Strings Attached (7 page)

‘Whoa! Hold on a minute
...
’ Simon started.

‘Look, I’ve got a big job on tonight and I need to get organised,’ George spoke, lowering her eyes so as not to meet his gaze.

‘I was just asking you for a drink George, no strings. Just a chance for us to get to know each other better that’s all,’ Simon insisted.

‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m just totally manic at the moment. We will have a drink sometime. Hey, I might even let you win at pool,’ George answered, trying to diffuse the awkward atmosphere that had descended.

He was sweet and he was handsome in a boyish sort of way, but he just wasn’t for her. She didn’t know how she knew that but she knew it. There was no spark, not one.

‘Sure, I understand. Listen, I’d better get on. Got to deliver to Mrs Devonish at the tea rooms next and you know how much she talks. I’ll catch you later,’ Simon said, replacing his smile.

‘Yeah, sure and thanks for the bread,’ George replied lamely.

‘See you.’

He closed the door behind him and George let out a sigh. She hadn’t meant to be quite so hard on him. She had basically insinuated he was desperate to get her into bed. Which he probably was, but he wasn’t brazen in his attempts to woo her and she had been flirting with him for months, albeit in front of Helen and Marisa. She probably owed him a date.

But she didn’t want to owe anyone anything. She didn’t want to feel obliged to do anything she didn’t want to do. There was no future in her and Simon. He would most probably take her on a great date, she might even sleep with him, but as much as he was good looking she couldn’t imagine eating food off him or letting him cut her hair. And that was the sort of relationship she craved. It had to be intense and powerful and it had to be wild and passionate to be enduring. She wanted a soul mate. She wanted someone who ‘got’ her.

The phone began to ring.

‘Good afternoon Finger Food,’ George greeted.

‘George, you have got to like come now, right now. It’s all kicking off here,’ Marisa’s voice shouted down the phone.

‘What? What’s happening? What’s that noise I can hear?’ George questioned as she battled to hear what her employee was telling her.

‘That’s the band playing Guns ‘n’ Roses. They’ve all gone hyper from the Spam or something in the Spam, there’s like
loads
of really old people dancing really badly and head banging. Oh and Archie Reeves is being tended to by the paramedics. Seems he has a nut allergy he neglected to tell us about. Mum said she needs you here 'cause everyone is like looking to her for an explanation,’ Marisa tried to explain.

‘I’ll be two minutes,’ George replied.

‘Can you like make it one minute, if you drive really fast? Mum’s getting a migraine,’ Marisa responded.

‘Heading for the van right now, bye.’

When George arrived at the hall the ambulance was just leaving, blue lights flashing. She parked up and entered the foyer. Hearing the strains of Bon Jovi coming from behind the double doors she pushed them open and was greeted by, what could only be described as, utter carnage.

Thirty or so OAPs were on the dance floor thrashing themselves about to the band’s rock music. The blackout curtains had been torn down from the windows and were mostly being worn as capes or headdresses by the pensioners. There was food all over the floor and Helen and Marisa were trying desperately to contain the guests in the hall as a few giggling invitees were threatening to turn the occasion into an impromptu street party.

‘Who’s in charge?’ George asked, grabbing Marisa by the arm.

‘Er, well I don’t know really. Archie’s wife was kind of trying to keep things under control, but when he like keeled over she obviously like couldn’t carry on and now she’s gone in the ambulance with him,’ Marisa said.

‘Doesn’t he have any other family here?’ George enquired, surveying the room for someone who looked remotely sensible.

‘That’s his dad over there, the one using the broom as a microphone. He’s ninety four,’ Marisa replied.

‘Well, great! That’s just great. No children? A nice sensible daughter maybe?’

‘He does have a daughter, Sandra. She was here earlier, but he called her a money
-
grabbing bitch after he cut the cake and she made a comment about savouring every special occasion. She left, like just after that.’

‘OK, well the first thing I’m going to do is stop the band. You go and make strong black coffee in the biggest pot you can find,’ George ordered.

She hurried across the room, mounted the steps to the stage and grabbed hold of the lead singer. He was dressed up in 1940s military attire, as the theme of the party had demanded, but was now swinging the microphone around like he was a 1980s rock god.

‘Wind this performance up now and get off the stage,’ George hissed in his ear.

He immediately stopped his impression of the lead singer from KISS and signalled to his band mates to end the frenetic playing.

‘You were supposed to be playing Glenn Miller and Vera Lynn, not Bon Jovi and Def Leppard,’ George told him sternly when the music had finally ceased.

‘They asked for something more up tempo. We didn’t want to disappoint them and they really got into it,’ the lead singer replied.

‘Yeah, I know. Have you seen the destruction?’ George asked him, indicating the flailing arms of the partygoers and the upturned chairs and tables.

‘Sorry,’ he replied.

George jumped down off the stage and looked for the worst case of hyperactivity amongst the guests.

A woman with a pink rinse looked like her first point of call. She was still thrashing her head about, holding hands with an elderly man who seemed to have become as stiff as a board and was likely to be done an injury if she carried on shaking him with such ferocity.

‘Hello there, my name’s George. I’ve got some great coffee over here, just like the stuff you had back in the Forties, you know, before it was rationed. Shall we go and have a sit down?’ George suggested to the woman as she tried to capture her attention.

‘Coffee? Like mother used to make?’ the woman enquired her eyes turning to George and a look of excitement spreading across her face.

‘The very same. Let’s go over here and have a sit down,’ George encouraged.

She shepherded the woman over to a chair and managed to sit the stiff gentleman down next to her. It was then she noticed a huge tureen of something bright orange in the middle of the table of food. It looked like jelly and it certainly wasn’t something she had provided.

Marisa came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of coffees and Helen, looking red faced and flustered, was dragging a gyrating pensioner over to a chair at the side of the room.

‘Helen, what’s this?’ George questioned, pointing to the suspicious looking substance.

‘That’s the jelly Archie’s granddaughter made, apparently it’s very nice. No Mr Kendal, it
’
s best if you just sit still,’ Helen spoke, trying to hold her charge in his chair.

Marisa began passing out cups of coffee to the guests who were slowly coming off the dance floor and looking for somewhere to collapse.

‘Please tell me you haven’t eaten any of it,’ George said, picking up the bowl and sniffing at it.

‘No of course not, I just served it up.’

‘To everyone?’

‘Well, everyone that wanted it. That was most people,’ Helen replied as one of the old ladies vomited into her lap.

‘Great. Get the paramedics back here. Apart from being loaded with E numbers it smells like it’s got rum in it and pretty soon everyone’s going to get really sick,’ George announced.

‘Shittin’ Hell!’ Marisa remarked as the stiff man keeled over on the floor.

Seven

By the time the after-show party began that night George was exhausted again. It was just after 11.00pm and since the unplanned pensioners’ punk party she hadn’t had a minute’s break.

She, Helen and Marisa had stayed at the birthday party until they were sure all Archie Reeves’ guests were being attended to by paramedics or escorted home to bed. The hall had been a mess; there was food everywhere, streame
rs all over the place and black
out curtains lying forlornly on the dance floor, where they had been discarded during the frenzied dancing.

She knew she looked awful but she hadn’t had the time to care. She couldn’t wait to get home to bed, even though she knew she would only get four or five hours
sleep
before getting up to start catering for the party the following night. Sleep was all she could think of and she let out a yawn as she offered the platters around the packed function room, wondering if a seafood medley parcel could possibly prop her eyelids open if inserted correctly.

‘My dear George! Miss Finger Food herself! My darling, tell me what you have done to this lamb! It’s gorgeous, it’s divine, it’s delicious, it’s delectable, it’s every word beginning with ‘d’ I can think of and more. It’s wonderful!’ Michael shouted excitedly, slapping her on the back as he bounded up to her and jolted her away from thoughts of sleep.

‘Oh Michael, thank you,’ George responded, stifling another yawn.

‘No, thank
you
darling. People think I am a party planning genius and guests are picking up your business cards, like they were money off vouchers for Harrods,’ Michael informed her.

‘That’s really good,’ George answered.

‘I’m sensing a slight lack of enthusiasm here. Your company could be huge I tell you. Huge!’ Michael exclaimed, waving his arms about theatrically.

George smiled and offered him the tray of canapés she was holding.

‘Oh, the seafood medley is tempting me. Should I indulge?’ he asked, gazing adoringly at the plate.

And then her attention was diverted to the double doors of the function room as they were fiercely swung open.

Quinn Blake entered, an acoustic guitar slung around his neck and Belch at his side. They began to play as they walked across the room, enthralling all the guests with an instantly recognisable melody. It was one of Quinn’s biggest hits ‘By Your Side’ and even George had heard it played over and over on the radio. It sounded different now though; there were no electronic overtones, no drum and bass keeping a rhythm, just two guitars and Quinn’s smooth confident voice.

He moved into the centre of the room singing and playing, bewitching every guest present, stopping all conversations and turning every head. George watched as he mounted a table and began to strum out the crescendo to the song. Then in one swift movement Belch jumped up alongside him and the two men duelled on the guitars, encouraging people to clap along in time.

George fumbled with her tray, trying to hold it and clap at the same time. She glanced over at Adam. His tray was abandoned on the floor in front of him and he was watching Quinn and Belch in awe, mesmerised by their performance.

Marisa was also enjoying the show, hopping about in an excited state, giggling and glowing as she stood in prime position at the foot of the table Quinn and Belch had got up on.

With loud
,
raucous strumming and harmonised vocals the musicians ended the song and the whole room erupted into rapturous applause.

George watched as Quinn jumped down from the table and passed his guitar over to Belch. Guests hurried to surround him and compliment him
,
but although sharing a few words and smiling, he began to walk purposefully away from the crowds and straight towards her.

George quickly picked up her tray which contained less than half a dozen seafood medley parcels and prepared to leave for the sanctuary of the kitchen. Her heart was thumping in her chest.

But there was a large group in her way, giggly from champagne and blocking her route. She wasn’t quite quick enough. Before she could disappear Quinn stood in front of her, his soulful eyes fixed on her.

‘Hello,’ she greeted in her weakest voice ever, trying desperately not to fixate on his lips.

‘Meet me outside. Fire exit door, ten minutes,’ he told her.

She looked directly at him now, her eyes widening with every second that passed, trying to digest his words.

‘Ten minutes,’ he repeated leaving no doubt.

Then he reached out, took a seafood medley parcel from the tray and turned back to his adoring public, smiling and accepting their appreciation of his music.

George swallowed a knot of fear and excitement and looked at her watch. No, what was she doing? Why was she looking at her watch? She didn’t need to know when ten minutes was, because she was not going to have some clandestine meeting with someone she barely knew. OK, so she knew what the inside of his mouth felt like, but she knew nothing about him in the ordinary sense. He was a celebrity, a rock star who adorned magazine covers and she was not in the market for being anyone’s plaything.