When Good Friends Go Bad Read Online Free Page A

her svelte stylish exterior she felt like a big fat fraud. The truth was Georgina Giordani Carrington had run out of ideas. The well was dry. If she was honest, it had never been more than a shallow ditch to begin with.
    Back in Ashport everyone knew Rowan was the true artist, who could produce marvels with a piece of chalk and spin fairy tales from a chewed-up stub of crayon. 'Oh, she may have some raw talent, dear,' Georgina's mother would pronounce, rustling Harpers & Queen between her bejewelled fingers. 'But you have taste. It's in your breeding. We are related to the Fitzherberts, you know. What you have is simply ingrained, it can't be bought or taught.'
    And why was she thinking about Rowan, comparing herself all over again, like she used to so many years ago? Because of that damn Meg, leaving umpteen messages on her answer-phone. Well they could jolly well stay unanswered. She pushed the pin back into her long thick hair and smoothed down her Karen Millen smock. Georgina had initially made her name designing extravagant, eye-catching clothes for the plus-sized woman but she no longer had to wear them herself, thank goodness.
    Aiden watched her scribble meaningless whorls and circles on the pad in front of her, his expression veiled behind half-closed eyelids. He walked to the window, gazed out at the debris the gardener had left behind, then turned. 'Well, maybe I'll leave you to it.'
    'No. Don't go.' She grabbed his hand as he passed behind the desk, holding it to her shoulder. 'I hate sitting here alone. Can't you stay?'
    He wasn't quite pulling away but she could sense his fingers itching to break free. It made her want to cling to him tighter.
    'I don't want to hinder the artistic flow,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'You'll be able to concentrate better if I'm not around. I'll be in the drawing room, playing my guitar.'
    'Play it in here. It won't bother me, honest. Something soothing. What about that David Gray one that I like? Or a Coldplay song?'
    He made a face, shaking his head ruefully, before conceding. 'Oh baby, the things I do for Giordani.'
     
    Half an hour later, she threw the pencil down in disgust.
    'This is such a waste of time. I might as well give up for the day.'
    In a corner of the room, Aiden was sprawled with his legs over the extra-large armchair that was big enough to hold two, fingers picking at the nylon guitar strings as he improvised a nameless blues.
    She stared at him, frustrated by his complete absorption while she was ready to tear out her hair.
    'Do me a favour, will you?' Her voice croaked harshly and she softened it to a plea. 'How about making me a sundae? To get my creative juices going? Just a couple of scoops of vanilla with a few of those raspberries in the fridge?'
    Carefully he put the Gibson on the floor, stood up and stretched. 'I'd love to, Georgie, but no can do.' His eyes met hers and held them with his stare. 'I reckon maybe the freezer's developed some kind of black hole or the midnight bandits are breaking in again. I shoved a couple of tubs of ice cream in there at the weekend and this morning when I went to pull out the butter, it had disappeared.'
    Georgina felt sick suddenly, full of shame and self-loathing as she racked her memory. Two whole tubs? Was it possible? Her elbow caught her forgotten glass of water and sent the contents flying over the desk.
    'Well, send Max to get some then,' she said through gritted teeth as she mopped up the spill. She could feel hysteria rising again. 'It can't be that hard, can it, to buy some groceries? All I need is a little support, is that too much to ask? Where were you anyway when the gardener was here? Did you even see the mess he made?'
    For just an instant her husband's long lean body was completely still, as if he were mentally withdrawing from her crazy rantings. He picked up his guitar by the neck and headed for the door. 'I'll get it myself. Max has enough to do.'
    In the doorway he stopped, fixing her with his brown