Champagne Supernova
‘It’s the birthday girl!’
As they walked into the hotel bar, George was there to meet them with a bottle of champagne and an outrageous suntan.
Arms flung wide, wearing a shirt with a print louder than his voice and, despite being inside, a classic pair of Ray-Bans, he sprang up from the velvet sofa like an excited Labrador.
‘Hello, George.’
‘Fuck me, you’re old.’
‘You’ll be next.’
‘If I’m lucky.’
He laughed loudly, giving her a big hug and engulfing her in his large frame, while Maggie quickly made the introductions.
‘George, this is Flick; Flick, this is George.’
Flick looked at George like she’d never seen anyone quite like him, which was to be expected, as that’s how people usually reacted to George the first time they met him. He had a presence. Like an actor you might see at the theatre playing the lead role, only George was only ever playing himself.
The champagne was chilling in an ice bucket awaiting their arrival, and popping it open with a flourish, George quickly filled three flutes and handed them around.
‘Happy Birthday!’ Raising a toast, he took a thirsty glug. ‘So come on, spill the beans, what’s been happening?’
Maggie and Flick exchanged looks. Still both reeling from the events of the past twenty-four hours, they sank onto the sofa and took dazed sips. The champagne was ice-cold and fizzed as it weaved down to their empty stomachs. Where on earth do you start?
‘Caught the bastard yet?’
‘Shh, George.’ Mindful of Flick’s recent revelation, Maggie tried to silence him. But she should’ve known: George was not a man to be silenced.
‘What? Are we not calling him a bastard now? OK, what did we decide on. Liar? Wanker? Total shithead, The Biggest Mistake of Your Life—’
‘I went to meet Him.’
‘He’s my dad.’
They both spoke at once.
George’s mouth was still moving but no sound was coming out, like one of those cartoon characters you see running off a cliff and not realizing the ground has disappeared beneath them.
‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you lost for words,’ noted Maggie. ‘Oh, yeah, and we won at roulette in Monte Carlo and used our winnings to chase him around Europe.’
‘We rented a car and drove to Italy –’
‘– and Flick threw up all over the Amalfi Coast.’
‘Thank God it wasn’t in the honeymoon suite.’
‘Crikey, can you imagine, over all those rose petals?’
‘Mopping it up with a swan-shaped towel?’
They both looked at each other, imagining – it was all so comically awful – then drank more champagne. It was going down surprisingly well.
‘Then I hiked up a volcano in Sicily –’
‘– and I made lasagne with The Godmother –’
‘– and in Mallorca Mags got her bag stolen along with her phone.’
‘So I lost his number.’
‘They’d been texting each other. I had no idea.’
‘I was going to confront him; he was right there, sitting in the bar where we’d arranged to meet, but then I hit my head and got concussion and had to be taken to hospital in an ambulance –’
‘– only I didn’t know any of this as my boyfriend had surprised me by flying out to propose, but instead we broke up –’
‘She did the right thing.’
‘But then in Ibiza we went clubbing.’
‘Fourteen euros for a bottle of water, George. It was crazy!’
‘And I got totally out of it and ended up in bed with one of my girlfriends.’
‘And she told me the man who’d broken my heart was her dad.’
‘A romance fraudster who ruins women’s lives.’
‘And The Biggest Mistake of My Life.’
‘So there you have it.’
They both stopped talking and turned to George, who’d been sitting, pinned to the velvet sofa, gripping the armrest. He stared at them in stunned silence.
‘Well, say something,’ urged Maggie.
There was a pause, then, draining the rest of his glass, he slammed it on the table.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief, before breaking into one of his classic wicked grins. ‘This is better than Love Island!’