Authors: Mandy Baggot
‘You loved him though? It wasn’t just kids stuff,’ Quinn said.
‘Yes, I loved him. We loved each other,’ George replied.
Quinn nodded and brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
‘It was like you and me. We had this instant connection, we couldn’t be separated,’ George spoke.
‘Until you were,’ Quinn reminded.
‘Yeah, like we will be,’ George said with an air of finality.
‘Not in here though. Never in here,’ Quinn said, bringing her hand down onto his chest.
‘What if that isn’t enough? What if this ‘debt’ you owe Roger takes ten years to pay off? What am I supposed to do? Live on text sex, emails and the occasional visit? I mean transatlantic flights aren’t a Ryanair hop across the water are they? And there’s no Concorde any
more. We’re talking what? Eight? Nine hours?’ George told him.
‘It won’t take ten years. I’m not waiting ten years for us to be together. I just need to get this wedding out of the way and let the dust settle,’ Quinn spoke.
‘And how long will that take? Six months? A year? All the time sleeping with her, while I what? Live like a nun surviving on the vibration of my Samsung?’ George asked.
‘What d’you want me to say George? I’m trying to be honest with you. You know I’m marrying Taylor, you’ve always known that. I just need to do it and then move on, as quickly as I can,’ Quinn said.
‘You’re making it sound like a transaction. It’s a wedding Quinn! You’ve just clung to me and cried out my name and torn at my back and you’re going to stand up in front of the world and lie to them all. You’re going to sell everyone a false fairytale.’
‘I’m already lying to them OK! I’m lying to them everyday anyway! One more big, fat, costly, fiesta sized lie isn’t going to make a bit of f**king difference!’ Quinn blasted.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘We’d better go,’ Quinn said, taking a breath and getting to his feet.
‘No Quinn, not like this. We’ve just had the most perfect time here. We’re going to talk this out. You’re going to tell me what’s going on with you,’ George said, grabbing hold of his t-shirt as he bent to pick it off the sand.
‘I can’t talk it out and I don’t want to,’ he answered stubbornly.
‘You don’t want to! Oh, OK then. You don’t want to so we won’t! Listen, I’m not one of your minions who shops and cooks for you. I’m your - I’m - you know what? I don’t know what I am,’ George said.
She threw his t-shirt up to him and began hurriedly pulling on her clothes, scattering sand.
‘George! Don’t you dare walk away from me!’ Quinn yelled as she began to stagger through the sand, fastening her trousers as she went.
‘Why? Because you want to be the one doing the walking? No! I’m done. I’m out. Enjoy your marriage. Find another lover. I’m sure they’ll be queuing up - well - before they read the article about your really tiny dick,’ George screamed at him.
Tears were burning her eyes as she looked at him. There he was, topless and perfect, the sun glancing off his torso, the wind blowing his hair. Suddenly her heart was filled with memories of Paul. The despair when he left, her hand against the glass, Paul’s expression of loss. She could still see the car disappearing around the corner at the end of her road. Her throat had been sore, her insides had ached. It was happening all over again.
She sank to her knees on the beach and hugged herself into a ball. What did she have if she didn’t have him? Finger Food. Work was all she had and that had been all she needed, until now. Until she’d had a taste of something else.
‘Now you listen to me! All this exhibitionist behaviour will get you nowhere with me. You hear?’ Quinn said, pulling her head up from her knees and enveloping her against his chest.
‘Leave me alone! I’m fine! It’s you! You’re making me remember things that hurt. You’ve opened up old wounds and poured rock salt in them! You’ve made me feel all over again and I don’t want the pain! I can’t go back there!’ George blasted, thumping his chest with her fist.
‘Hey, what do you think you’ve done to me? I’ve written thirty two songs since we met. Thirty two. That’s going to be one Hell of an album! But they’re all so personal I can’t use any of them and I’ve got a big f**king deadline looming.’
‘Well I apologise!’
‘So you should because at least ten of those songs are the best I’ve ever written. Because I wrote them the night we first met,’ Quinn told her, holding her tightly by the wrists.
‘Let me go!’
‘No.’
‘Let me go,’ she repeated.
‘Never.’
‘I can’t be with you. Not when I know you’re with her. Touching her the way you’ve touched me,’ George said, biting her lip and raising her eyes to meet his.
‘George, I’ve never touched anyone the way I touch you.’
She shook her head trying to shake romanticism out of it and let reason in. She wanted to believe him, but there was too much at stake.
‘I know I’m asking so much of you, but can you trust me? Just let me handle this and then I promise you I’m yours. For good,’ Quinn said, linking his hand with hers.
‘Don’t say that unless you really mean it.’
‘Hand on my really small penis, cross my heart, hope to die.’
George shook her head and stifled a laugh.
‘Come on, we can do this. What we’ve got, it’s worth waiting for isn’t it?’ he asked, raising her head with his hand.
‘Kiss me and I’ll let you know.’
Quinn moved his head towards hers and slowly their lips met. She clung to his bare torso and pushed him back down to the sand.
Thirty One
He didn’t see the punch coming. He faltered backwards, putting a hand to his lip.
‘You f**king moron! What the f**k do you think you’re doing? Have you lost your mind?!’ Roger screamed at the top of his voice.
‘What the Hell?! I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ Quinn responded tentatively.
‘Don’t you patronise me you little bastard! Sit down!’ Roger ordered.
‘Hi guys. Sorry I was gone a while. I got all the way to the supermarket and then there was a change of plan. Apparently the bachelors are having takeaway tonight instead - what’s the matter?’ George asked.
It was three hours since she had left the catering wagon. Now she was hot and flushed from the sun and the sex and covered in sand. Marisa, Adam and Helen were all looking at her, anxious expressions on their faces.
‘Nothing, everything’s fine. We’ve almost finished the vegetarian canapés and we were going to make a start on the prep for the wedding,’ Helen spoke quickly.
‘Mother, you have to tell her!’ Marisa exclaimed.
George removed her sunglasses and put them on the counter. Her stomach was already contracting in anticipation of what was going to be said.
‘Tell me what?’
‘Roger Ferraro wants to see you. He came here in person, looking for you. He looked really
,
seriously pissed off,’ Adam filled in.
She felt sick. It could only be one thing. He wouldn’t have visited in person to discuss culinary matters. That was Michael or Pixie’s job; this was about her and Quinn. He knew. She swallowed the feeling down, and stuck her finger in a bowl of mixture in front of Marisa.
‘This is good. Did you make this?’ George asked her, eating it.
‘George? Did you not hear what I said? What’s going on?’ Adam asked.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on. Why are you all looking so serious? It will be some stupid detail about serving green beans as well as mixed leaves with the main course or something. You know how they all faff about over things here. I mean Michael was practically having a heart attack over the napkins being a shade too cream the other day,’ George gabbled.
‘That’s what I said! I expect Taylor’s stamped her feet and got Daddy running around for h
er, chivvying everyone up and...
’ Helen started.
‘Marisa’s got a theory about your mystery man. She thinks it’s Quinn Blake,’ Adam stated his eyes fixed on George.
‘I thought you were convinced it was Eddie the drummer,’ George responded, dipping her finger into another bowl of mixture and tasting it.
‘Well, it all adds up now. All the secrecy, the designer clothes, the three grand watch, Roger Ferraro looking pissed,’ Marisa said energetically.
‘Have you seen Quinn Blake’s fiancée? Isn’t she something like number five in America’s hottest actress poll in
Star Life
magazine? Aren’t we catering their wedding?’ George asked them.
The scratches on her back were smarting against the thin material of her t-shirt as she avoided the accusations. This was not a good situation.
‘She’s mental though and spends days on end at beauty parlours, I mean you, you
...
’ Marisa began.
‘Spend all day making sandwiches and treating OAPs for binge drinking,’ George offered.
‘So your mystery man isn’t Quinn Blake?’ Adam asked directly.
‘Look, I’ve been seeing Pac
o OK? You know, Paco, the one...
’
‘In charge of tablecloths! No George! Not him! He’s so, Spanish looking, with facial hair and there is like no way he could afford a watch like that,’ Marisa said, pointing to George’s wrist.
‘His family actually run a linen empire. They’ve got factories all over Europe. Not that his finances are any of your business. And while we’re on the subject, neither is my love life,’ George exclaimed.
With that comment made, her mobile phone began to vibrate in the pocket of her combats.
‘That’ll be him. That’ll be Quinn saying the game’s up. Is it him? Let me see!’ Marisa squealed as George got her mobile out of her pocket and checked the display.
‘Marisa! Will you leave George alone before she decides to sack you!’ Helen reprimanded.
It was an unknown number, but she knew who it was.
‘Hello,’ she greeted quietly.
‘Is that Miss Fraser?’ Roger Ferraro’s voice enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Fraser, its Roger Ferraro. I’d like to meet. Shall we say conference room three in ten?’
‘About the catering?’ George asked her team’s eyes on her.
‘I think you know this call has nothing to do with the catering. Ten minutes,’ the now enraged voice said. The call was rapidly ended.
George quickly smiled at Helen, Adam and Marisa, replacing the phone in her pocket.
‘Who was it?’ Adam wanted to know.
‘Roger Ferraro. Something about salad dressing. There’s a meeting in ten minutes,’ George said, picking up her bag and sunglasses.
‘Ten minutes. Well I need to redo my lipstick. Mother can I borrow your mirror?’ Marisa asked, dropping the fork in her mixing bowl and turning to Helen.
‘It’s not for everyone, just me,’ George said, swallowing.
All this pretence was killing her. Roger must know about her and Quinn. The shit was going to hit the fan, she was going to lose the man she loved and the lucrative catering contract. She had lied to her closest friends and Adam for months. What would they think of her? Whatever was going to happen in conference room three was going to change everything.
‘Of course it is! I mean why would he need the whole team to talk about salad dressing? I said about dressing the other day didn’t I? I said, I expect they will want some sort of vinaigrette. That’s what they’re like these Americans. Can’t have anything plain can they? Everything always has to be slathered in something,’ Helen babbled, distracting Marisa as George prepared to go.
‘He didn’t look like he wanted to discuss salad dressing earlier. He actually looked like he wanted to kill someone - slowly,’ Marisa said, looking straight at George.
‘Right well, on that note, I’d better go,’ George said her hand on the door.
‘Just a second. Here, take a bottle of water, it must be over a hundred degrees out there,’ Helen said, grabbing a bottle and going up to her.
George took it and it was then Helen whispered in her ear:-
‘I know about Quinn and you have seaweed stuck on the back of your trousers.’
Conference room three had a brass name plaque with black writing stating what it was. The door knob was scratched in two places, and the kick plate had half a dozen small rubber lines on it, where people had thumped it with marking soles. She could see ugly troll faces in the grains of the wood and there was an indistinguishable orange stain about three quarters of the way up. It reminded her of the insides of a York Fruits sweet.
Should she knock? Who was in there? Just Roger? Roger and Quinn? Taylor? She balled her hands into fists and took her hundredth deep breath. Not only did she have to face whatever was going to be thrown at her from behind the door, now Helen knew the truth, she was going to have more explaining to do later. At least she would have something to do on the plane ride home, once she was unceremoniously booted out of La Manga.