Starcrossed (8 page)

“It’s not all about you, Soph,” Alec interrupted.  “Pass us the vindaloo.”

“Get it yourself,” Sophie snapped.

Georgia went to the fridge to get the bottle of ice water and Tom met her there.  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder while they watched the drama unfold at the table.  Now Alec had accidentally put his elbow in Sophie’s rice.

Georgia rolled her eyes and gave a contented chuckle.  “Just like Romeo and Juliet, huh?”

“Yep.”  Tom nuzzled her neck gently, kissing softly beneath her ear.  “Exactly.  Except we got the happy ending.”

Two months later, on a soggy Friday evening, Georgia emerged from the tube station dressed in a floaty dress of sapphire silk bought especially for the occasion.  She hurried along the footpath, past familiar office buildings and shops, and crossed the road towards Murcott Lane.  She was running late, thanks to an unexpected delay on the Euston line, and now, as the drizzle became rain, and her heel got stuck in a stormwater grate, she wondered if the universe was up to its tricks again.  The distant rumble of thunder made her groan.

“Not this time,” she muttered as she popped her umbrella and tugged her foot free.  “Not this time.”

Her heel wobbled now as she walked.  Running was out of the question.  So Georgia took her phone from her bag, meaning to text Tom and let him know she was on her way, only three blocks to go.  But the little bar at the top of the screen was grey, not green.  She was out of charge. “Bugger!”  She tossed the phone back in her bag, slipped her shoes off, and ran.  It wasn’t too far, she told herself, ignoring the fact that her casually chic up-do had just fallen loose. And she could always buy another pair of silky dusk pantyhose.

Murcott Lane was a little slice of history among the modern office towers.  Where the cobblestones met concrete, Georgia stopped, breathless, pushed her hair off her face, and smiled as she drank in the sight before her. 

The wine bar was like a beacon in the gloom, with its sign glowing golden above the door. The strains of music drifted into the lane and Georgia recognised the chords of Tom’s warm-up routine; she’d made it just in time for his opening night.  She imagined him, sitting on a stool on the low, triangular stage that was tucked into the corner.

A small group of people were gathered under the deep awning over the door, and were slowly being ushered inside, one at a time, by a hefty bouncer. Georgia slipped her shoes back on, smoothed her dress and her hair as best she could, and walked as quickly as a wonkly heel and nineteenth century paving would allow.  Past the antique shop and the art gallery, beyond the dance studio, there seemed to be some sort of dispute happening at the wine bar door.  Georgia folded her umbrella away and moved under the awning, listening closely.

“Fire and safety regulations,” the bouncer was saying to the would-be patrons.  His tone was bored, the words sounding like they’d been repeated often.  “We’re almost at capacity, I can only let four more in.  I’ll leave it to you to decide which four, and who was here first, the others will have to wait until somebody leaves.”

Georgia didn’t hesitate and good manners be damned.  As the thunder rolled again, and the remaining group of five or six debated what to do, she caught the bouncer’s eye, smiled and slipped inside.  “Make that just three more,” the bouncer announced and the ensuing outcry was cut off as the wide, heavy door shut behind her.

Inside, the lights were dim and the atmosphere relaxed as Tom’s warm-up chords blended with the low murmur of conversation and soft laughter.  There were maybe eighty people in there, Georgia guessed, all sitting in comfy looking leather sofas and chairs positioned around low tables.  And then there was Tom. He was on the corner stage, sitting on a stool, guitar across his lap, head bowed in concentration over the strings.  Just like she’d imagined.  No-one else was paying him any attention, but Georgia was smiling as she watched him, her heart feeling too big for her chest. Suddenly he looked up, as though he’d sensed she was there.  His face lit up, his grin wide, blue eyes shining.  Georgia lifted her hand in a wave, blew some hair from her face and grinned when Tom laughed.  She pointed to a small, empty table in the far corner.  Tom nodded.  “Love you,” he mouthed and she blew him a kiss.  Then Tom turned his attention back to his guitar while somebody brought him a microphone on a stand and adjusted the height.

Georgia made her way to the back, sank into the leather, and ordered a drink and the ‘cheese platter for one’ from the waiter.  Tom looked good on stage, she thought and though she knew he was nervous, it didn’t show.  He’d spent weeks working out a good set of songs, and had finally come up with a mixture of covers, with two of his own, brand new songs thrown in.

The waiter brought her order and looked slightly aghast as Georgia reached out to take the glass.  Her fingers were stained with shades of green and blue, despite the good scrubbing she’d given them.

“Occupational hazard.  I’m an artist,” she explained. 

“Ah.”  The waiter smiled and nodded politely before moving back towards the bar.

Georgia sipped her drink and then smiled as she rubbed at a particularly stubborn spot of indigo near her thumbnail.  As she rubbed, she wondered if her vision of a night sky over chalky white ocean cliffs would be ready in time.  Submissions for the open exhibition at the Wycroft Gallery were next week and though the painting was almost done, there were still some details Georgia was struggling with.  But that was okay.  If she wasn’t ready this time, there was always next year.  In the meantime, she’d just keep painting.  And drawing. 

The first notes of a Cat Stevens classic floated through the room, and anticipation burned through Georgia’s veins.  She moved to the edge of her seat, but as Tom began to sing, she sat back again, and let his voice wash over her instead.  He was as good as he’d ever been.  Better, in fact.  His voice, his playing, all effortless and natural.  Though the crowd had initially kept up their quiet conversations, the hum of voices gradually faded away as all eyes turned to Tom.  She watched his hands as they moved over the strings, caressing them, his long fingers as gentle as a lovers.  Georgia blushed as she thought of what else she knew those fingers could do.

Tom’s next song, once the applause from the first had finally died down, was his own.  But it wasn’t one of the new compositions and Georgia recognised it instantly, almost from the first note.  Her heart skipped, and as Tom caught her eye, she smiled and raised her glass to him.  He winked, and then he began to sing.

The audience was enthralled once more as he played, and if the musician was intended as background music, that wasn’t the case tonight.  As Tom hit the chorus, the door of the wine bar opened, allowing a couple more people to enter. The group outside had obviously come to some agreement. Before it swung closed, Georgia caught a glimpse of the night sky.  The stars were out again, she noticed, shining bright.  The storm had passed.

The sight of them reminded Georgia of something.  Of a promise she’d made a long time ago, on a beach, under a similar starry sky.  Smiling, she opened her bag, pulled out the sketchbook she always carried these days, and as Tom sang a song that was sweet and sad and wrapped up in beautiful, she focused on his face, his hands, his guitar, and she began to draw.

THE END