A Christmas Gift. Sue Moorcroft
Читать онлайн книгу.
after paying for her own lunch. The balance of about four pounds was barely enough for a meal tomorrow, Wednesday, without coffee. The account would top up on payday, Thursday.
For a horrible moment she’d feared Celine would shame her by saying, ‘Not enough money on your card, darlin’.’ But the woman’s eyes had held an apology. She’d realised she’d dropped Georgine in it. Georgine had swung from dread to gratitude in a heartbeat at the way Celine had covered up.
She made a mental note to add her to the ‘gets chocolate brownies at Christmas’ list. She baked a lot of Christmas presents rather than buying them.
Joe cleared his throat as they took seats at a table. ‘Thanks for trying to save my blushes. I feel as if I’m wearing a big sign saying “can’t pay for his own lunch”.’
Seeing that he was genuinely upset, and completely empathising because she hadn’t been able to raise the small sum to pay it for him, Georgine tried to shrug it off. ‘It makes you feel conspicuous, but it’s only an admin issue. Induction days are usually better organised than yours seems to have been.’
Georgine had chosen a vegetable frittata with salad. It was one of her favourite lunches, but today the subject of money was under glaring spotlights in her mind.
Two more paydays till Christmas. She was only able to claim mileage and other show-related expenses retrospectively so she hoped she could afford the extra trips back and forth to Bettsbrough. She was having Dad, Blair and Blair’s boyfriend, Warren, for Christmas dinner. Luckily Mum and her husband, Terrence, would spend Christmas in their French holiday home, so she wouldn’t have to drive to their posh house on the Northumberland coast for a festive visit, but buying Christmas gifts for them was a trial. Terrence was careful with his fortune. He released money for Christmas gifts, but he expected something worthwhile in return. Last year Georgine had bought their presents from charity shops then parcelled them up in dark red tissue paper and stencilled on ‘The Vintage Shop’ in gold, because calling stuff ‘vintage’ increased its value to the power of ten. They’d actually been impressed and Terrence had displayed his wooden letter rack behind glass in their vast sitting room. Luckily, Georgine’s mum, Barbara, never now set foot in Middledip, Bettsbrough or even Peterborough, so couldn’t demand to be taken to the non-existent ‘Vintage Shop’.
Mum and Terrence had bought Georgine cashmere jumpers. She’d run her fingertips over them admiringly, but she’d rather have had winter boots with fleece inside, or a couple of pairs of jeans. She didn’t live a cashmere kind of life.
Joe’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. ‘Do you live in Middledip?’
She blinked, realised her frittata was getting cold and hastily dug into it, nodding while she chewed and swallowed. ‘I did a year at the University of Manchester, but I’ve always lived here otherwise. I rented for a while, but then managed to buy a starter home in the new bit of the Bankside estate.’ And it represented security, at least for so long as she could afford the mortgage.
‘What did you do at uni?’ Joe picked up his mug of latte.
‘A foundation year in performing arts. I would’ve specialised in dance with some singing if I’d stayed, so I could do musical theatre.’ She paused. ‘My parents split up and it was hard for Dad to keep me at uni so I opted to become independent. It’s difficult enough to make a living in the performing arts with a degree so, without one, I didn’t even try. Far too perilous financially! I did lots of teaching assistant stuff, and am dram and open mic in my free time, and then I got this job. I love it so much that I’m just happy I got here, whatever my route. For a long time I regretted not getting the chance to finish uni, but I’m lucky that the qualifications for this role are more about enthusiasm and ability than a degree.’
Joe looked as if he were paying close attention, his brown-eyed gaze steady through his glasses, a perplexed frown puckering the skin at the bridge of his nose.
‘What about you?’ she asked politely, keen to change the subject from the various messes she’d made of her life.
He dropped his eyes to his lunch. ‘I lived in Surrey and London for a lot of the time.’
‘Which part of London?’
‘Various. Camden for the last few years.’ He put a forkful of pasta in his mouth.
She watched him eat it, noticing the firm line of his jaw. ‘Isn’t London crucifyingly expensive?’
He shrugged. ‘If you can shoehorn enough people into one house the rent becomes manageable between you.’ He loaded his fork again. ‘Tell me about the theatre where you’ll put on the Christmas show.’
Georgine was happy to talk about Acting Instrumental and everything attached to it. ‘The Raised Curtain? It’s part of the Sir John Browne Academy, but it’s put to a lot of community use outside school hours. We’re lucky that they let us hire it the week before Christmas. It’s unusual for a student run to last for six shows but we’re ambitious here.’ She went on, Joe asking an occasional question. He was so relaxed and normal now, Georgine felt as if she must have been towing a cardboard cut out of him around this morning. Who would have thought that in a few short hours they’d be well on the way to establishing a rapport?
Georgine ran home that evening, her backpack bumping in rhythm with her stride and the winter chill nipping at her ears. A hot shower was her first priority. She’d just finished getting dried and dressed when her doorbell rang.
She paused.
When the bell rang again she crept to the head of the stairs, heart jumping. A silhouette at the glass wrapped its arms around itself and hopped from foot to foot. Georgine waited. The silhouette was unmistakably female and none of the collection agents who’d harassed her to date had been, but was this some new gambit to see if she’d be less cautious with one of her own sex?
The silhouette raised her arm, the fist appearing hazily against the glass as she knocked. ‘Georgine! Are you there? Georgine!’
Georgine let out her breath with a whoosh, almost laughing at hearing the impatient tones of her sister, Blair. ‘I’m coming!’ After hurrying down to the hall, she fumbled with the lock and chain and threw open the door.
‘Brrrrr!’ Hunching theatrically, Blair scurried in. ‘It’s like a fridge out there!’ She paused to give Georgine a big chilly hug. ‘Lovely to see you, sis! What are your plans tonight? I’m hoping you don’t have any and we can order a pizza or something. Isn’t your heating on?’ She paused at the thermostat on the hall wall to turn it up.
Georgine, following, turned the thermostat down again. It gave a disappointed click. ‘No money for takeaway.’ She made a mental inventory of the contents of her kitchen. ‘I could make pasta with cheese sauce and a few bits of veg, if you’re not feeling ultra-fussy.’
‘Hmm.’ Blair had reached the kitchen and was already filling the kettle. She turned and gave Georgine one of her beautiful smiles. She took after their dad’s mum, Patty France – pronounced ‘Paddy’ by the American side of the family. Both possessed the same high-wattage smile that made others feel almost lucky to be smiled upon, and melting brown eyes to keep the world under their spell. Patty’s hair had long since turned white, but had once been brown and curly like Blair’s. ‘Got any wine?’ Leaving the kettle to boil, Blair opened the fridge and inspected its contents. Or lack of.
Slowly, she closed the door and turned around to gently run her hands up and down Georgine’s arm, her expression dismayed. ‘You’re not still broke?’
Georgine made a face. ‘I’d be OK if Aidan hadn’t left me in the poo. I get paid on Thursday so I’ll be able to stock up then.’
Blair switched the kettle off. ‘Pop your coat on. Let’s nip to Booze & News for a bottle of wine. My treat,’