Chapter 21
21
He wanted to call her. He wanted to hear her voice, even if it was just for a second. Since he’d got back to LA, he’d barely been alone for a minute. It seemed like he was even being accompanied to the bathroom. He could hardly breathe, let alone get time to speak to someone he shouldn’t be speaking to. He ached for her, actually ached inside. He didn’t even have a photograph of her. He had never wanted someone so badly and here he was, stood in a flower shop while Taylor asked his advice on which shade of pink he wanted for the bouquets. Fuck this situation!
‘So what do you think? For the wedding? The lilac maxi dress or the floral mini dress?’ Marisa asked, holding both items of clothing up against herself.
George, Marisa and Helen were in George’s living room, about to have an Indian takeaway. It was to celebrate an excellent afternoon’s work at Bowater Manor where they’d been catering for a charity fashion show. It was also the night before their flight to Spain for the wedding preparations. It was an early-morning departure and the women, along with Adam, were staying over.
Heather’s operation had gone well. Her left breast had been removed and she was at home recovering and waiting for the next tranche of treatment. George had visited a couple of times, brought her chocolates, told her about the intricacies of the wedding menu and refused to talk about the baby. She was saying anything about everything just to stop her from having a long enough pause to even mention the baby.
She hadn’t heard from Quinn at all since she’d left him in the helicopter. She wasn’t surprised, but she was a little disappointed. She could have done with a distraction, something to take her mind off things for a while. She knew it needed to end, especially now the wedding was imminent, but she wished they’d had longer, been able to share some real time together, instead of rushed moments in a window of opportunity.
But in reality, it had been a hot, urgent, tantalising affair that would never have lasted. Men like Quinn lived fast, hectic lives, travelling across the globe from event to event; she wouldn’t have been enough for him. Before too long, he would have got bored with her and moved on. Perhaps that was what he had done already.
‘Marisa, you’ll be wearing your white shirt and black skirt for serving as soon as the reception starts,’ Helen reminded her.
‘Yeah, like I know that, but come on! Half the world’s press are going to be there; I can’t be seen in the wedding pictures wearing a white shirt and a black skirt. I will be a lot of things, but I will not be monotone,’ Marisa said, horrified by the thought.
‘You mean monochrome,’ George told her.
‘I mean like boring and ancient.’
‘Marisa, waitresses are expected to wear black and white outfits, not maxi dresses or floral minis,’ George said.
‘Yeah but, just say I wasn’t waitressing or catering or anything, just a guest. Which one?’ Marisa wanted to know.
‘The maxi dress,’ George and Helen said at the same time .
‘God, you are both like sooo predictable,’ Marisa complained sulkily.
There was a tap on the back door and George hurried to answer it.
‘That’ll be Adam with the food. Can you get some plates out, guys?’ she called, striding down the hall.
She opened the door and greeted Adam with four bags of takeaway food.
‘Hey, that van you’ve got now is awesome. I got it doing eighty, without breaking a sweat, down the high street,’ Adam said with a smile, taking off his beanie hat as he entered the house.
‘You better not have!’ George exclaimed as she took the bags from him.
‘He better not have what?’ Marisa wanted to know as she came into the room.
‘He’s trying to break the sound barrier with my new van,’ George complained.
‘Isn’t it cool? Sometimes, when we’re at the traffic lights, I think she’s stalled it, the engine’s that quiet. Hey, I hope you remembered to tell them no tomatoes in mine because I’ll be sick if I like even have them anywhere near my tongue,’ Marisa told Adam.
‘I remembered everything, I think. You did want a vindaloo, didn’t you, Marisa?’ Adam teased.
‘You have got to be joking? You are joking, aren’t you? If you’ve got me a vindaloo, I will like kill you. I am well starving,’ Marisa exclaimed.
Adam laughed and Marisa hurriedly whipped him in the chest with a tea towel.
‘So gullible,’ he joked, taking a carton from George and helping to dish up the food.
‘And you’re full of it,’ Marisa retorted.
‘Come on, you two. I’m not having a week of you sniping at each other. This is a big occasion we’re catering for,’ Helen reminded them .
‘Yeah, it’s like the most awesome event of the entire year and we’re going to be there, centre stage,’ Marisa said.
‘Not centre stage: in the background, working hard,’ George told her.
‘Well, you two can be wallflowers if you like, but a wallflower I am not,’ Marisa replied, licking the fork she was holding.
‘Is Geraint OK about you going away for a week?’ George asked Helen, referring to her husband.
‘Yes, fine. I stocked up the cupboards with meals for one and takeaway menus and he has the car to himself. He’ll be more than happy. I totally expect him to have RSI in his remote control hand by the time we get back,’ Helen told her with a chuckle.
‘Well, I’m really grateful to have you all coming over with me,’ George spoke to the group.
‘Where else would we be if we weren’t with you at the event of the decade?’ Adam asked, grinning at Marisa.
‘It sooo is,’ Marisa insisted.
‘I know. But I appreciate your help and I know with the twenty or so staff we have to boss about and the state-of-the-art catering wagon, the thought of which is really freaking me out, we’re going to make the sort of culinary impression the world has been waiting for,’ George told them.
‘Here here,’ Helen said, raising a poppadom in the air.
‘God, let’s go and eat before she makes any more speeches,’ Adam said, picking up some plates.
‘I am so going to get a tan. I can’t wait,’ Marisa spoke.
‘You will not be getting a tan. You have dark hair and fair skin; it’s factor thirty for you and I’ll apply it myself if I have to,’ Helen warned her .
‘Jesus! You see what I have to put up with? Factor thirty; I’ll come home whiter than I went!’ Marisa wailed as they walked back into the living room.
‘How’s your mum?’ Helen asked George quietly.
‘She’s doing OK, thanks,’ George replied, spooning rice onto her plate.
‘My offer’s still there, you know, if you ever need to talk,’ Helen said sincerely.
‘Thanks.’
‘I actually don’t think they even make factor thirty any more. I’m sure I read about it in Star Life ,’ Marisa moaned.
‘So what is a catering wagon exactly?’ Helen enquired the next morning.
They had finally boarded the plane to Spain, after a short delay due to a ‘technical issue’. Marisa had suggested rather too loudly that perhaps they had found a suspicious-looking rucksack hidden under a seat and Helen had to rapidly convince the other passengers that she didn’t travel often and she watched too many episodes of Spooks .
‘I have no idea but, according to Pixie, it has about ten ovens and hobs and everything a mobile catering unit requires. Apparently, it’s going to be parked behind Channel Nine’s television studio,’ George informed, checking her boarding card and moving into a seat by the window.
‘Now how glamorous does that sound? Television studio!’ Marisa said, still wearing the enormous sunglasses she had bought in Duty Free.
She squeezed in next to George and hit her nose on the back of the seat in front of her. Helen sat down next to her and Adam took a seat across the aisle.
George fastened her seat belt and leaned forward to smile at Adam. He smiled back and picked up the in- flight magazine. He looked at the cover and held it up for George to see. Before she had a chance to look, Marisa let out a squeal of delight and thrust the magazine into George’s face.
‘Look! It’s Quinn! On the front cover! How like ironic is that?!’ Marisa exclaimed.
George looked at the front cover. It was Quinn, dressed in a half done up white dress shirt, bow tie undone and dangling from his collar, chest exposed, violin in his hand, eyes dazzlingly blue.
She swallowed, a pang of longing clogging her chest. She needed to get him out of her system. Perhaps seeing Taylor in her wedding dress would finally do that.
‘I’m starving. When do they start coming round with the food?’ Marisa wanted to know.
‘We usually have to be in the air first,’ George told her, looking out of the window at the tarmac and the familiar green of the English countryside.
The captain introduced himself: Andrew Weeks, with a clipped, Home Counties accent that made him sound like he had studied aviation at Eton. George was reassured by the calm manner and air of authority in his tone and the fact he sounded educated. If the plane went into a nosedive because an engineer had left his mug of tea on the wing, Andrew Weeks sounded like the man to handle the situation.
The stewards and stewardesses performed their life saving/emergency exits demonstration, and before too long, they were at the end of the runway, preparing to be given clearance to take off.
‘Oh. My. God, I like hate it when the engines rev like that. Arrrrrrrrrgh!’ Marisa screamed out loud as the plane began to race down the runway to get up to speed.
‘Shh, you’re freaking the little kids out,’ George said as she gripped hold of the seat arm and braced herself for the take off .
‘Argh! Argh! We’re going to crash!’ Marisa shouted.
Helen put a hand over her daughter’s mouth and pushed her head down into her lap. Her cries were now muffled by a leg.
‘Is she always like this on flights?’ George enquired as the jet left the ground and began its ascent into the clouds.
‘We used to go every year to Geraint’s cousin’s villa in France when Marisa was small. Two trips on a plane with her screaming and being sick and we took the ferry after that,’ Helen replied.
‘Give her something to suck,’ Adam suggested.
‘God! Rephrase that, please,’ George said.
‘A sweet,’ Adam added.
‘Mint, Marisa?’ George offered, getting the packet of sweets out of her bag.
‘Mint,’ Marisa growled.
She shook herself free from her mother’s hand-hold and sat up, grabbing the sweet and popping it into her mouth in one quick movement.
‘It’s not natural,’ Marisa said, taking a deep breath as she sucked on the sweet.
‘What’s not natural?’ Helen enquired.
‘Flying – argh!’ Marisa screeched as the plane bumped slightly.
‘Lucky it’s only two hours,’ George remarked as Helen held her daughter’s hand.
He was going to see her today and he was buzzing. He’d even managed a smile when Taylor talked about seating plans over breakfast. He couldn’t give a toss who sat where; he was thinking about George and how much time he could manage to spend with her. God, he’d missed her. He hoped she felt the same. He hadn’t been able to call but she’d understand. She knew the position he was in. He’d spelt it out enough times. The fact he was stuck somewhere he didn’t want to be. She would understand and when they saw each other again, the time apart would be history.
The plane touched down on time, catching up the delay in England, and George was glad to arrive in the airport terminal. Marisa had drunk can after can of Coke on the journey, kept getting up and down for the toilet and gripping her arm whenever they hit the slightest bit of turbulence.
‘Oh. My. God. It’s like boiling! Did you feel the sun out there?’ Marisa questioned as they lined up to go past border control.
‘Yeah, it’s great. I know what I’m doing as soon as I get to the villa. Trunks on and into the pool,’ Adam said happily.
‘Well, let’s not get carried away. Pixie might have plans for us,’ George answered.
Pixie the wedding planner was an organisation obsessive. She had spoken to George almost every day since she was hired. She had checked and rechecked the ingredients and equipment they would require. She had finalised flight times and collection arrangements at least three times and only yesterday, she had rung to inform them the flowers for their lapels had changed colour. Now it was coffee-coloured roses instead of cream.
‘Pixie sounds like a right pain in the arse and she talks like she should have a part in Dallas ,’ Marisa remarked.
‘And what would you know about Dallas ?’ Helen wanted to know.
‘God Mother, I watch it on Gold! And haven’t you heard? It’s coming back!’ Marisa informed, flicking her hair back and adjusting her sunglasses as she got to the counter .
‘Please take sunglasses off,’ the passport inspector ordered her.
‘Think they’re going to be permanently attached to her face for the next week,’ Adam commented.
‘She’s excited. We shouldn’t be too hard on her,’ George said, getting her passport out of her hand luggage.
‘I wasn’t – actually, I quite like her,’ Adam admitted, his cheeks blushing slightly.
‘Yeah, me too. She’s a good kid – oh I see – you mean, you like her,’ George said, lowering her voice as Helen was called forward.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ Adam answered.
‘Well, aren’t there any girls you like at uni? I mean, you’re in Wales a lot of the time and…’ George began.
She wasn’t sure she was keen on the idea of them together, as in exchanging saliva and holding hands. She had seen the other people Marisa had linked tongues with and it wasn’t pretty.
‘Next please,’ the passport checker called.
George cursed under her breath for not dealing with Adam’s admission better and stepped forward to show her passport.
‘Georgina Mary Fraser,’ the Spaniard spoke, his dark eyes looking straight at her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, wondering why he was looking at her in a really unsettling way.
‘You need to come with me,’ he spoke, standing up from his chair and opening the door to his booth.
‘Er, why exactly? Is there a problem?’ George enquired.
‘Please, come this way,’ he ordered, keeping hold of her passport.
‘But, my friends – I need to really stay with them and…’ George began, looking behind her at Adam .
‘It won’t take a moment. This way,’ the man spoke, holding his arm out and directing her towards a doorway.
‘George? What’s going on?’ Adam called.
‘I won’t be a minute; some security procedure, I expect. You carry on to arrivals,’ George called back.
She saw the look of confusion on Adam’s face, but he shuffled forward as a new passport checker entered the booth to continue dealing with the line of arrivals.
‘I don’t understand what the problem is. Do you need to check my bag? Or is there something wrong with my passport? It was all fine in England and…’ George babbled as the customs official opened the door.
The heat hit her as soon as the door swung open and there, stood in front of an open-topped Jeep, was Quinn. He was wearing khaki, linen trousers, a white shirt and Havaianas. On his face were Aviator sunglasses.
‘Senor Blake, Senora Fraser,’ the Spaniard called to him.
Quinn removed his sunglasses to look at her and he smiled. The smile that made her weak, the smile she hadn’t seen for almost a month, the smile she hadn’t been able to forget.
‘Carlos, gracias a mi amigo ,’ Quinn spoke, saluting the customs official, as he handed back George’s passport and retreated inside the terminal building.
George just stared at him. She had a suitcase on the floor next to her and she was standing outside some back exit to the airport that seemed to overlook the hire car sheds.
‘Let me take your case,’ Quinn said, hurrying forwards and picking it up.
‘What are you doing here? Pixie’s arranged transport for us to the villa complex,’ George spoke.
She had to try and concentrate on the fact she should be angry with him, rather than the fact that he looked really hot in what he was wearing. He shouldn’t be here; he should be with his wife-to-be, fanning her with ostrich feathers and feeding her local olives.
‘Change of plan, for you anyway,’ Quinn said, putting the case in the back of the Jeep and opening the passenger door for her.
‘But Adam and the others will be worried. They just saw me escorted from the airport by a scary-looking official,’ George exclaimed.
‘Give Adam a call. Come on, get in,’ Quinn urged her.
‘And what if I don’t?’ George asked.
‘You’ll totally ruin my surprise,’ Quinn told her.
She let out a sigh, bothered by the fact she had little choice and by how much she wanted to be with him. As the sun started to scorch the hairs on the back of her neck, she hopped up into the passenger seat.