Georgia

Chapter 3 - Sylvie F**king Swan

Georgia's POV

"Honey, I'm home."

Her voice floated down the hall from the front door.

"Kitchen," I called back, and pulled the lasagne out of the oven just as Pippa came around the corner, dropped her bag on the counter, closed her eyes, and inhaled.

"Oh my God."

"I know."

"I love you, lasagne. I mean Gigi."

I laughed and slid the tray across the bench for her to admire. Pippa was already rummaging in her bag for the bottle of wine she'd brought, the way she always did. Pippa brought wine like other people brought their passport. It wasn't optional.

"You have no idea how much I need to drink," I said.

"Oh, we're drinking?" She pulled the cork out with her teeth. "We are drinking. What happened."

I dished up. We carried our plates to the dining table. She poured two very full glasses.

"I managed to piss off Harry."

"A Tuesday in the Watson household. Details."

I shook my head. I wasn't quite ready. "Tell me about your day first."

Pippa was an Executive at one of the country's largest PR firms, which meant her job was, broadly, to repair the public reputations of men who had done things to their reputations that reputations cannot really withstand. Ninety percent of her client list was professional athletes. Ninety percent of her professional athletes had things to repair.

She took a long sip of wine and sighed.

"I've decided. I'm running a seminar."

"Oh yes."

"The seminar's called: How To Cheat On Your Wife Discreetly. Because clearly the Don't Cheat On Your Wife seminar is not taking."

I snorted wine. "What happened?"

"Professional footballer. Heavily pregnant wife. Caught with a nineteen-year-old. In the back of his car. In a shopping centre car park."

"In the car park."

"In the car park."

"Pip."

"I know."

"Pip, that's — that's not even a hotel. That's a Westfield."

"That's what I said. I said: You have money. You could have afforded a hotel. You could have afforded several hotels."

We were both laughing now. It was the kind of laughing where you're also slightly horrified.

"Alright." Pippa topped up both our glasses. "Your turn. Details."

"I ran my mouth at a client's husband who thought he could intimidate me."

"Amateur."

"Right."

"When will men learn that little Georgia Watson does not intimidate."

I let her laugh. Then I let myself sit with the memory of his face for a second, and I did not entirely enjoy the direction my mind went, and I scolded myself, because the man was married and I did not do married.

"Who was the husband?" Pippa asked.

"Zane Montgomery."

She choked.

She, literally choked. Mid-sip. She coughed into her napkin for a full twenty seconds and when she could talk again her voice came out wheezy.

"Zane Montgomery."