Strings Attached (23 page)

‘Jesus! You see what I have to put up with? Factor thirty; I’ll come home whiter than I went!’ Marisa wailed as they walked back into the living room.

‘How’s your mum?’ Helen asked George quietly.

‘She’s doing OK thanks,’ George replied, spooning rice onto her plate.

‘My offer’s still there you know, if you ever need to talk,’ Helen said sincerely.

‘Thanks.’

‘I actually don’t think they even make factor thirty any more. I’m sure I read about it in
Star Life
,’ Marisa moaned.

‘So what is a catering wagon exactly?’ Helen enquired the next morning.

They had finally boarded the plane to Spain, after a short delay due to a ‘technical issue’. Marisa had suggested rather too loudly that perhaps they had found a suspicious looking rucksack hidden under a seat and Helen had to rapidly convince the other passengers that she didn’t travel often and she watched too many episodes of
Spooks
.

‘I have no idea but, according to Pixie, it has about ten ovens and hobs and everything a mobile catering unit requires. Apparently it’s going to be parked behind Channel Nine’s television studio,’ George informed, checking her boarding card and moving into a seat by the window.

‘Now how glamorous does that sound? Television studio!’ Marisa said
still wearing the enormous sung
lasses she had bought in
D
uty
F
ree.

She squeezed in next to George and hit her nose on the back of the seat in front of her. Helen sat down next to her and Adam took a seat across the aisle.

George fastened her seat belt and leaned forward to smile at Adam. He smiled back and picked up the in
-
flight magazine. He looked at the cover and held it up for George to see. Before she had a chance to look, Marisa let out a squeal of delight and thrust the magazine into George’s face.

‘Look! It’s Quinn! On the front cover! How like ironic is that?!’ Marisa exclaimed.

George looked at the front cover. It was Quinn, dressed in a half done up white dress shirt, bow tie undone and dangling from his collar, chest exposed, violin in his hand, eyes dazzlingly blue.

She swallowed, a pang of longing clogging her chest. She needed to get him out of her system. Perhaps seeing Taylor in her wedding dress would finally do that.

‘I’m starving. When do they start coming round with the food?’ Marisa wanted to know.

‘We usually have to be in the air first,’ George told her, looking out of the window at the tarmac and the familiar green of the English countryside.

The captain introduced himself. Andrew Weeks with a clipped Home Counties accent that made him sound like he had studied aviation at Eton. George was reassured by the calm manner and air of authority in his tone and the fact he sounded educated. If the plane went into a nosedive because an engineer had left his mug of tea on the wing, Andrew Weeks sounded like the man to handle the situation.

The stewards and stewardesses
performed
their life saving/emergency exits demonstration, and before too long, they were at the end of the runway preparing to be given clearance to take off.

‘Oh.
My.
God, I like hate it when the engines rev like that. Arrrrrrrrrgh!’ Marisa screamed out loud as the plane began to race down the runway to get up to speed.

‘Sshh, you’re freaking the little kids out,’ George said as she gripped hold of the seat arm and braced herself for the take off.

‘Argh! Argh! We’re going to crash!’ Marisa shouted.

Helen put a hand over her daughter’s mouth and pushed her head down into her lap. Her cries were now muffled by a leg.

‘Is she always like this on flights?’ George enquired as the jet left the ground and began its ascent into the clouds.

‘We used to go every year to Geraint’s cousin’s villa in France when Marisa was small. Two trips on a plane with her screaming and being sick and we took the ferry after that,’ Helen replied.

‘Give her something to suck,’ Adam suggested.

‘God! Rephrase that please,’ George said.

‘A sweet,’ Adam added.

‘Mint Marisa?’ George offered, getting the packet of sweets out of her bag.

‘Mint,’ Marisa growled.

She shook herself free from her mother’s hand-hold and sat up, grabbing the sweet and popping it into her mouth in one quick movement.

‘It’s not natural,’ Marisa said, taking a deep breath as she sucked on the sweet.

‘What’s not natural?’ Helen enquired.

‘Flying - arrgh!’ Marisa screeched as the plane bumped slightly.

‘Lucky it’s only two hours,’ George remarked as Helen held her daughter’s hand.

He was going to see her today and he was buzzing. He’d even managed a smile when Taylor talked about seating plans over breakfast. He couldn’t give a toss who sat where, he was thinking about George and how much time he could manage to spend with her. God he’d missed her. He hoped she felt the same. He hadn’t been able to call but she’d understand. She knew the position he was in. He’d spelt it out enough times. The fact he was stuck somewhere he didn’t want to be. She would understand and when they saw each other again, the time apart would be history.

The plane touched down on time, catching up the delay in England, and George was glad to arrive in the airport terminal. Marisa had drunk can after can of Coke on the journey, kept getting up and down for the toilet and gripping her arm whenever they hit the slightest bit of turbulence.

‘Oh.
My.
God, it’s like boiling! Did you feel the sun out there?’ Marisa questioned as they lined up to go past border control.

‘Yeah, it’s great. I know what I’m doing as soon as I get to the villa. Trunks on and into the pool,’ Adam said happily.

‘Well, let’s not get carried away. Pixie might have plans for us,’ George answered.

Pixie the wedding planner was an organisation obsessive. She had spoken to George almost every day since she was hired. She had checked and rechecked the ingredients and equipment they would require. She had finalised flight times and collection arrangements at least three times and only yesterday she had rung to inform them the flowers for their lapels had changed colour. Now it was coffee coloured roses instead of cream.

‘Pixie sounds like a right pain in the arse and she talks like she should have a part in
Dallas
,’ Marisa remarked.

‘And what would you know about
Dallas
?’ Helen wanted to know.

‘God Mother, I watch it on Gold! And haven’t you heard? It’s coming back!’ Marisa informed, flicking her hair back and adjusting her sunglasses as she got to the counter.

‘Please take sunglasses off,’ the passport inspector ordered her.

‘Think they’re going to be permanently attached to her face for the next week,’ Adam commented.

‘She’s excited. We shouldn’t be too hard on her,’ George said, getting her passport out of her hand luggage.

‘I wasn’t
–
actually
I quite like her,’ Adam admitted his cheeks blushing slightly.

‘Yeah, me too. She’s a good kid - oh I see - you mean, you
like
her,’ George said, lowering her voice as Helen was called forward.

‘Yeah, I think so,’ Adam answered.

‘Well, aren’t there any girls you like at uni? I mean you’re in Wales a lot of the time and
...
’ George began.

She wasn’t sure she was keen on the idea of them together, as in exchanging saliva and holding hands. She had seen the other people Marisa had linked tongues with and it wasn’t pretty.

‘Next please,’ the passport checker called.

George cursed under her breath, for no
t dealing with Adam’s admission
better and stepped forward to show her passport.

‘Georgina Mary Fraser,’ the Spaniard spoke, his dark eyes looking straight at her.

‘Yes,’ she replied, wondering why he was looking at her in a really unsettling way.

‘You need to come with me,’ he spoke, standing up from his chair and opening the door to his booth.

‘Er, why exactly? Is there a problem?’ George enquired.

‘Please, come this way,’ he ordered, keeping hold of her passport.

‘But, my friends
-
I need
to really stay with them and...
’ George began, looking behind her at Adam.

‘It won’t take a moment. This way,’ the man spoke, holding his arm out and directing her towards a doorway.

‘George? What’s going on?’ Adam called.

‘I won’t be a minute, some security procedure I expect. You carry on to arrivals,’ George called back.

She saw the look of confusion on Adam’s face, but he shuffled forward as a new passport checker entered the booth to continue dealing with the line of arrivals.

‘I don’t understand what the problem is. Do you need to check my bag? Or is there something wrong with my passport? It was all fine in England and
...
’ George babbled as the customs official opened the door.

The heat hit her as soon as the door swung open and t
here, stood in front of an open-
topped Jeep, was Quinn. He was wearing khaki linen trousers, a white shirt and Havaianas. On his face were Aviator sunglasses.

‘
Senor
Blake,
Senora
Fraser,’ the Spaniard called to him.

Quinn removed his sunglasses to look at her and he smiled. The smile that made her weak, the smile she hadn’t seen for almost a month, the smile she hadn’t been able to forget.

‘Carlos,
gracias a mi amigo
,’ Quinn spoke, saluting the customs official, as he handed back George’s passport and retreated inside the terminal building.

George just stared at him. She had a suitcase on the floor next to her and she was standing outside some back exit to the airport that seemed to overlook the hire car sheds.

‘Let me take your case,’ Quinn said, hurrying forwards and picking it up.

‘What are you doing here? Pixie’s arranged transport for us to the villa complex,’ George spoke.

She had to try and concentrate on the fact she should be angry with him, rather than the fact that he looked really hot in what he was wearing. He shouldn’t be here; he should be with his wife-to-be, fanning her with ostrich feathers and feeding her local olives.

‘Change of plan, for you anyway,’ Quinn said, putting the case in the back of the Jeep and opening the passenger door for her.

‘But Adam and the others will be worried. They just saw me escorted from the airport by a scary looking official,’ George exclaimed.

‘Give Adam a call. Come on, get in,’ Quinn urged her.

‘And what if I don’t?’ George asked.

‘You’ll totally ruin my surprise,’ Quinn told her.

She let out a sigh, bothered by the fact she had little choice and by how much she wanted to be with him. As the sun started to scorch the hairs on the back of her neck she hopped up into the passenger seat.

Twenty Two

‘So, how was your flight?’ Quinn asked as he drove out of the airport.

‘What’s this? Conversation? You’re speaking before you try and kiss me?’ George remarked, looking out of the window as orange groves and olive trees flashed by.

Suddenly they were braking, the pads locking together and squealing in despair, as they veered to the edge of the road. He undid his seat belt and grabbed her forcefully, kissing her hungrily on the mouth. He tasted hot and salty and his face was rough with a thin coat of stubble. This was what she had been missing. It was even better than she remembered it.

She looked at him and he smiled at her.

‘Feel better about talking now?’ he asked.

‘Well, I guess,’ George replied, trying to get her breath back.

‘Look, I know I haven’t called, or messaged you, but it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. You must know that,’ he told her.

‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect you to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not going to be the bride to your groom. But, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just get to the villas. I’d quite like to change.’

‘We’re not going straight to the villas. I’ve organised lunch,’ Quinn told her.

‘Oh,’ George replied.

‘And we’re going to have conversation, instead of sex,’ Quinn informed her.

‘Novel,’ George answered.

‘Look, I’m serious about you George and I want you to believe that,’ Quinn told her, taking hold of her hand and squeezing it gently.