Chapter 32
32
‘So, what salad dressing did he want?’ Marisa barked when George entered the villa an hour and a half later.
She’d drunk three bottles of San Miguel in the bar of the golf club, walked a mile around the complex and kicked a chunk out of the exterior wall of the wedding castle. She’d been angry and sad and mad, all at the same time. She didn’t know what to do. She was angry with Roger Ferraro for being some sort of evil puppeteer, but she was more furious with Quinn for not having the balls to stand up for himself. What sort of man was he if he let himself be dictated to by someone who was prepared to sacrifice his own daughter’s happiness for the sake of the perfect brand?
‘What?’ George asked, opening the fridge and taking out another bottle of beer.
‘The big meeting with the Daddy of Pop. What dressing for the mixed leaves? Or should I say, what did he think about you and Quinn getting down and dirty on the sly?’
‘Marisa! George is your boss! You don’t speak to her like that; have some manners. You were brought up, not dragged up. I know we come from Merthyr Tydfil, but we still have standards,’ Helen told her.
‘Have you been drinking?’ Adam asked, scrutinising her .
‘Yeah. So what?’ George retorted, gulping down the lager.
‘Oh. My. God. She’s gone on a bender because Roger went all mental and…’ Marisa started.
‘Marisa! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Go and get in the pool. That’s where you and Adam were heading to, wasn’t it?’ Helen queried.
‘Yeah but…’ Marisa started.
‘There’s bugger-all point talking to her when she’s been drinking anyway,’ Adam said harshly and he led the way towards the patio doors.
‘Wait for me! Remember I’ve got first dibs on the lilo!’ Marisa exclaimed, chasing after him.
George finished the bottle of lager and opened the fridge to retrieve another.
‘Are you going to lecture me?’ she asked Helen.
‘Of course not.’
‘Because I’m your boss?’
‘No, because I can see you’re not in the mood for a lecture. You’ve probably had to endure all sorts of terrible shouting from that brash American man who looks like an overinflated Lenny Henry,’ Helen said.
‘How long have you known?’
‘I overheard you on the phone the other day. I tried not to listen, stuck my fingers in my ears and hummed “What’s New Pussycat” but I’d already heard his name and…’
‘He had all these photos – intimate photos. We weren’t very discreet and he tried to pay for my silence,’ George explained hurriedly, hugging the bottle to her chest like a comfort blanket.
‘Quinn?!’
‘No, not Quinn. Quinn just sat there and said nothing. Then he told me to take the money.’
‘No! What a sod! I mean, who do these celebrities think they are? They live on another planet, they really do. Thinking they can use and abuse people, treat them badly and get away with it! I hope you told him exactly what you think of him,’ Helen said, folding her arms across her chest.
‘I’m in love with him, Helen and he’s in love with me,’ George stated. She took a long swig of her drink, savouring the burn on the back of her throat.
‘But I thought he told you to?—’
‘Roger’s controlling him. He’s got some hold on him. I don’t know what, he won’t tell me, but the whole wedding’s a sham,’ George explained.
‘Jesus wept!’ Helen exclaimed.
‘We’ve still got the catering contract, but to be honest – he didn’t stand up to him. He should have told him to go to hell; that was his chance. Our relationship was exposed, that was his opportunity to man up, and he just sat there,’ George said, putting the bottle to her mouth and running her lip over the rim.
‘I don’t know what to say, you poor girl. To find someone and for it to be him, with all his celebrity hang-ups and a domineering manager and?—’
‘A fiancée,’ George added.
‘Yes, well, Geraint was engaged to someone when we got together, but for Christ’s sake, don’t let Marisa find out. Bronwen she was called, liked cardigans and would have had Geraint tending her smallholding of sheep if she had had her way. Well, that wasn’t my Geraint so I offered him a way out. Fried breakfasts every morning, no re-runs of Countryfile , more home-made wine than he could shake a stick at and absolutely no Fair Isle tank tops.’
‘You can’t tell anyone.’
‘As if I would! What are you going to do?’ Helen asked her.
‘There’s only one thing I can do. Serve them their wedding breakfast and act like I don’t care. What other choice do I have?’ George answered.
The upstairs of the castle had been decked out in candy pink by the evening. There were balloons, streamers, drapes at the windows and horrible fluffy love hearts dotted about the place. It was making George feel sick. The bachelorettes were downing champagne like it was going out of fashion and so far, they were in a gaggle at a table at one end of the room, being played flamenco tunes by a three-piece, Spanish guitar band.
‘Er, when d’you think it’s going to like liven up? And where are like all the people? Wasn’t she supposed to have ninety-nine friends here? Not like about thirty,’ Marisa continued.
‘Apparently, the plane carrying her family and friends got delayed. They’re not going to get here until tomorrow now,’ Helen chipped in.
‘Where did you hear that?’ George asked.
‘I heard Michael on the phone,’ Helen spoke, putting a platter down on the table.
‘Great, canapés for a hundred, and twenty-five people to eat them. Some bachelorette party this is going to be,’ George answered.
‘Stags might be extra hungry,’ Adam suggested.
‘For spinach and carrot tartlets and tuna and chive wraps?’ George asked.
‘Maybe,’ Adam said.
‘And where are the happy bachelors anyway? Shouldn’t they be here by now?’ George questioned.
‘It’s still early,’ Helen assured her.
‘Yeah well, I’m going back to the kitchen to fire the staff. We don’t need them,’ George said in a matter-of-fact manner.
‘George! Don’t do that! We might need them tomorrow! Oh Christ!’ Helen exclaimed as George disappeared from the room .
‘Is she OK, Helen? Should she really be here? I mean, how much has she had to drink?’ Adam asked, concerned.
‘I’m sure she’s fine, just anxious, you know, about the wedding. She wants to make sure everything goes to plan, you know, for Finger Food,’ Helen said, thinking on her feet.
The staff were picking up their bags and personal possessions just as Helen and Marisa came out from under the tunnel.
‘What’s going on? Where’s everyone going?’ Marisa enquired.
‘Away from here, out of my sight, anywhere; I don’t care,’ George informed, pushing past some of the staff and entering the catering wagon.
‘What? But some of them are my team. They make good coffee and Sally’s lending me some earrings that like totally match my outfit for the wedding,’ Marisa exclaimed in horror.
‘We don’t need them. They’re useless and they just get in the way,’ George told her.
‘But we can’t do all the serving on our own at the wedding. I mean, if we do, we’ll be moving up and down the tunnel like a Eurostar on speed,’ Marisa continued.
‘Best start practising then,’ George answered as the bell on the oven went off, indicating the readiness of the canapés.
‘Marisa, why don’t you take the food up to the castle, see if any stags have arrived. The Chinese food will be here any minute and you never know, Belch might be there,’ Helen suggested to her daughter.
‘You mean bachelors, Mother, not stags,’ Marisa said with a shake of her head .
‘Here, put them on this platter and take them up,’ Helen instructed as George began to rifle through the fridge for anything remotely alcoholic.
‘You won’t be long, will you? I mean it’s only me and Adam and…’ Marisa began.
‘Marisa, I’m putting you in charge,’ Helen told her seriously.
‘In charge?!’ Marisa responded predictably.
‘Yes. Now go and make sure everyone has enough to eat and check what needs restocking,’ Helen ordered.
‘OK. Will do,’ Marisa replied.
She took the tray and hurried out of the wagon, the air of managerial status flying out with her.
‘Why the fuck isn’t there anything in here? Where’s the white wine?’ George questioned, turfing out ingredients and not caring.
‘George, you have to calm down,’ Helen told her kindly.
‘Why? Why do I have to calm down?’ she asked, glaring at Helen.
‘Because if you don’t, you’re in danger of ruining the reputation of Finger Food. A reputation you’ve worked so hard to build up,’ Helen continued.
‘Who cares?’
‘You do.’
‘Yeah well, maybe not as much as I used to,’ George replied, pulling out a bottle of white wine from the back of the fridge. It was supposed to be used in the sauce on wedding day, but what the hell!
She unscrewed the lid and took a long swig from it.
‘George, he’s engaged to someone else. He’s getting married in two days. Whether it’s a sham or not, that’s what’s happening,’ Helen reminded.
‘Don’t you think I know that? I can’t get away from it. The whole wedding thing is going on twenty-four hours a sodding day and I’m catering it!’ George said, drinking more of the wine.
‘It’s going on twenty-four hours a day because we’re in the middle of it, aren’t we? Was it going on when you took the job? You and Quinn?’ Helen questioned.
‘I didn’t want the job, not really. You and Marisa persuaded me it was the best thing to happen to the company. We were all going to get rich and well-known and win lots more lucrative contracts,’ George spoke.
‘That’s unfair. We didn’t know you were sleeping with the groom,’ Helen retorted.
George chose not to reply and took another drink of the wine.
‘Getting drunk and showing yourself up isn’t going to make any of this easier. I mean, it might have worked at the pub back in the day but now…’ Helen started.
‘What will make it easier then, Helen? Because I could really do with knowing that right now.’
‘Nothing will make it easier, I’m afraid, not if you love him,’ Helen told her.
‘Then what’s the point?’
‘The point is Finger Food. It’s your business. The business you built up from nothing. You’re a successful businesswoman, George, with everything going for you. Don’t lose sight of what’s important. Think of all the hours you put in studying, getting that catering qualification, begging the bank for a loan. You made them all believe in you,’ Helen told her.
‘Oh Helen, it isn’t just this mess, it’s everything else on top of it! It’s Adam and it’s my mother. I mean – get this – my mother has cancer and I don’t feel a thing!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My mother, she’s ruined me! She’s made me like this, the way I am! Did you know she spent every waking second since I let her down hating me? And now she has cancer, she wants to let bygones be bygones and for me to tell her it’s OK. Well it isn’t fucking OK. She did this when she pushed me away. I’m cold and barricaded by some force-field for the emotionally inept. That’s what you do, you see, when you’ve given and been rejected. Up go the shutters, no admittance, sorry, no second date. A nice kiss on the doorstep and a fumble in the car, but that’s your lot,’ George continued.
‘Quinn got through the shutters, didn’t he,’ Helen remarked.
‘He burst through them, Helen. He shattered them, tore them down, until there was nothing left,’ George admitted, trying hard to stop the tears filling up in her eyes.
She couldn’t give in to the tears. They made her feel weak and pathetic and she didn’t want to feel like that. She wanted to feel angry and she wanted that rage to fill her up, right to the top.
‘Oh George, I’m sorry if I sounded harsh,’ Helen sympathised.
‘Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it. It’s just no one’s ever done that to me, not since Paul. And that was such a long time ago, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like,’ George said.
She was shaking now and the bottle in her hands felt heavy.
‘Why didn’t you tell me when it started?’ Helen asked her.
‘Because I was finding it hard enough to admit what was happening to myself, let alone anyone else.’
Marisa burst into the wagon, hair flying across her face and beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.
‘Can I like have some help now? Bachelors have arrived and they’re already drunk. Belch has pulled down some of the drapes, Taylor’s doing her nut and they’re stripping Michael!’ she said breathlessly.