The Hive by Gill Hornby Page A

know you’re scatty,” she raised her eyebrows to the rest of the table, “but…”
    â€œWell actually…” Heather drew herself up and smiled a small, smug smile, “we were at school together.”
    â€œYup.” Georgie settled Hamish in his high chair beside her. “And she was a pain in the arse then like she’s a pain in the arse now.”
    Will wandered through in his socks. “Look at this. The Long and Leisurely Ladies’ Lunch.” He tousled his son’s hair. “It’s another world for you lot, in here. Another world…”
    â€œThat’s right. It is. So you can sod off out of it,” said Georgie cheerfully.
    â€œI will when I’ve found my mucking-out boots.” He leaned over and swiped a baby beetroot. “Have you seen them?”
    â€œUmph.” She had a fork to her lips and a spoon to Hamish’s. She cocked her head. “Dishwasher…”
    Munching loudly, Will padded over there, opened the door and rooted about for a bit. “It’s quite full in here, babe…Ah, here we go. My wife—right as ever.” He pulled his head out again and beamed proudly over to the table. “You can’t fault her.”
    Bubba looked at Will, at Georgie, at the dishwasher and back again. Bea smiled a particular smile—the same smile that a pope would smile on first looking upon a miracle, say, or Stephen Hawking an alien. A smile that said: There. See? I knew it!
    Then Will tapped the boots sharply against the dishwasher, stood patiently while the mud fell off all around him and with a cheery “Smell ya later, ladies!” headed out the door.
Dessert
    Blackberries served with lavender sugar and mascarpone cream
    Preparation time: 5 minutes
    Cooking time: none
    â€œGet stuck in, everybody. In a charming, rustic sort of way.”
    Bea leaned over the huge bowl of blackberries and took a handful. “I won’t, thanks anyway, Georgina. I’d better be getting on. Gosh. We can’t all sit around all day. See you at school later.” She gathered up her silent phone and left.
    â€œYou sit down, Georgie,” said Rachel. “I’ll put the kettle on. Who’s for tea? Coffee? Lesbian?”
    â€œThanks, Rach.” Georgie scooped Hamish out of his high chair. “I’d better just take this one off for his nap.” She knew even before she said it that Heather would leap from her seat and all but rip the child from her arms. Sure enough:
    â€œOoh, let me.” Heather leapt from her seat and ripped the child from her arms. “He’ll come with me, won’t you, my gorgeous?” They headed for the thick oak door that separated the warm sunny kitchen from the dark fridge-freezer that was the main house. “We’re the best of friends.”
    Hamish was the best of friends with all mankind, was the truth. If Myra Hindley walked in now he’d nuzzle her neck and share his rusk. But let Heather think she was special; she needed the boost.
    And Georgie needed the rest. She sat down, closed her eyes and started to drift away. She could hear the others exclaiming over the blackberries—they were damned good, their blackberries—and wondering what she had put in the mascarpone. But it was like the sound of seagulls when you’re lying against a harbor wall, or a tractor in the fields at harvest: it was distant, coming from somewhere else, beyond.
    This was what happened to her, these days, whenever she stopped and the kids weren’t around and Will wasn’t there to make her laugh. It happened the other night in that ghastly meeting. It wasn’t that she nodded off exactly; it was that she went into some sort of suspension, like a computer going on standby, Georgie imagined: she’d gone to screensaver. Her body just wouldn’t waste its energy on this lot; it was storing it up for the only stuff that mattered.
    â€œWanna ciggie,