Chapter 8
8
‘Oh. My. God. Like, could my life get any better? I’ve just finished spreading three hundred slices of bread, we’ve got an Army party this afternoon, with like loads of gorgeous blokes, and tonight, we’ve got another after-show party full of more eye candy, including the totally, awesomely hot Quinn Blake,’ Marisa announced over strains of The Black Eyed Peas.
The radio was picking up Radio One again although George wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. Marisa had a limited knowledge of music when it came to the 1970s and 1980s and that meant less singing and more work getting done. Marisa fighting will.i.am for lead vocals meant time management went out the window.
‘You can do some egg separation for me next. I need yolks, please; put the whites to one side, in a bowl, obviously,’ George ordered, ignoring her excited comments and studying a recipe book.
‘Like what did you think I was going to do? Break them open on the worktop?’ Marisa replied huffily.
‘Is Adam working tonight?’ Helen enquired as she washed her hands.
‘Yes, last one, though; he’s driving back to uni straight after the party,’ George replied, not raising her head from her work.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Helen offered .
‘No, thanks. I want to get this finished and we need to get the Army stuff organised and the van loaded. What time is it? We have to be there at one,’ George said, checking her watch.
She didn’t want coffee; she wanted beer. She was tired and she was under pressure and she couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn. She hadn’t wanted someone so badly in such a long time. Conjuring up images of his naked torso in her mind was affecting her concentration.
‘It’s only eleven; we’ve got plenty of time,’ Helen reassured.
‘Right, OK, good,’ George replied, burying her head back into her mixing bowl.
Suddenly, the back door burst open and Adam flew through it. He ran up to George and grabbed hold of her arm.
‘Is it true?’ he questioned with wide eyes.
‘Well, I…’ George began, her chest tightening.
‘I got your message about Quinn Blake. Is it true? He wants to jam with me this afternoon?’ Adam asked, his excitement clear for all to see.
‘Oh, yes, that, yes, it’s true. I mean, I didn’t actually speak to him, of course, because he’s ultra-important and that wouldn’t be professional. But his PA, Michael, said he thought you were very knowledgeable about music after your conversation the other night and he wanted to get together with you this afternoon,’ George explained haphazardly.
She could hardly mention the rooftop, could she?
‘Man, this is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t believe it!’ Adam exclaimed, taking off his beanie hat and beaming.
‘Neither can I! You jammy sod! Private lesson with Quinn Blake! I wouldn’t mind a private lesson with him, although I wouldn’t want to learn piano. I could think of something better to practice, like—’ Marisa began .
‘Thank you Marisa; your mother is in the room. I am here, aren’t I? With my hands in a mixing bowl of tuna,’ Helen clarified.
‘Yeah but you said here, we’re like just colleagues,’ Marisa replied, screwing her face up.
‘What should I take with me? What should I wear?’ Adam questioned as nervously as someone about to have a job interview.
‘Whipped cream and strawberries I’d take,’ Marisa answered hurriedly.
‘It isn’t an audition for The X Factor ; just take yourself. He isn’t going to judge you. He already thinks you’re knowledgeable; well, that’s what Michael said,’ George answered, a flush covering her cheeks.
The lager, the cold tiles, the flawless torso, it was all so easily recollected.
‘Yeah, but he’s really amazing and this could be a chance to get into the industry. If he likes me, he could tell other people about me and…’ Adam gushed.
‘I’ve no doubt he’s going to be blown away by you. I mean, you play that piano like a demon and he hasn’t even taken one piano exam,’ George said, the words tumbling from her lips before she could do anything to stop them.
‘What?! Hasn’t he? Not even I knew that. Where did you read that?’ Marisa exclaimed, eyes bulging at the new information.
‘I don’t know, in one of those magazines of yours, I guess. Now, you, go home and stop panicking. Enjoy the afternoon; show Quinn Blake how a piano should be played, you know, hitting the phrasing with lots of passion. Isn’t that what Mrs Rowland is always telling you to do?’ George said.
‘Thanks, George. This is down to you, you know, getting the catering for these shows. I can’t thank you enough,’ Adam spoke .
He put his arms around her and gave her a firm squeeze.
‘Yeah, go and have a little practice at your scales or something before I nick your hat and coat and pass myself off as you. Can’t play the piano, though. Do you think he would notice? Especially if I just kind of like stripped off and got on top of it? Or him,’ Marisa asked.
‘Marisa!’ Helen exclaimed.
‘I don’t think any normal, red-blooded man would fail to notice you, Marisa,’ Adam told her with a smile.
She blushed immediately and tried to avoid catching Adam’s eye.
‘Go on, go! I’ll see you at the Hexagon about ten-thirty,’ George ordered, shooing him to the door.
‘OK, see you later,’ Adam said.
‘Bye Adam and good luck,’ Helen called after him.
‘Yeah good luck and if you finish before the hour’s up, I’ll entertain him for the rest of the time. Just text me,’ Marisa added.
‘What’s got into you, Marisa?’ Helen asked when the door had closed and Adam had left.
‘What?’ Marisa asked innocently.
‘Since we started doing the catering for Quinn Blake, you haven’t stopped talking about him for a minute, usually with sexual connotations attached to every other word,’ Helen said, facing her daughter.
‘Yeah well, he’s hot and I’ve seen him in the flesh like every night and so what?’ Marisa snapped.
‘Well, it makes you sound cheap,’ Helen replied.
‘Me! Cheap! That’s rich coming from someone who models herself on Tina Turner in her Mad Max phase and uses Value antiperspirant,’ Marisa exclaimed, turning to face her mother.
‘Hey, guys, could we stop the confrontation about sex and deodorant and concentrate our efforts on the food?’ George suggested .
‘Well she started it! And anyway, it isn’t like I’m going to exactly leap on Quinn Blake, is it? I mean, he’s engaged, isn’t he!’ Marisa shouted, crossing her arms defiantly.
George dropped the book she was holding and it hit the mixing bowl of egg whites. Almost in slow motion, the bowl tumbled off the worktop and smashed on the floor.
‘Oh shit!’ George exclaimed angrily, looking at the mess.
Quinn was engaged. No, he couldn’t be. Marisa must have finally read one Star Life magazine too many.
‘Oh George, let me clean that up for you. I’m sorry, that was our fault for arguing and disturbing your concentration,’ Helen said, hurrying to the cupboard.
‘No, it’s OK, I’ll do it,’ George said with an aggravated sigh.
‘Shall I do some more eggs?’ Marisa offered sheepishly.
‘No, it’s OK, I’ll do it later; let’s just concentrate on the Army stuff for now,’ George said, taking the cloths Helen was offering.
She began to clean up the sticky egg mess but curiosity was getting the better of her. Was Quinn really engaged? She had kissed him, she had almost had sex with him and he was with someone. And not just with someone: planning a wedding with someone. She hadn’t supposed she was the only woman he had hit on this month or even this week, but being committed to someone else put a totally different slant on things.
‘So, Quinn Blake’s engaged? I didn’t know that,’ George remarked as casually as she could manage.
‘Are you serious? Don’t you like know who he’s engaged to?’ Marisa questioned in astonishment.
‘Well, no, I don’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking,’ George almost snapped .
‘Taylor Ferraro,’ Marisa informed, biting her nails.
‘Taylor Ferraro?’
‘You know! The actress! She’s in that American soap opera with all the beautiful people in it. You know, the one where they’re all at college even though they all look like thirty,’ Marisa explained.
‘I’ve not seen it,’ George said.
‘She had a bit part in the latest Brad Pitt film. She was his love interest for about three scenes until she got bumped off by someone from the Mafia.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘Yeah, well he’s marrying her in the summer. She’s blonde and thin and rich and her father’s the head of Rock It Music,’ Marisa explained.
‘Right,’ George answered as she finished wiping up the floor.
Hearing the description of some sort of angelic-looking nymph was not making her feel better.
‘Apparently, she’s having two wedding dresses made because she can’t decide which designer she likes best,’ Marisa continued.
‘OK, that’s fine, enough information, thanks. I wasn’t really that interested, just you know, remotely curious,’ George told her.
‘Well, all I know is she is one lucky, lucky bitch. I wish I was shaping up for her wedding night,’ Marisa replied.
‘Actually, Marisa, could you do some more eggs for me, please?’ George decided, not wanting to hear another word.
‘Sure. Is that coffee ready yet, Mother? I’m like dying of thirst over here,’ Marisa called.
‘Don’t you just love the Army?’ Marisa remarked as she came back into the kitchen.
She had just taken another tray of sandwiches out to the partying soldiers and needed to restock.
‘A lot of those men and women out there have looked death right in the face. I take my hat off to all of them,’ Helen spoke as she stirred a creamy mint dip destined for the pork and red onion skewers.
‘I was thinking more of the sexy uniforms and the toned physiques really, but bravery is all good,’ Marisa answered.
‘I’ll take the sausages and potato wedges out if they’re ready now,’ George said with a sigh.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be finishing off platters for the after-show party that night, but since Marisa’s bombshell that Quinn was engaged, she hadn’t been able to think about anything else. She shouldn’t care; he was completely unsuitable anyway. She was just one in a long line of conquests. She’d suspected that, had known it really. After all, he had kissed her without knowing the first thing about her; what did that say about him? In fact, what did that say about her?
She’d needed a distraction and surrounding herself with a hundred or so hungry squaddies was better than brooding alone, with only salmon and chive mustard butter for company. She wasn’t sure the recipe was going to work anyway and at the moment, she didn’t care. If it didn’t work, she would just serve up sausage rolls and cheese and pineapple on sticks and call it retro party food. She was certain Michael wouldn’t be opposed to a bit of retro.
She was angry with Quinn. Who did he think he was? Kissing her like she had never been kissed before, taking off her shirt, asking her to spend the night with him. She didn’t do ‘the other woman’, she had never done that; it wasn’t her. And how dare he think it was. She could just about cope with being just another conquest but she felt sullied for being made to be a party to real adultery. He was going to exchange wedding vows with someone in a matter of months, stand up and declare his love for someone, pledge to be faithful. She hated herself for letting him fawn over her so readily. She hated him for wanting to.
‘Hey love, got any more of those ham and mustard baps?’ a tall, burly soldier called to George as she arrived with the sausages and wedges.
‘No, I’m sorry, we don’t. I have kebabs coming out in a second, though,’ George informed the group.
‘Oh, Jonesy would rather have a nice couple of baps, wouldn’t you, Jonesy?’ another soldier piped up, smothering a gurgle of laughter.
‘Yeah, I would and yours are lovely. Nothing too over the top, just a nice handful,’ Jonesy informed, grinning.
With that remark made, he grabbed hold of George and attempted to manhandle her chest.
Quick as a flash, she dropped the tray of food, pushed the soldier away and held her fists up threateningly. Her whole body was shaking with rage. She was so angry about Quinn taking advantage and now this soldier thought he had the right to do the same. She was not someone who could be used. If anyone did the using, she did, on her terms.
‘Touch me again and I’ll put you on the floor,’ she hissed, her eyes wild, the whole battalion looking at her.
Marisa entered the room with quiche. She stopped and her mouth dropped open as she took in the scene in front of her.
‘Whoa! You’ve picked a manic one, Jonesy.’
‘I like ’em a bit on the feisty side,’ Jonesy replied, a smirk appearing on his lips as he faced George and looked her up and down .
George still had her fists up, and she stood her ground as Jonesy moved steadily towards her. He was six feet tall and as wide as a Sherman tank. An arrogant, self-satisfied smile was set on his face and all his mates were watching and waiting to see what he was going to do next.
He took another step towards George, still smiling, and she didn’t wait for him to move any closer. She stepped forward, punched him hard in the face and followed it up with a swift knee to the balls. Then, without saying another word, she fled from the room, flying past Marisa and the tray of quiche.
‘We’re leaving. Turn the oven off, turn everything off, throw the food in the bin and get whatever belongs to us,’ George ordered Helen as she started to pick up platters and cloths in a frenzy.
‘George, what’s happened? You’re shaking,’ Helen remarked as she watched her boss manically collecting everything together.
‘She just laid out one of the biggest squaddies out there. Writhing on the floor he is, clutching his bits,’ Marisa exclaimed as she put her platter down on the side.
‘George?’ Helen queried, concerned.
‘He touched me inappropriately. I gave him what he deserved. We’re leaving; hurry up and get everything in the van,’ George ordered.
‘It was a cracking punch, like something out of Rocky ,’ Marisa added.