hands. 'I was dying to see you all again but this is absolutely the worst time for me to take even a day off. Rowan's timing is terrible, and now . . .' She looked briefly unhappy, then the expression was erased. 'Look, let's order some wine, shall we?' She waved imperiously to the waiter. 'I can only drink a third of a glass but that's no reason why you two should suffer.'
'Works for me.' Meg seized the impressively thick wine list.
'Oh well, that's OK, Georgie,' Jen reassured her. She was disappointed but she could understand, really she could. She'd felt like death warmed over herself the past few days. Perhaps she was coming down with flu, because part of her suddenly wished she was back in London with Ollie, snuggling under the duvet and sleeping for the entire weekend.
'Jiminy Cricket!' Meg exclaimed, flipping pages ever more rapidly. 'How often did you say you eat here, Georgie?' Her finger stabbed an entry. 'Look, here's a real bargain, guys. "An exuberant nose of flowery essences caresses the palate with subtle hints of hot flaky croissants, fruitful citrus orchards and the merest suggestion of roasted hazelnuts and sun-warmed spices . . . blah blah blah . . ." and only a hundred and forty quid a bottle. I bet it's a killer.' She pushed the wine list away. 'I vote for the house Chardonnay. Still a rip-off but at least it's not in triple digits.'
'OK with me,' Jen agreed. 'I drink anything, beer, cider . . . methylated spirits with an oaky hint of paraffin.'
'Let me see that.' Georgina stretched across, not quite so amenable to their wine choice.
The waiter appeared at Meg's shoulder with a bread basket and olive oil, and Georgina took charge. 'Yes,' she jabbed a manicured nail on the parchment, 'I think this. You don't mind, do you, Nutmeg.' It was more statement than question. 'Chardonnay's so bourgeois.'
Meg had stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth, preventing her response.
'So, Georgie,' Jen jumped in to keep the peace. 'Giordani Designs. You have your own company? How fantastic! Tell us all about it.'
Behind the leather-clad menu, Meg crossed her eyes again and stuck out her tongue. They needed Rowan to show up, Jen thought, before the sparring started in earnest.
'Well, it's no great shakes really.' Georgina sounded pleased. 'I started in graphic design at university and then I got into textiles. Abstract prints, vivid colours, swishy fabrics. Natural ones like silk, linen and cotton, but you can do tremendous things with Tencel too.' She poured a small amount of oil on her side plate.
'Your outfit's stunning,' Jen said as Meg tossed the menu on the table. 'Did you make that?'
'Actually, yes. I first started sewing up a few pieces for myself because there was nothing around for fatties like me that wasn't hideous or like a Bedouin tent,' Georgina laughed, batting away Jen's automatic protest at the term. 'Then friends started putting in requests and, well, you know how it goes.
'Needless to say,' there was a silence as she chewed politely at a corner of dark rye, mouth closed, and swallowed, 'this,' she indicated her swollen belly, 'was a complete accident. Here I am, putting together my first collection, and I'm ready to burst into tears or take an axe to anyone who so much as looks at me oddly. It hardly makes for great working relationships – or any other kind, frankly.'
At her right hand, Meg was rolling her bread into little balls and pushing them around the tablecloth. She looked like a black cauldron of simmering resentment. Jen could guess why. Her own heart had stopped momentarily when she'd scanned the list of outrageously priced entrées. But it was a special occasion. So what if she'd be feasting on pot noodles for the rest of the month? Sod the overdraft.
'Once the baby arrives, it'll all be worth it.' Jen tried cheering Georgie. 'Is your husband thrilled?'
'What does it matter? He's not the one who'll have to do the work.' Georgina sounded unexpectedly bitter.
They were all
'Works for me.' Meg seized the impressively thick wine list.
'Oh well, that's OK, Georgie,' Jen reassured her. She was disappointed but she could understand, really she could. She'd felt like death warmed over herself the past few days. Perhaps she was coming down with flu, because part of her suddenly wished she was back in London with Ollie, snuggling under the duvet and sleeping for the entire weekend.
'Jiminy Cricket!' Meg exclaimed, flipping pages ever more rapidly. 'How often did you say you eat here, Georgie?' Her finger stabbed an entry. 'Look, here's a real bargain, guys. "An exuberant nose of flowery essences caresses the palate with subtle hints of hot flaky croissants, fruitful citrus orchards and the merest suggestion of roasted hazelnuts and sun-warmed spices . . . blah blah blah . . ." and only a hundred and forty quid a bottle. I bet it's a killer.' She pushed the wine list away. 'I vote for the house Chardonnay. Still a rip-off but at least it's not in triple digits.'
'OK with me,' Jen agreed. 'I drink anything, beer, cider . . . methylated spirits with an oaky hint of paraffin.'
'Let me see that.' Georgina stretched across, not quite so amenable to their wine choice.
The waiter appeared at Meg's shoulder with a bread basket and olive oil, and Georgina took charge. 'Yes,' she jabbed a manicured nail on the parchment, 'I think this. You don't mind, do you, Nutmeg.' It was more statement than question. 'Chardonnay's so bourgeois.'
Meg had stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth, preventing her response.
'So, Georgie,' Jen jumped in to keep the peace. 'Giordani Designs. You have your own company? How fantastic! Tell us all about it.'
Behind the leather-clad menu, Meg crossed her eyes again and stuck out her tongue. They needed Rowan to show up, Jen thought, before the sparring started in earnest.
'Well, it's no great shakes really.' Georgina sounded pleased. 'I started in graphic design at university and then I got into textiles. Abstract prints, vivid colours, swishy fabrics. Natural ones like silk, linen and cotton, but you can do tremendous things with Tencel too.' She poured a small amount of oil on her side plate.
'Your outfit's stunning,' Jen said as Meg tossed the menu on the table. 'Did you make that?'
'Actually, yes. I first started sewing up a few pieces for myself because there was nothing around for fatties like me that wasn't hideous or like a Bedouin tent,' Georgina laughed, batting away Jen's automatic protest at the term. 'Then friends started putting in requests and, well, you know how it goes.
'Needless to say,' there was a silence as she chewed politely at a corner of dark rye, mouth closed, and swallowed, 'this,' she indicated her swollen belly, 'was a complete accident. Here I am, putting together my first collection, and I'm ready to burst into tears or take an axe to anyone who so much as looks at me oddly. It hardly makes for great working relationships – or any other kind, frankly.'
At her right hand, Meg was rolling her bread into little balls and pushing them around the tablecloth. She looked like a black cauldron of simmering resentment. Jen could guess why. Her own heart had stopped momentarily when she'd scanned the list of outrageously priced entrées. But it was a special occasion. So what if she'd be feasting on pot noodles for the rest of the month? Sod the overdraft.
'Once the baby arrives, it'll all be worth it.' Jen tried cheering Georgie. 'Is your husband thrilled?'
'What does it matter? He's not the one who'll have to do the work.' Georgina sounded unexpectedly bitter.
They were all
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