Free Georgia by Lesley Pearse

Georgia’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I hoped you were going to come up and meet all my friends.’
    Georgia’s plaintive voice cut through her professional concern as Brian’s never could.
    ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Celia tweaked Georgia’s cheek. ‘You know how these things are. I wanted to join you too. But I’m sure all your friends will enjoy themselves far better without me cramping their style.’ She turned and smiled at Christine who offered her a sandwich.
    ‘No thank you dear, I really must go. I may even have to bring some children with me if there’s no alternative. So make sure everyone leaves at twelve and don’t let them disturb the neighbours. Daddy’s downstairs if you want anything.’
    ‘Hallo, Mrs Anderson,’ Peter was at her elbow. He was wearing smart grey trousers and a white shirt, the first time she had seen him in anything other than jeans. He had the same flushed, happy expression as Georgia, but mingled with concern. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
    Celia liked Peter the first moment she met him. It wasn’t the handsome face, the clear eyes or even the obvious intelligence. There was a kind of openness about him she found refreshing. The odd remark about his parents suggested they were more interested in his earning ability than scholastic achievements, his appreciation of her home was a pointer to his own being far more humble. Yet he didn’t ingratiate himself, retaining his own character and belief in himself, while he soaked up information, from food he wasn’t accustomed to, to Celia’s work in Stepney.
    ‘Help Georgia to keep things under control,’ she gave him a stern look, just to remind him of his place. ‘Mr Anderson’s downstairs. I’ll be back just as soon as possible.’
    ‘Don’t worry about us,’ he glanced around the room as if already checking for trouble. ‘Drive carefully won’t you? It’s frosty out there.’
    By the time Celia had collected her coat from the bedroom, Georgia was dancing with Peter. She paused on the landing for just a second. Peter was no dancer, he shuffled awkwardly, barely in time to the music, but then her daughter’s eyes were on his face, not his feet and the way Peter smiled at Georgia brought a lump to Celia’s throat.
    Brian felt restless. There was nothing he wanted to watch on television and the noise upstairs was getting to him. He opened the drinks cabinet again and poured himself another drink.
    He was almost glad Celia had to go out, at least now he had something tangible to base his anger on.
    It wasn’t the party upstairs, nor even the fact he hadn’t been consulted about anything that bugged him. Neither had his mood just come on him.
    He was well past fifty, hair thinning, body fatter. His staff called him ‘Old Anderson’ as if he already had one foot in the grave and sometimes he felt so lonely he wanted to scream.
    Celia was to blame. If she could arrange parties for Georgia, why couldn’t she throw one or two for them? Her life was full, she had friends at her office, her clients from all walks of life, and she had Georgia.
    Once she’d invited people to dinner, bought tickets for the theatre. They got invited out, they took walks together, they shared things. But lately the phone never rang except for Georgia or Celia, muffled conversations that made him feel shut out. How long was it since Celia cooked him a special meal, asked him what he’d like to do at the weekend? She only played the piano for Georgia and she cringed away from him as if he had leprosy.
    What had he got for being easy-going? A job he’d been pushed into. His youth lost in caring for his mother, a house that cost a fortune to run. A child who was someone else’s reject and a frigid, domineering wife.
    He poured himself another drink, curling his fingers round the glass and wincing at the fire.
    ‘I should have sold up when Mother died,’ he said aloud. ‘Travelled, changed my job, had some fun.’ He glanced up