Strings Attached (3 page)

‘Who else reliable?’

‘Are you calling Marisa and Helen unreliable? Shame on you,’ George remarked.

‘Come on, you know what I mean. You need me! Admit it! Besides, Quinn Blake might be there. It would be so cool to meet him,’ Adam said.

‘But you couldn’t ask for his autograph or anything Adam, you would have to be professional. You’d be representing Finger Food and
...
’ George reminded him.

‘Yeah I know. You still got the penguin suit I wore for that wedding reception?’ Adam enquired.

‘It’s in the spare room,’ George responded.

‘Great, then count me in. And shall I ask Tom? We’re both poor students who could do with the extra cash and I can teach him the ropes. I’m sure Dad must have an old tux knocking about he can wear,’ Adam offered.

‘It doesn’t sound like I have much say in the matter does it?’ George answered with a smile.
             

Two

Everything was set in the upstairs suite at
the Hexagon
. It was almost 11.00pm, the hot platters were warming, the cold platters were ready to go out and George had six staff, all dressed smartly in white shirts and black bottoms. She couldn’t help thinking Marisa had been right about Helen and Curly Shirley though; there were enough ringlets between them to rival Mel B in her Spice Girls days.

‘I wonder if he’s actually going to be here, like you know, really in the room,’ Marisa remarked for at least the tenth time.

‘Marisa, remember we have a code of conduct. We only speak when spoken to, unless we’re introducing the food,’ Helen said, brushing down her daughter’s skirt as she tried to escape her scrutiny.

‘I know! I’m not a novice. Don’t drop food or drink down anyone’s clothes and talk in my posh voice,’ Marisa replied.

‘Do you have a posh voice Marisa?’ Adam teased, smiling at her.

‘Actually Sir, I do. Would you care for an asparagus spear?’ Marisa asked, batting her eyelashes and quelling her Welsh accent as best she could.

‘We don’t have to talk posh do we Hel’? I never talked posh the last time. One bloke asked if the snacks had capers on ‘em and I had no idea what he was talking about; I thought he was asking me on a date,’ Curly Shirley announced with a loud laugh and an unexpected belch.

‘I just offer the tray and keep chat to a minimum. I’ll run through the ingredients for you,’ Helen offered kindly, passing Shirley a packet of Rennie from her handbag.

George looked at her reflection in the window and swept a hand through her hair. She got closer to the pa
ne and checked her minimal make-
up. She looked so tired. Her skin was pale and her eyes were puffy and sore. She needed to invest in some sleep, either that or some significantly better concealer. Tonight would be another late night, but this function could be the most important event she had ever catered for, if the fee was anything to go by. She needed to be at her best.

She straightened the waistband of her skirt and tucked in her crisp white shirt. She was nervous, more nervous than usual. She wanted everything to go well. If people liked her food they would recommend her and recommendation was the best way to get new business. That, plus a thick wad of business cards sat by the crudités.

She did hate dressing up though and wearing a skirt was against her whole ethos. She always felt so uncomfortable and she knew skirts didn’t suit her. She was strictly a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, always had been. Her mother hated that about her too. She had tried to get her to wear Monsoon’s finest to anything and everything when she was a child, but she wasn’t having that after about the age of six. Heather Fraser had finally got the message when, aged eight, George had taken a pair of scissors to a particularly floral pink dress and slashed the skirt up to her thigh. There had been a lot of shouting and bitter, angry words, a smacked leg and no television for a week. That had just been the start. Her relationship with her mother had gone downhill from then. Her dad said they were too similar. George frequently slammed her bedroom door and turned up Aerosmith.

But business was different. Her company was everything to her. She couldn’t let the fact she was a tomboy at heart get in the way of her success. In this business people had certain expectations and she needed to exceed them all. She wanted to be the best and she would. She was nothing if not determined.

She looked out into the function room and saw guests had started arriving and were being served drinks by
the Hexagon
staff.

‘OK everyone. Listen, thanks for helping me out tonight at such late notice. People are arriving now so let’s get this food out there. Helen, keep an eye on the hot platters and bring them out in twenty,’ George instructed.

‘Gimme those pâté parcels. If anyone’s getting the first look at Quinn Blake, it’s me,’ Marisa exclaimed, darting towards a plate of food.

‘Oh no you don’t sweet cheeks, that hunk is mine,’ Curly Shirley announced, pushing open the swing doors with a cackle.

‘Don’t look so nervous George. I told you, the concert was awesome, no one’s going to notice if the food’s crap,’ Adam told her with a grin.

‘Thanks Adam.’

‘Just kidding, the food’s great isn’t it
Tom? Especially the chilli pork -
I’ve had four of those,’ Adam replied.

‘You better be joking! Now, take a platter and go and serve,’ George told him.

‘Yes Boss,’ Adam answered cheekily.

George watched the two young men leave the kitchen and then she turned to the hob to finish off preparing a sauce.

‘Growing up so fast isn’t he? A proper young man now,’ Helen remarked, turning things over in the oven.

‘He certainly is, but still bloody cheeky.’

‘He’s just the same as Marisa really, full of youthful innocence and excitement. When she really grates on me I try and remember what I was like at her age. I mean I used to hang around outside the chippy and drink Diamond White, Marisa’s nothing like that. I should be grateful shouldn’t I?’ Helen told her.

George shook the memory of Butcher Boy and the Blue WKD incident out of her mind. Now wasn’t the time to contradict her opinion.

‘Oh
. M
y
.
God! He’s only bloody here! He’s here! Looking
sooo
absolutely bloody gorgeous it’s scary. He’s wearing like really nice jeans, you know, like figure hugging and this really plain white
t-
shirt, but oh my God it
sooo
suits him. Curly Shirley’s edging her way into his group,
it’s
sooo
gross,’ Marisa babbled as she and Alison burst back into the kitchen to collect another tray.

‘Two glasses of water please Helen and lots of deep breathing before you let them go out again,’ George said.

She picked up a tray and prepared to leave the kitchen.

‘He’s over by the big palm plant, chattin
g to some totally skinny blonde-
haired trollops who look like
sooo
desperate,’ Marisa called as George swung through the doors.

She entered the function room which was filling up rapidly with party guests. It was an eclectic mix with every ‘something’ between twenty and sixty. Some were dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts; others had dyed hair and were wearing leather. There were a group, of what looked like, transvestites in one corner. They were all six feet tall, wearing over the top outfits, big wigs and too much make-up. And there were several men in dinner jackets, accompanied by ladies in cocktail dresses, in various cliques around the room. It was alive, buzzing with excitement and showbiz.

‘Canapés gentlemen?’ George offered, holding her platter out to a group of six who were sharing a bottle of champagne.

‘Well hello! Doesn’t this all look ravishing,’ one of the men in the group greeted excitedly.

The owner of the voice was in his forties and was dressed in a navy blue suit, teamed with a lilac shirt. He had a perfectly round face with a wide, permanently upturned mouth. His loud booming voice ensured he got attention, because it sounded like he was making a heart stopping announcement every time he spoke. He had well conditioned glossy, hair for a man of his age and it flopped over his eyes when he talked. He looked like a rotund, cheeky version of Hugh Grant.

‘
I’m famished, what are they darling?’ he asked camply, turning to look at George.

‘Asparagus and brie on the left and feta and red onion on the right,’ George directed.

‘God man! I hate cheese. Have you got anything less dairy?’ a leather clad man questioned with a groan.

Compared to the perfectly presented owner of the floppy hair, this man was positively the missing link. He had unkempt, shoulder length hair that bushed out like a Leylandii and a row of six hooped earrings in each ear.

‘Yes, of course. There are some meat dishes being taken round. Would you like me to get you an alternative?’ George offered to the sullen expression.

‘No lovey, you will not. You will stay here with me until I’ve cleared the plate. These are divine! And you
,
Belch, you can go and find the Neanderthal section of the buffet by yourself. Honestly! He becomes a rock star and forgets all his manners.’

George couldn’t help but smile as the leather clad man let out a discontented grunt and headed in the direction of the bar.

‘Sorry about his rudeness, I can’t bear rudeness. I don’t care who you are or what you do, it doesn’t take a lot of effort to be polite does it? Gosh, these are really truly delicious. Who made them? What is the name of your catering firm?’ the man demanded.

‘We’re called Finger Food,’ George announced proudly.

‘Finger Food, I like it! Very good! And who is your MD? I may have business to pass his way.’

‘Actually I’m the MD. George Fraser,’ George spoke and she balanced the tray of food on her arm and held out her hand to him.

‘Gosh really? And you’re serving as well, admirable, admirable indeed. Well George Fraser from Finger Food, I will take one of your little business cards and recommend you to anyone and everyone. I am loving the feta and onion. Oh, dear, excuse me, overindulging again,’ the man spoke as he let out a loud hiccup.

George smiled.

‘I’m Michael by the way, Michael Lambert, Quinn Blake’s PA.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Oh lovey, the pleasure is all mine after those gorgeous nibbles. Right, must mingle! Toodle pip!’

It was going well. People were being really complimentary about the food. George turned round to head back into the kitchen and replenish her tray. It was then
that
her attention was drawn to the large palm plant Marisa had mentioned and the people stood by it.

There were at least half a dozen perfectly preened women in figure hugging designer dresses, straight off the pages of
Grazia
magazine, forming a circle around someone. They shuffled themselves further forward with every breath, tightening the ring and George looked at them, enthralled by their behaviour. It was like watching a nature documentary where a large pack surrounded the prey before attacking in team formation.

And then almost divinely the circle parted, like the Red Sea, and the person from the middle made a break for freedom. Suddenly George was stood right in front of the most gorgeous man she had ever seen.

He was of medium height, slim and perfectly proportioned. He had dark brown hair, cropped close to his head and dazzlingly turquoise blue eyes. He was wearing a tight white t
-
shirt and jeans which clung in all the right places. George could definitely see why Marisa was making such a fuss over him.

She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help herself. He moved towards her and she stood paralysed to the spot like she was stuck in position by Solvite.

‘Hi,’ Quinn Blake greeted with a smile.

‘Canapé?’ George responded hurriedly, offering the tray forward as quickly as she could. It was good to have a prop when the way he looked had almost disabled her vocal chords.

‘I would, but you’re all out,’ he answered, indicating the empty platter.

Shit prop.

‘Oh, yes, sorry, I was just going to get some more,’ George replied.

This was great, now she felt like a complete idiot.

‘They’re very good. Especially the chilli pork, I’ve had five of those already, but who’s counting?’ Quinn informed her.

‘Thank you,’ George responded, blushing.

Why was she blushing? He was paying her wages; she shouldn’t even be talking to him. She had a code of conduct. She should have just carried on to the kitchen. She didn’t know what to say, she didn’t want to say anything, but he was looking right at her waiting for some sort of conversation and suddenly she couldn’t seem to string a sentence together.