, bringing a wide smile to her lips. In one bound she was back to reception, leaning on the desk. ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘In the bar,’ the woman smiled now, revealing a warmth that hadn’t been there moments before. ‘I’d forgotten until you looked so disappointed. He asked me earlier if he could borrow a street map, he took it in there with him to look at it. I could page him for you?’

  ‘I’ll just go in there,’ Georgia beamed at her. ‘Thank you.’

  As she made her way down the thickly-carpeted stairs to the bar, men’s voices grew louder. A smell of cigar smoke wafted up to her and her knees were turning to jelly.

  The stairs turned. In front of her she could see her reflection in yet another mirror framed by two tall imitation palms. Taller, more rounded than the night she ran with Peter across the heath, but her eyes were gleaming with excitement just as they had that night.

  To her left, down just five more steps lay the bar. A rich, dark red carpet, a leather front to the bar, brass feet-rails and two business men deep in conversation, was all she could see. But judging by the noise it was crowded further in.

  She stopped again in the doorway. The bar stretched along the wall in front of her, three deep with men. To her right was an archway leading to a smaller room with leather Chesterfields and low tables. To her right a larger area with small polished tables and straight-backed chairs.

  Few of the tables were occupied. Everyone was standing at the bar. In the main, business men in sober suits, faces flushed with drink, or was it merely the soft pinkish lighting?

  Heads turned in curiosity, smirks on their lips, eyes glinting as they sensed her embarrassment at breaking into a masculine world.

  Georgia gulped. She could see ginger hair, blonds, bald heads and slickly-Brylcreemed heads. But not Peter.

  As she walked down the bar conversations were halted. Whispered remarks, nudges, the kind of smiles that were an overture to conversation. She didn’t dare let her eyes meet anyone’s.

  Then she saw him.

  He was leaning on the far end of the bar, deep in thought. One foot on the rail, his hand nursing a pint of beer. Golden hair caught under a light, wearing a denim jacket and a white open-necked shirt.

  She had so many pictures of him trapped in her mind.

  As a choir boy, in a white surplice with a ruffle round his neck, angelic and pure. The gawky schoolboy in scuffed shoes, grey slacks and a navy blazer, his cap push
ed back on his head. In jeans and a sweater running with her, hand in hand across the frosty heath.

  Then there was the night of her party when he told her he loved her. Eyes as blue as a summer sky, golden skin and soft lips, his hair like ripe corn.

  The boy who walked her home from choir had become a man. Wide muscular shoulders strained his jacket. His square jaw, tougher with a hint of stubble. Hair longer, badly cut, streaked from palest cream to deep gold. Yet his profile hadn’t changed. Straight, proud nose, curving full lips, thick eyelashes fanning those peachy cheeks.

  She forgot she was standing in a room full of curious strangers. A delicious flush of excitement crept over her.

  He lifted his head as if aware he was being watched. His eyes flickered across to her, then shot open in shocked surprise.

  ‘Georgia!’

  Fear of rejection forgotten, she found herself running towards him, hands outstretched, seeing only the blue eyes and a smile as wide as the Thames.

  ‘Peter!’

  For a moment it was impossible to speak. His hands were holding hers. Blue and brown eyes searching one another. Two pairs of lips smiling, unable to find the right words.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ Peter’s voice was gruff with emotion. ‘Everyone’s watching us,’ he added in a whisper.

  ‘Just orange juice,’ she smiled. ‘And I don’t give a toss about them.’

  He ordered her a drink, keeping a tight hold on her hand, his thumb running across her fingers as if he was checking it was real.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ he said softly, nodding to a table over in the corner. ‘You might be used to audiences but it’s new to me.’

  She reached the table first, sitting down quickly so she could look again at him. He was much taller, perhaps six foot two. His face had filled out. He looked fit and athletic, skin with an unmistakable glow of the outdoors. Slim-hipped in his faded jeans, but his chest and thighs powerful.

  ‘It’s all too much,’ he said as he sat down. ‘This morning I was having a lie-in, contemplating the marking, then the phone rang and before I knew it, I was on my way to London.’

  ‘Marking?’ Georgia frowned.

  ‘I’m a teacher now,’ he smiled, as if remembering how much time had passed. ‘It was lucky it was school holidays or Phillips wouldn’t have found me in.’

  A stab of guilt shot through her. Phillips had said he was a teacher, yet she hadn’t considered what that meant. She was like a child herself, expecting people to come running when she needed them.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ she hung her head. ‘I certainly didn’t expect you here so quickly.’

  ‘You knew he was going to ask me then?’ Peter gave her an odd look, disbelief mingled with pleasure.

  She had to explain how Phillips had connected the boy in her story with an earlier caller.

  ‘You can’t imagine how thrilled I was,’ she said. ‘I mean I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘Who dictated that, “Push off, I’m not interested” letter then?’

  Georgia closed her eyes. There was no point in asking what he meant, or when it was. Whatever had happened Max had to be at the bottom of it.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d written.’ She reached out and touched Peter’s hand, looking right into his blue eyes. ‘Don’t you know I would have been on the first train to see you if I had?’

  ‘How could I know that after what happened?’ his eyes were guarded. ‘I just assumed you’d written me out of your life.’

  It was like a fencing match. Peter thrust accusations at her, she parried with explanations.

  He told her about himself and Celia waiting for a phone call or letter up to the weekend after her sixteenth birthday.

  ‘But I went to your house, I tried to get Celia at her office. Your mother took my address and said she would give it to you. She said you weren’t interested in me any longer.’

  His eyes went dark with anger, his wide mouth trembled.

  ‘I had such misgivings about going out that morning,’ he said softly. ‘But you just don’t credit a mother with being that cruel or underhand. She seemed kind of smug when I got home. Too nice, if you know what I mean.’

  He told her how close Celia had come to breaking down. Brian’s drinking, the violence and fights.

  ‘She had no choice but to leave her home,’ he said, his lips trembling as he remembered. ‘But we were so sure you’d write to me.’

  A terrible guilt crept over Georgia. For years she’d assumed all the pain was on her side, imagining Celia and Peter had carried on with their lives almost as if nothing had happened. Now she found her sudden departure had been like a hurricane, leaving untold devastation in its wake.

  ‘Didn’t you realize what it would do to your mother?’ Peter’s blue eyes burned with anger. ‘I saw her almost broken with grief. Not because she lost her home, or even her job, but because she couldn’t bear to live without you.’

  ‘I thought she’d understand,’ Georgia’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I went thinking it would be best for everyone.’

  ‘She even understood that,’ Peter’s voice softened, as if Celia’s memory was still very dear to him. ‘I was too young then to really comprehend how shattering rape is to women. I was so screwed up with bitterness, I guess I blamed you for not writing or phoning. But Celia just went on searching and loving you.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shook his head. ‘She went to Africa to nurse when we couldn’t find you. I persuaded her to, assuming you’d get in touch with me. We wrote for over a year, but then she stopped it.’

  ‘But why?’

  Peter sighed, as if he barely understood her reasons.

  ‘I think she was afraid for me. I was still looking for you in the holidays. My letters to her were always full of you. Several times she wrote telling me to forget you. To get on with my life, have fun and take out other girls. Not because she stopped loving you Georgia, but because she felt responsible for me too.’

  ‘She thought you were being obsessive?’ She could imagine Celia in her mind’s eye, putting on her glasses, tutting to herself as she read Peter’s letters, weighing up the situation and deciding to be ruthless.

  ‘“Enough’s enough,” was how she put it. “Don’t ever think I’m turning my back on you Peter. I just know it’s unhealthy for a boy of your age to live in the past. Put Georgia and myself behind you. Look to the future.”’

  The quote from her mother brought her right into the crowded bar. Georgia smiled despite her sadness.

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘Relieved in one way,’ he blushed, a tiny smile puckering the corners of his mouth. ‘I mean it’s hard to keep a broken heart when you’re eighteen and surrounded by ravers.’

  She could sense that he hadn’t lived like a monk. A mischievous look in his eyes, the sensual lips, an assurance which showed in his straight back and wide shoulders. But rather than hurting her, it felt almost soothing.

  ‘So when was it you wrote? After I made the first record?’

  ‘No, before that, when I read about the fire. Some of my mates had seen your band in Hartlepool, so they were engrossed in the story. One of them described a girl singer who sounded like you. I did some checking and wrote to Celia first. When I got no reply, I wrote to you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry Peter. I can imagine how you felt.’ She dropped her eyes from his. ‘But I wonder why she didn’t reply?’

  ‘I guess she’d moved on, I mean Africa isn’t like Lewisham is it? Maybe my letters just lay in the post office. Phillips is checking out the organization she worked for. If anyone can find her, it’s him.’

  ‘But she must have heard me sing?’ Georgia whispered. ‘My records have been played everywhere.’

  ‘Out in the bush?’ Peter raised one blond eyebrow. ‘The last place she was in was over a hundred miles from even a telephone. Syringes and medicine are more important there than music
.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Georgia smiled weakly.

  ‘We’ll find her,’ his voice had a confident ring. ‘After all, I’ve actually got to speak to you at last. The way Max Menzies described you, it sounded as if you had a heart of stone.’

  Georgia looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Max?’

  Peter shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘You didn’t know that either? I went to his office two years ago.’

  Georgia sat in stunned silence as Peter explained everything that had been said between them. Hatred for Max crept through her veins like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

  ‘But why did you come after one rejection?’ she said weakly.

  ‘Well, it’s not everyone who can claim England’s top star as their first love,’ he laughed. ‘I used to play your records, listen to the words and I got this feeling some of them were for me,’ he blushed furiously. ‘Daft isn’t it? I expect every man who’s met you thinks the same.’

  ‘They were for you,’ she said softly. Her heart leapt crazily. He did still care. Even under the bravado, the anger and bitterness, a tiny flame was still flickering. ‘“Crying”, especially.’

  Silence fell between them, so many questions as yet unasked, both waiting for the other to start again.

  ‘Are you going to marry Sam Cameron?’

  This was the last thing she expected. It jolted her into realizing just how much ground they had to cover.

  ‘No. Of course not. He’s just a friend.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ he said, his mouth twisting slightly as if this of all questions was the most important. ‘I mean, he sounds heavy duty.’

  ‘They’ve told almost as many lies about him as me,’ she retorted quickly. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve become prejudiced too?’

  ‘I’m like everyone else in the world Georgia,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe what I’m told.’

  ‘Does that mean everything you read about me?’