Hens Reunited Read Online Free PDF Page B

singers.’
    ‘Male or female?’ Georgia interrupted.
    ‘Male and female, sweetheart,’ he replied. ‘They’re not fussy girls. And then . . .’
    The call lasted another two minutes while John poured out details which might make less experienced showbiz reporters blanch. Not Georgia. She’d heard it all before, with bells on. And whipped cream and glacé cherries, in many cases. She doubted there was much of this she could print without the Sistas’ management coming down on the Herald like a ton of bricks, but it was fun all the same. She thrashed out a few headlines in her head as he wound up his news and said goodbye.
    SOZZLED SISTAS
ROOM SERVICING, SISTA-STYLE
SISTAS ON THE SAUCE
TOTALLY SISSED . . .
    She turned back to her PC, about to start typing, and saw that a new email had arrived.
    London Film Festival Awards Ceremony – details for after-show party . . . she read, and her eyes lit up. Fabulous. She’d been looking forward to that one, especially as rumours had been flying all week that Noel Bailey, the hottest Hollywood actor and most gorgeous creature on planet Earth, was going to be attending. She must get her nails done properly before the party next week – after all, a girl never could tell where she might be putting her hands at these kinds of events.
    She began typing up her notes for the Sistas story with a smile on her face. God, she loved her job! How she loved her job!
    Later that evening, Georgia was rolling on a bit of lippy in preparation for a party at a private club in Soho to celebrate the nineteenth birthday of Candi (no surname required), a precocious kid with a body like a Barbie doll and a brain to match. Nevertheless, with her current number one single, ‘Hot 4 U’, and her Chelsea striker boyfriend, she was the paparazzi darling du jour , and didn’t she know it, the little brat.
    Georgia was deep in thought about how she was going to muscle her way in to the inner sanctum of the after-show party. Sure, she had a legitimate invite to get in the place – a result achieved after mucho blagging to the lackey at the record company who’d been bought off with a few signed photos of soap stars Georgia had kicking around the office – but there was always a section cordoned off for super-celebs at these parties, to which Georgia was never permitted access. Not officially anyway. During her ten years as gossip columnist at the Herald , though, Georgia had become an expert at impersonating Natalie Imbruglia/Dannii Minogue/any other dark-haired celeb to whom she had a passing resemblance in order to get past bouncers and barriers, or she’d pretend to be a waitress, PA to someone famous, oh, anyone she could think of, basically. She was a mistress of disguise. Well, a bloody good liar, anyway.
    Tonight, perhaps she could—
    She turned from her lippy application as something edged into her field of vision. A bespectacled, nervous-looking spoddy type was standing by her desk, shuffling his feet as if he needed the toilet. For God’s sake. There was nothing worse than an intimidated male. It made her want to start slapping somebody. ‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
    He flinched as if she really had whacked him one. She might if he didn’t pull himself together fast.
    ‘I’m Benedict, a freelancer?’ he said, or rather asked, as if he wasn’t sure himself.
    ‘And?’ she barked, smacking her lips together and blotting them.
    ‘There’s a story in about Harry Stone – you know, the playboy loser, who—?’
    The name was still enough to cut her to the quick. Even now, it brought a searing flush to her face, a stab in the guts. She unleashed a full glare on him and he backed away. She had to resist the urge to push him over, the flat of her hand on his cheap Primark shirt. One shove and he’d be on the floor, down on his back like a beetle scrabbling to get right way up.
    ‘Sod off, Benedict,’ she snarled instead. ‘Don’t you know anything about working here?’
    She snatched