Strings Attached (36 page)

She lifted her hand, knocked hard on the door and opened it, biting down on the inside of her cheek. She bravely stepped into the lion’s lair.

The ice cold air
-
conditioned atmosphere hit her as soon as she set foot into the room, giving her immediate goose bumps on her arms. It made her instantly ill at ease and even more uncomfortable. If that were possible.

Roger and Quinn were sat behind a table facing her. There was a cream coloured tablecloth covering it and a large urn of orange lilies to Roger’s left. All that was missing from this press conference arrangement, were the journalists, the row of microphones and the name cards. Quinn’s head was hung. His eyes were focussed on the floor. Only Roger met her gaze and his expression wasn’t pretty. His brow was furrowed deeper than a ploughed field, his olive complexion was glistening with sweat and he was drumming his fingers on the table.

‘Sit down,’ he barked, pointing at the chair in front of them.

She wished Quinn would just look up. She knew what was about to happen. She knew she was about to lose the best job Finger Food had ever had. But that faded into insignificance because she also knew, unless he made his stand now, she was going to lose him too.

She sat down in the chair and maintained eye contact with the music mogul. The man was a bully. He had some hold over Quinn, but she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.

‘You know why you’re here,’ Roger said his drumming fingers increasing in intensity.

‘Actually I don’t. Should I?’ George asked bravely, still wanting Quinn to do something.

At her reply, Quinn’s shoulders seemed to arch even more, and his head sunk lower. His left shoulder turned in and he shifted uneasily on his seat.

Roger scoffed. Air seemed to shoot out of his nostrils as he threw an A4 manila envelope onto the table in front of her.

‘Open it,’ he ordered.

George reached for the envelope and slipped her fingers underneath the self-seal top. She pul
led out the contents and held them
in her hands.
There were a
pile of photographs. On each one were her and Quinn. They were all stills from that very afternoon, when they’d been together on the secluded beach. The heat crept up her neck as she looked at them. Apart from the fact they were both naked and engaged in more than picnicking, the thing that stood out more than anything else, was the intensity on both
of
their faces. It was passion and desire worthy of a Hollywood film.

George finished looking at the photos, put them back in the envelope and placed it back on the table.

‘I was couriered these. You have no idea what I had to promise to keep them out of the public domain,’ Roger informed her.

George didn’t speak. She just held his gaze and waited for what was coming.

‘This stops now. You get me? I am well aware of Quinn’s inability to fend off overzealous fans, but this public display is an outrage!’ Roger continued.

‘Over
zealous fan,’ George spoke, looking at Quinn who was still engaged in studying his Havaianas.

‘I am not prepared to let someone like you ruin this wedding. So let’s strike a deal. You stay away from Quinn and make no mention of this dalliance to anybody, and you get to keep the catering contract, plus
a little bonus of say – ten thousand dollars?
’ Roger negotiated.

‘You’re going to pay me to keep quiet,’ George said, shaking her head.

‘OK, twenty thousand
. But that is my final offer and it’s far more than you’re going to get from any magazine deal,’ Roger continued.

‘I find that insulting,’ George told him.

‘Take the money,’ Quinn said finally raising his head and looking at her.

‘Take the money? I don’t want the money! And I can’t believe he is going to let his daughter marry you when he can see from these photos that you don’t love her,’ George said anger rising in her.

‘George, please. Just take it,’ Quinn begged.

‘Tell him the truth. Tell him you don’t love her,’ George said her eyes pleading with him.

‘This discussion isn’t about love. It’s about the wedding. A wedding we’ve been planning for a long time, a wedding that will be going ahead as long as there’s breath in my body,’ Roger informed her sternly.

‘You know he doesn’t love her? Oh my God! Is this for real? You know he doesn’t love her and you’re making them get married!’ George exclaimed.

‘This conversation is over; I’ll have a cheque sent over to your accommodation. You may leave,’ Roger said, holding his hand out and indicating the door.

‘I don’t want the money. But I’ll take these,’ George said, snatching up the envelope.

‘I can’t let you do that! Put them down!’ Roger exclaimed, getting to his feet and flapping his arms about.

‘Look at them Quinn. Look at your face, look at mine. Are you really going to let him make you say goodbye to that?’ George asked, fanning the pictures out in front of him.

Quinn looked up at her, tears on the brink of falling from his eyes. He shook his head.

‘We’re done here. The next time I see you I’d like it to be fully clothed, carrying a plate of chicken and rice,’ Roger told her.

She took a last look at Quinn and turned on her heel. She marched from the room, full of anger, despondency and desperation. It was over.

He was in freefall now, internally tumbling through the darkest, deepest ravine. He had lost her, the one person who got him, whoever that was. The one person who made him feel real. Why was he so weak?

Thirty Two

‘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.