Hens Reunited Read Online Free PDF

habit. Nowadays all that had changed though, and the Herald ran a goody-goody no-smoking office, like every other place. It still drove Georgia nuts. How were you supposed to write scintillating copy without a ciggy between your lips? How were you meant to concentrate for five minutes straight?
    She read through her piece critically, changing a few words and adding the next tantalizing line. You’ll never GUESS who I saw Martin getting up close and personal with outside the Ladies , she typed. Only our favourite soap über-bitch, Tasha Woods. And him a newly married man, as well!
    She pursed her lips. Martin Browne would go tonto at that. She could almost hear his furious voice ranting at her down the phone when this hit the newsstands, calling her all the names under the sun. ‘Should have kept your sweaty hands off Tasha’s silicones, then, shouldn’t you, darlin’?’ she muttered under her breath, finishing the article.
    Her phone was ringing, and she took one hand off the keyboard to grab it. ‘Georgia Knight speaking.’
    ‘All right, Georgy, my darlin’, it’s John here from the Cavalry.’
    She rolled her eyes and chewed even harder. ‘My darling’ indeed. He was such a creep. ‘What have you got for me today, John?’ she asked, wedging the phone under one ear in order to grab a pen and Post-it note. As doorman at the prestigious Cavalry Hotel in Covent Garden, John Albright always had the dirt on some unsuspecting celeb or other. It was only the fact that he was such an excellent spy that stopped her from telling him to stick his ‘Georgy’ and his ‘darling’s right where the sun didn’t shine.
    He gave a low chuckle down the phone. ‘Got a good ’un for you, Georgy,’ he said. ‘You’re gonna love this.’
    She waited, pen poised. ‘Oh yeah?’
    ‘It’s a big ’un. Good and juicy.’
    Is that what you say to all the girls, John, sweetie? , she felt like cooing. But she didn’t, because knowing John Albright, he’d only go and believe her – and with an ego as massive as his, he’d take it as a come-on. Ugh. A girl like Georgia had her standards, and fat-necked doormen like John did not measure up, thank you very much.
    She waited, tapping her pen against the fluorescent yellow. ‘So . . . are you going to tell me then?’ she asked.
    ‘Well, you know we’ve got a certain girl group staying here at the moment?’
    Georgia brought the phone a little closer to her ear. ‘Yep – the Sistas,’ she said. ‘What have they been up to?’ The Sistas were a sassy, streetwise girl band from New York who were touring with their new album.
    ‘They were in the hotel bar last night, sinking the drinks like we were gonna run out of booze, and . . .’
    ‘What were they drinking?’ Georgia interrupted. She knew her readers loved this kind of detail.
    John snorted. ‘What weren’t they drinking is the question. Tequila slammers, sea breezes, highballs . . . Anyway, so they have a bit of a party in their suite – a right racket, we’ve had to apologize to all the guests in neighbouring rooms – and they order up some room service in the middle of the night . . .’
    ‘What did they order?’ Georgia asked, scribbling teq slam, sea b, hbls on her paper. She was recording the conversation, naturally, but ever since the cock-up where her Dictaphone had packed up right in the middle of a deep and meaningful with one of the Big Brother girls, she took extra precautions just to be on the safe side.
    ‘Five bottles of Cristal, twenty Mars Bars and Pringles. Salt and vinegar. Exact order, I checked it all out for you, Georgy. So Vicki – one of our waitresses – goes up to their suite to take them that little lot and Be-Be – she’s the singer, in’t she? – is passed out on the floor, naked apart from her knickers round her ankles—’
    ‘Nice,’ snorted Georgia, jotting all of this down.
    ‘And they’re . . . how shall I say this? . . . entertaining some of their backing