Chapter 28
28
The material was as soft as silk. It had a pearlescent sheen to it and reflected the light as George moved around in front of the mirror. The colour was blue when she swished one way and grey when she turned another. It was full length and classic, nothing too flash or showy, just well-cut and understated. The shoes matched the colour of the dress fabric. They were lightweight but high and not something George would usually wear, but they did look the part. Whatever part that was. Caterer to the wedding of the solar system? Mistress to the groom? Black sheep of the Fraser family?
She had smoothed down her usually spiky hair and had added some plain, silver, hoop earrings. She gazed at her reflection and then automatically, her hand rose to the chain around her neck and she began to toy with the ring on it.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’ George called.
‘It’s only me. You decent?’ Adam’s voice called.
‘Yes, come in,’ George invited.
Adam opened the door and let out a loud whistle of approval when he saw what she was wearing.
‘Wow! You look amazing!’ he told her.
‘Thank you,’ George answered, smiling back at him .
‘Marisa says you’re going to some function to do with the wedding.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, they picked a fantastic outfit for you.’
‘How did things go at the castle, with the music?’ she asked him.
‘Really good. I’m playing violin for the entrance of the bride. It’s a fantastic piece Quinn wrote. It’s soft and it’s sensual and then it’s vibrant and alive. He’s an amazing songwriter,’ Adam told her, sitting down on her bed.
‘God! You’re playing music for the entrance of the bride at the wedding to end all weddings! That’s a big honour, Adam,’ George spoke.
‘I know. I asked Quinn why he wanted me to do it and he said he’d never heard anyone play the violin with quite as much passion.’
‘That’s a massive compliment.’
‘I know and he thinks I have a big career ahead of me,’ Adam added.
‘You do,’ George agreed, looking at him.
‘Yeah. It doesn’t seem to impress Marisa, though,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Oh?’ George said, sitting next to him on the bed.
‘I tried to let her know I was interested you know, by the things I said, by putting my arm around her, by opening doors for her and carrying her bags and stuff but – she just didn’t seem to notice.’
‘Listen Ad, sometimes, especially when you’ve known someone a long time, you have to be a bit more obvious about your change of feelings. I mean you two have always been friends; friends open doors and carry bags. I think you need to be more direct,’ George said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean maybe you should ask her out on a date. Take her to that celebrity restaurant she wants to go to or something. Make it clear it’s a date not just two friends having dinner together,’ George told him.
‘What if she says no?’
‘Come on, this is Marisa! Being invited out to the celebrity hangout in the area! There is no way on Earth she is going to say no,’ George said with a smile.
‘But I don’t want her to say yes because she wants to go there. I want her to say yes because she wants to go there with me,’ Adam explained, looking at her with his big, soulful, brown eyes.
‘Who wouldn’t want to go anywhere with you?’ George said, taking hold of his hand.
‘You’re biased because I’m your little brother,’ Adam said with a laugh. He took his hand from hers and stood up.
‘So how are you getting to this function then? Car picking you up?’ Adam enquired.
‘No, I’m driving,’ George informed.
‘In that dress and those shoes?’
‘I was going to put sandals on and change when I got there.’
‘Don’t be daft; I’ll drive you. Where is it?’ Adam asked.
‘There’s no need to do that,’ George said, picking up her bag and going to the door.
‘But if I drive, you can have a couple of beers or champagne. Free drinks all night, I bet,’ Adam said, following her out.
‘Honestly, I’ll be fine. I don’t really feel like drinking,’ George said, hurrying down the stairs in a bid to get away from all the questioning.
‘Hang on, what did you say? You don’t feel like drinking? Are you all right?’ Adam questioned.
‘Look, keep your voice down or Marisa is going to be in here asking questions and to be honest, she scares me when she starts asking questions,’ George hissed .
‘So what’s the deal? Why the secrecy?’ Adam wanted to know.
‘I, well, er…’ George began, racking her brain for something sensible to say.
‘You’ve got a date, haven’t you? The dress, the shoes… there’s no function; you’re going on a date!’ Adam exclaimed.
‘Will you keep your voice down! Yes, OK, I’m going on a date, but don’t you tell anyone,’ George ordered him seriously.
‘Well, who with? How long’s it been going on?’
‘Not long. It’s nothing serious,’ George said as she looked around the dining room for her jacket.
‘Well who is it? Someone you met here in Spain? That’s freaking quick work.’
She didn’t respond to the question; her heart was hammering on her ribcage. She picked up the keys to the Jeep and headed towards the door.
‘Hold it! Where are you going? Aren’t you going to let us see what was in that box? Holy shit! Look at you!’ Marisa exclaimed in awe as she came out of the living room and stood gawping at George, chewing gum sticking to her bottom lip.
‘I’ll take it I look sick,’ George responded, opening the door.
‘She’s going on a date,’ Adam blurted out.
‘What?! I thought you said it was a function. A date with who? Have you got a secret man here in Spain? Oh. My. God. It’s someone from the band, isn’t it? I know, I know, it’s Eddie the drummer. Oh God, I should have guessed. He kept making a detour for your canapé tray at the after-show parties. How long has it been going on?’ Marisa wanted to know.
‘Not long. Look I’d better go or I’m going to be late,’ George said, checking her watch again.
‘Bit dressed up for Eddie the drummer; I’ve never seen him in anything that isn’t ripped. Maybe it’s someone from management. Is it Michael? He’s always all over you telling everyone how great you are,’ Marisa carried on.
‘Marisa, Michael’s gay,’ Adam informed her.
‘Is he?’ Marisa asked, her eyes widening in surprise.
‘He’s gayer than Colin and Justin and John Barrowman all in the same room singing ABBA,’ Adam told her.
‘I’m going,’ George said, opening the door.
‘Honestly, let me drive you. I don’t mind and I promise I won’t loiter around to see who you’re meeting,’ Adam said.
‘Am I going to be able to say no and leave this villa alive?’ George asked.
‘No.’
‘OK, well, let’s go but you are not bringing me home again; I’ll get a taxi,’ George insisted.
‘Quiz her all the way there and come back with a name,’ Marisa ordered.
His hands were trembling as he did up his shirt buttons. He had to stop this shaking lark; he had a reputation to uphold. He couldn’t appear vulnerable to anyone around here. The truth was, he was both scared and excited about tonight. It was a big deal taking George to the opera, for lots of reasons. Tonight was going to be special for both of them and he didn’t want to fuck it up.
He splashed some cologne on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. He let out a sigh of discontent and picked up his watch.
Adam talked all the way into Murcia, about university, about Marisa, about Quinn, particularly about Quinn and how much he had enjoyed working on music with him. It was thirty minutes before they were pulling up just across the square from the theatre.
The temperature was still in the mid-twenties and the city was alive with people, walking up the picturesque boulevards. The theatre itself was an impressive building. Its facade was pink and grey and the unusual colour made it stand out amongst the other structures. It was both grand and statuesque.
‘Where are you meeting him? Just so I know, not because I want to report back to Marisa,’ Adam asked.
‘I’m not completely stupid; there is no way I’m telling you that.’
‘Then I’ll have to sit here and see where you go,’ Adam said, folding his arms across his chest.
‘I’m not going anywhere until you drive off,’ George replied, copying his pose.
‘How childish.’
‘Isn’t it.’
‘Come on George, why all the cloak and dagger stuff about this guy? What’s wrong with him?’ Adam wanted to know.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘Then tell us who he is.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s nobody’s business but mine.’
‘Is he married or something?’ Adam enquired.
George visibly stiffened, although she tried to disguise it by putting a hand to her hair. Adam picked up on it straight away.
‘Jesus George! He’s married, right?’ he exclaimed in horror.
‘He isn’t married. Look, I’m getting out of the car. Drive home! What is this sudden obsession with my love life?’ George wanted to know.
‘We just care about you, that’s all,’ Adam told her .
‘Well thanks, but I’m thirty-four; it isn’t necessary,’ George said, getting out of the Jeep and brushing down her dress.
‘All right, just trying to be the protective brother. I get the message; I’ll go but just take care, OK?’ Adam said, starting up the engine.
‘OK,’ George replied with a smile.
‘And I’ll make sure Marisa doesn’t wait up,’ Adam told her.
‘Thanks,’ George said.
‘See you,’ Adam ended.
He started the engine and pulled back into the traffic.
She waited until he was out of sight before entering the square and walking towards the grand building.
There were other people going in; all of them looked amazing in different gowns, some long, some short. All the men were dressed in suits, some in dinner jackets, others wearing flowers in their lapels. She looked the part in her beautiful dress but she felt like a fish out of water.
The theatre itself was beautiful. It wasn’t particularly old inside, but it had obviously been sympathetically restored. There were people milling around in the foyer, chatting quickly in Spanish, laughing and enjoying the occasion.
George took her ticket from her bag and looked at it. She had no idea where to go. All the signs were in Spanish and her only hope was a dark-haired twenty-something in an official-looking uniform. She took a deep breath and prayed he knew some English.
‘Excuse me, could you tell me which way?’ George asked, showing him her ticket and speaking probably too slowly.
‘ Si , yes. Up the stairs, to the right,’ he instructed her with a smile .
‘Thank you – sorry, I mean gracias,’ George said, attempting the language.
She held up her dress and went up the stairs as gracefully as she could. If she was honest, the nice shoes were killing her feet and she was starting to wish she had worn her boots. Underneath the long frock, she might have just about got away with it.
Everywhere she looked, there was glamour. There were a group of Spanish women, dressed in garish, bright outfits, drinking, talking loudly and laughing. They looked at George as she walked by them. It was a look of desire for her dress. She smiled to herself as she made her way along the corridor. There was no way they would covet anything about her if they had seen her in jeans and her ‘Rock Chick’ t-shirt, sweating from the heat, Quorn all over her hands.
She checked the ticket again and looked at the sign above a small door. This was it; this was the entrance to the box. George pushed on the handle and stepped through. The scene before her took her breath away. The theatre was as spectacular on the inside as it was on the outside. She could see everyone in the whole place. People were taking their seats, ushers were moving amongst them, guiding the lost, and she could see right into the orchestra pit. But, what was more breathtaking than any of that was the painted ceiling. The beautiful, luminous artwork looked down on her like it had been finished only minutes before. It shone, it almost breathed and it was like nothing she had seen before.
‘Hey,’ Quinn greeted as he stepped into the box and closed the door behind him.
‘Oh, hi,’ George replied with a blush, turning to look at him.
He was dressed in an expensive, fitted, black suit with a white shirt, slightly open at the neck. The outfit only enhanced his attractiveness .
‘You look amazing,’ Quinn said, unable to keep his eyes from her.
‘You’re so good at choosing clothes for me, I have a suspicion you’re keeping a tape measure with you and whipping it out when I’m asleep,’ George replied.
‘As if I would waste my time with a tape measure, when there are so many more things I could be doing,’ Quinn answered smiling.
‘We’re at the theatre. This is not the place for smut,’ George told him.
‘I believe, all those centuries ago, this was exactly the place for it.’
‘You’re just remembering history to suit your wicked mind.’
‘Do you care?’ Quinn asked her.
‘No,’ George admitted.
‘Beer?’ Quinn offered and from behind his back he produced an ice bucket filled with bottles of Spanish lager.
‘And here I was thinking it was bound to be champagne.’
‘You can have champagne if you want. I’ll order some.’
‘No! I’m just kidding. I’m not really keen on it,’ George said.
‘Me neither. Not since I had to try twelve different varieties before Taylor would make a decision on what to have with the speeches,’ Quinn replied.
George smiled but inside, her stomach contracted. He was getting married; she couldn’t forget that important fact. It was real, it was happening in a couple of days and there was no getting away from it. His comment spoiled her anticipation of the performance a little, took the shine off the dress and made the shoes pinch her toes that bit extra.
Sensing what she was thinking, Quinn put the cooler down on the small table to the side of the box and came over to her. He kissed her firmly, but with all the sensuality of someone who knew what she was thinking and knew what she needed.
She kissed him back and tried to force any thoughts of Taylor to the very back of her mind. He was hers, for tonight at least. She was the one he ran to; she was the one he couldn’t get enough of. Taylor was just for show.
‘I won’t mention her or it again. Not one word. No talk about vows or seating plans, no mention of dove crap all over the priest, nothing about Pixie keeling over when the florist thought the wedding was next week. Nothing else,’ Quinn told her.
‘Dove crap all over the priest!’ George said with a laugh.
‘Yes, but I mean it – we are not going to talk or think about Saturday. We’re not going to think about what it means or what it doesn’t mean. Tonight, we’re going to watch the performance and we’re going to talk like there’s nothing in the world but us,’ Quinn continued.
‘Pretend, you mean,’ George said with a sigh.
‘Temporarily forget there are strings attached,’ Quinn said.
‘Can you do that?’
‘Can you?’
‘I don’t know. Pass me a beer and we’ll find out,’ George spoke.
Quinn handed her a bottle and they sat down in their seats.
The opera was all in Spanish, but George was surprised how much she could pick up just by watching the expressions on the faces of the performers and by the tempo and definition of the music. And the costumes also told a tale all of their own. They were bold and elaborate for the well-off and paupers’ rags for the destitute .
The tale was of Maria, a young Spanish girl, cast out from the family home when her teenage sweetheart got her pregnant.
Maria was forced to live on the streets, met wrong man after wrong man, until she met a Mr Right who loved her, but couldn’t love her child. So she had to decide what to do. Did she live a life of luxury with the man who loved her but couldn’t love her past mistake? Or carry on how she was, whoring herself out to keep a roof over her son’s head? And in the end, she chose neither. She did what everyone seemed to do so dramatically in opera; she killed herself. She slit her throat, rather too realistically, in the middle of the stage. And that was the end. Poor Maria, dead, no happy ending, no Mr Right and no child. Just death. The curtain came down.
Quinn looked over to George as the orchestra performed their final notes and found her face completely awash with tears. Not just a trickle of emotion in appreciation of the performance, but big, fat, tears filled with sorrow. Her shoulders shook and she sobbed out loud. She looked up at him and he took her in his arms and held her as she cried.
‘Hey. Shh, come on. The story’s bleak, I admit, but then sometimes life is bleak, isn’t it?’ Quinn spoke as he stroked her hair.
‘She turned her back on her child. She was selfish, right to the very bloody end,’ George replied, wiping at her eyes with her fingers.
She knew she was rubbing at her make-up, but she didn’t care. It felt like the floodgates of emotion had finally opened after all these years and there was nothing she could do to shut them up again.
‘She didn’t want to give him up; she had to. She didn’t want to live on the streets, she couldn’t live with Roberto, what choice did she have?’ Quinn asked.
‘She should have told Roberto if he couldn’t love her son then he didn’t really love her. She should have made her own way in life, with her son, not slit her throat open in the middle of the market square. She should have fought harder, but she was weak. She let other people tell her what she ought to do for the best,’ George spoke passionately.
‘Hey, it’s just fiction, it’s not real. Maria’s fine; her name’s Sophia, she’s a fantastic actress. I’ll introduce you if you like,’ Quinn suggested.
‘No, Maria isn’t fine. She’s damaged and she’s sad and she wants her son more than anything else, but she doesn’t know whether that’s really the right thing for him. What if she isn’t how a mother should be? What if knowing the truth isn’t the best for him?’ George questioned.
She was screwing her hands up into fists in her lap. She didn’t know what to do. She needed another drink. She wanted to shout and scream and tear at her hair. She wanted to break something.
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ Quinn asked her.
The lid was off. It had been pressurised shut for so long but now, because of the opera, because of Quinn and how he made her feel, it couldn’t be contained. Not any more.
‘I’m Maria. I had a son and I gave him up and I’ve been letting him down ever since by not acknowledging him, by letting him believe a lie,’ George blurted out, looking back at Quinn with her puffy, sore, mascara-smudged eyes.
‘You have a son,’ Quinn repeated.
She saw him swallow, saw the shock in his eyes at what she’d said. She didn’t care; she needed to tell him, no matter what the news did to him.
‘I was young, like her. I had nothing to offer him, but I wanted him. I wanted to be his mother but she told me not to. She told me it would ruin my life and I believed her,’ George carried on .
‘You believed who?’
‘My mother looked after him, brought him up as her own and kept me away from him. I was just close enough to be able to see him grow up, but far enough away not to be involved,’ George told him.
‘Adam,’ Quinn said, letting out a long, slow breath.
‘And now she wants me to tell him, because she’s really sick and we don’t know how that’s going to go.’
‘So tell him,’ Quinn told her.
‘Oh yeah, because it’s so easy. He’s going to just say, “oh great George, I thought you were my sister but now I know you’re my mum and everyone’s been lying to me for eighteen years, I feel so much better”.’
‘Why don’t you want him to know? What are you scared of?’ Quinn enquired.
‘He looks up to me now. His big sister, owning a catering company and working for you on the wedding of the millennium. He respects me. All that will fall apart if I tell him the truth.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I’m scared,’ George admitted.
‘Come here,’ Quinn said, squeezing her tighter and drawing her into his body protectively. She felt like a child being wrapped up and looked after.
He held her, stroked her hair and kissed her forehead until her crying subsided. After a while, she started to breathe almost normally again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, raising her head and meeting his eyes.
‘What for?’
‘For laying all this on you. It was the opera. It was poor, tragic Maria and her suicidal tendencies,’ George told him.
‘I’m having all the knives removed from your kitchen, first thing,’ Quinn said with half a smile .
‘That might make it difficult to prepare a wedding feast.’
Quinn smiled and smoothed away her remaining tears with his thumb.
‘And how do you feel? Now you know,’ George asked him.
‘What d’you mean?’ Quinn enquired.
‘Well, I have an eighteen-year-old son. I had him when I was sixteen. You know, bad, dirty, schoolgirl pregnancy. I’m stupid and irresponsible and not the person you thought I was,’ George spoke.
‘Why would any of that change how I feel about you?’ Quinn wanted to know.
‘Well, I’m not just the owner of a moderately successful catering business. I’m not like you thought I was. I’m someone who got herself pregnant at sixteen and gave her son to her control freak of a mother. I’ve got issues and baggage and?—’
‘And your success in business is all I’m interested in, is it? Because you have a past, I’m supposed to wash my hands of you. Maybe be shocked and disgusted and cast you out? Probably arrange to have you stoned or something?’ Quinn suggested.
‘Well, maybe not stoned.’
‘George, there’s nothing you could do, past, present or future that would change the way I feel about you. Nothing,’ Quinn said sincerely.
He looked into her eyes and touched her damp cheek with his fingers.
‘You don’t mean that,’ George told him.
‘I do. Here, look – I got you something,’ Quinn said, letting her go and reaching into the pocket of his jacket.
He took out a black leather box and handed it to her.
‘You have to stop buying me things. Marisa thinks Peacocks have started doing a line in designer swimwear… oh Quinn,’ George exclaimed when she saw what was inside.
It was an exquisite watch. It was beautiful and classic with a slim, gold band. It had an oval face outlined in silver and it was heavily encrusted with diamonds.
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s gorgeous,’ George said, swallowing a knot of emotion in her throat.
‘I had it engraved.’
He took it out of the box and turned it over in his hand to show her the reverse.
G, I’m yours, Q x
She looked at the words and slowly traced them with her fingers.
‘I mean it, George,’ he insisted.
‘I know you do,’ she answered, looking up at him.
‘If I could give you more, you know I would.’
‘I don’t want to give you up,’ George told him.
‘You don’t have to,’ Quinn said sincerely.
‘But I have to share you. We have to sneak about. We can’t kiss in the street or spend a whole day together. We can’t lie on the beach or go grocery shopping, or go out to dinner at the celebrity restaurant Marisa says does truffles…’ George began.
‘Is that where you want to go?’
‘Well no, but if I did, we just couldn’t do it.’
‘It won’t be like that forever,’ Quinn told her.
‘Won’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Then for how long?’
‘I don’t know. Until I’ve done enough to pay back what I owe Roger,’ Quinn stated with a sigh.
‘Pay him back? Pay him back for what?’ George asked.
‘Just for helping me. When I really, desperately needed it,’ Quinn replied .
‘What did he do that’s worth giving up your whole life for?’
‘He saved it once,’ Quinn answered.
‘After the accident?’ George guessed.
‘Yeah – look, let me put this on. At least we can synchronise watches, make sure we don’t miss a second,’ Quinn said, changing the subject.
George unfastened her old watch and offered him her wrist. He paused.
‘I didn’t know you had a tattoo,’ he said, swallowing as he looked at the black initial inked on the inside of her wrist.
‘Yeah. Another stupid thing I did when I was sixteen,’ George said.
‘What does the P stand for?’ Quinn asked.
‘Paul,’ George told him.
‘Is he Adam’s father?’
‘Yes.’
‘So where is he now? I guess he left you right, when the going got tough.’
‘Not like you think.’
‘There. It looks beautiful on you,’ Quinn said, admiring the watch.
‘It’s so elegant. Are you sure it’s going to go with jeans?’ George asked, admiring it.
‘It goes with you,’ Quinn replied, swallowing poignantly.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong? God, where do I start? I wish I could give you more. I wish I could just leave this stupid, dumb wedding fiasco and go somewhere where no one would find me,’ Quinn said, sighing.
‘That’s going to be a bit difficult when you’re one of the world’s most famous stars,’ George told him.
‘Maybe anonymity is what I need back. Maybe I need to go back to being John Doe,’ Quinn said, running his hands over his hair .
‘John Doe?’ George queried.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m dwelling on what I’ve got to do on Saturday, when we said we weren’t going to talk about it.’
‘Everyone else has gone. We don’t have to go yet, do we?’ George asked him, looking at the deserted theatre.
‘No, we don’t have to go yet,’ Quinn told her.
‘I’ve gone and told you everything there is to know about me tonight. It’s all Maria’s fault. Her and her tragic life. Why did you bring me here?’ George asked with a half-hearted smile.
‘I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to be moved by the music. This opera – well, the score for the opera – I wrote it,’ Quinn informed her.
‘What!’ George exclaimed, amazed.
‘I wrote it under another name. I didn’t think it went with the image Roger’s made for me. But it was just something I wanted to do,’ Quinn told her.
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ George asked him.
‘Because I didn’t know whether you would like it. I had no idea it was going to move you to tears and make you tell me all your secrets,’ Quinn said with a smile.
‘I wish you would tell me yours,’ George spoke.
‘I wish that too,’ Quinn answered, holding her hand.
It was late when he got back to the villa, the early hours. Michael was asleep on the sofa, his mouth hanging open, snoring like a walrus, an empty bottle of Fanta hanging out of his hand. This guy did fizzy drinks like a junkie did crystal meth. Quinn closed the door and went back into the kitchen.
George had a son. How did that make him feel? He’d told her it didn’t change things, but did it? He hated the sound of this Paul. The necklace she always wore and played with was obviously something to do with him. All these years and she was still wearing it like a constant reminder. He was jealous! Shit! He was jealous of a sixteen-year-old! What right did he have for jealousy? He was the one getting married. He needed to man up! He needed to get control back. He’d almost told her everything about him and Roger tonight. He couldn’t do that. Not ever. If he did, he was finished.