Ice Creams at Carrington’s

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘OK, why don’t we all calm down?’ Ciaran stands up and touches my arm. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks in a way that makes holding back the tears impossible. I hand him the card from Tom.

  Eddie is up on his feet too now, and Ciaran holds the card in front of them. After speed-reading it, they glance at each other and then stare at me. Silence follows, apart from the plinky-tinkly music coming from the speakers mingled with the muffled sniff of my nose after Ciaran hands me a napkin and tells me to ‘blow hard’.

  ‘Here. Sorry, I’m a ridiculous idiot sometimes, I know.’ Eddie gently loops the strap of my handbag back over my shoulder. ‘Ready?’ he nods firmly, and I manage a weak grimace. ‘If ever there was a moment that calls for action, then that time is now. Follow me.’ And, after grabbing my hand, he runs us from the coffee shop with Ciaran close behind.

  *

  I’ve just stepped off an aeroplane at Las Vegas airport. Eddie’s driver got me to JFK in record time and then I was lucky enough to get a flight here almost right away. Thank God I had a modicum of sense to keep my passport on me at all times. And with the time difference it’s only early evening here – sixish, I think. I’m not even sure, but who cares, I’m here to celebrate my birthday weekend with Tom. I switch on my mobile, he’s going to be super-surprised, hopefully, that I made it here after all. There was no time to call before – I literally had to run to the departure gate and was strapped into my seat with the ‘trays in the upright position and mobile phones switched off’ message ringing in my ears all ready for takeoff, before I could even call him to say I had managed to find a flight. He answers on the fourth ring, but before I can speak he says,

  ‘Georgie, I’m too angry to talk to you right now.’ And the line goes dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief, my hands shaking. For a few seconds, I have no idea what to do, so I just stand clutching my phone and holding my breath while my cheeks smart from his dismissal. I feel utterly crushed. Just like he did, I guess, when I ruined his surprise. But I can fix it now.

  Some time later, I will myself to get a grip and put one foot in front of the other, slinging the strap of my handbag over my head, crossbody style. I proceed to make my way along the glass-walled walkway towards Arrivals, figuring I can call Tom again once I get outside. I’ll just be sure to talk right away before he even has a chance to hang up, I’ll say I’m here in Vegas, find out where he is and go to him. I have to put this right. Or, better still, I’ll text him – yes, good idea, then he’ll see that I’m here and …

  Nooooo! No, no, no, no, noooooo. The white wheel is spinning on the screen. I press all of the buttons in a desperate attempt to make the phone come back to life, if only for a second, but nothing, it’s no use, it dies.

  And right now, that’s exactly what I want to do.

  I feel sick.

  Now what?

  ‘Fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fucking, fuck yooooooou,’ I mutter to myself, frantically stabbing the phone screen with my index finger over and over and over, then quickly apologise when an American family of four stare at me – the dad instinctively steering his two daughters away from the deranged English girl. Oh God.

  Right. Think. I have to think. I rack my brains, searching for a solution to this hideous situation. I know, there’s bound to be someone with an iPhone charger, or somewhere to charge phones – this is Vegas, after all, haven’t they got everything here? There are fruit machines right in front of me, one-arm bandits at the actual airport, so a phone charger is probably considered a basic. My heart lifts, and with my mind made up, I run to the moving walkway, guessing it will be faster. I start jogging my way along it. I’m almost at the end. And that’s when I spot him in the crowd. Tall, dark curls, broad shoulders and long strides.

  Tom.

  It’s my Tom.

  And my heart soars.

  He’s here, right in front of me. Well, on the other side of the glass, but still within touching distance and he’s walking in the opposite direction. To Departures. With his head down and a leather holdall thrown over his shoulder. But why? He can’t go. Not now. I have to get to him. Let him know that I’m here. It’s OK now, we can start again, go on the helicopter, have the picnic, I’ll make it up to him, I’ll get us tickets to the Cirque du Soleil, or whatever show he likes, we could go in the Gondolas, we could go to the sand park and drive big diggers around, it’ll be fun, I bet he’ll love it. It’ll be like nothing ever happened, that I didn’t mess up at all; besides, it’s not as if I meant to, and his wonderful surprise weekend can still go ahead.

  I turn and start running the other way, keen to catch up with him. I run faster, banging on the glass as I go.

  ‘Hey, lady, look out,’ an all-American guy yells as I almost run right into his big beefcake chest.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that, I, my—’ I apologise, but he’s off, keen to get away from me too. I keep running the wrong way along the moving walkway, apologising some more as people sidestep to dart out of my way. I’m almost there; Tom is practically adjacent to me now. With his bastard big Bose headphones on. For crying out loud, which is exactly what I do. ‘Tooooooom. Tom. Tom it’s me, Georgie, I’m here. Tooooooom!’ I bang harder, my right hand bunched into a fist. I slam it against the glass, but it’s no use. He can’t hear me. So with both hands, palms flat against the glass, I slap it as hard as I can, over and over and until eventually he turns. He turns his head sideways towards me, obviously catching sight of something in his peripheral vision. Thank you God. Thank you so so sooooo much. I’m full of relief as I jump up and down and slap some more, but it’s quickly followed by a wave of crashing devastation when he turns away, oblivious to me right here next to him in the crowd.

  And then I skid and fall over. The side of my handbag caught around the wheel of someone’s suitcase and they’re pulling it away from me, tighter and tighter, unaware that any second now I’m going to be strangled to death. Jesus Christ. I fling my hands to my throat and manage to push my fingers under the strap to loosen it enough so I can breathe. Just about.

  ‘OK. That’s enough. On your feet, ma’am.’ Two men dressed in blue uniforms covered in badges arrive, manage to stop the wheelie suitcase from garrotting me, fling me into an upright position, flank me and practically frogmarch me away.

  ‘Hey, you can’t take me, Tom’s right there,’ I gasp immediately on being untangled. ‘My boyfriend. It’s Tom. I need to see him … I have to explain—’

  ‘Damn right you do. In the detention centre.’

  Whaaaaaat?

  ‘No, please, you can’t.’

  But it’s no use.

  17

  The rest of my birthday was ruined, obviously. I felt so rubbish after being so near yet so far from seeing Tom in Vegas, and then having to explain it all to the two very unamused men from Homeland Security who, after listening to me babble on like a fruitloop for what must have seemed like forever to them – and yes there were moments when they both just stared, speechless, no doubt wondering whether they should call for someone to certify me, or just let me go; I know, utterly cringy and certainly a new record low for me – I think they eventually came to the conclusion that I was harmless and best removed from their airport as quickly as possible, so I was allowed to get a flight back here to New York, but only after Eddie’s PA, Carly, had vouched for me and confirmed that I had a place to stay.

  So I came straight back to the Manhattan mansion, via the liquor store and Don’s Diner, and climbed up into the big princess-and-the-pea bed with a bottle of Southern Comfort and an enormous cheeseburger with extra everything! And after watching back-to-back episodes of Revenge season 3 on Netflix, I must have fallen asleep, as I only woke up Sunday lunchtime when my car arrived and the driver with the crucifix came knocking on the lift door to take me to Gaspard’s studio. We spent the evening going over everything one last time – chatting about fluoro colour schemes, neon brights and realistic prices that an ‘ordinary woman’ would be prepared to pay for a truly
gorgeous bag baby. Gaspard kept apologising profusely for not telling me about my birthday surprise – he says if the Georgie Girl collection (the name he’s chosen for the range) is a hit, then he’ll personally fly me across the Grand Canyon. I think he feels partly responsible – for bringing me out here in the first place and for distracting me. It’s ridiculous, and he was sworn to secrecy, so no, I’ve only myself to blame for missing out and making Tom hate me, which is exactly what I told him.

  Anyway, it’s Monday now, the morning of my last day in New York – my flight leaves JFK in a few hours. And Ciaran and Eddie, with Pussy under his arm, wearing a Wonder Woman outfit complete with tiny red cape, have just emerged through the lift doors and into my hallway.

  ‘Oh sweetie, come here!’ Eddie swiftly thrusts Pussy into Ciaran’s arms, and pulls me in for a massive hug. ‘Will you be OK?’ He rubs my back and makes freaky cooing sounds – public displays of physical sympathy have always been a bit of an anathema to Eddie. He promptly drops his hands and steps away from me. ‘Right. Are you all set for the airport?’

  ‘No,’ I say, despondently. ‘I want to fly in a helicopter over the Grand Canyon with my boyfriend …’ I let my shoulders droop as I stick out my bottom lip for added petulance.

  ‘Well, you can’t.’ Eddie sighs. ‘Besides …’ he pauses to do an undercover sleuth left-then-right glance down the hallway, ‘it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’ He purses his lips. ‘Ciaran and I did the helicopter thing after our wedding in Vegas, didn’t we lover?’

  Ciaran nods, and then rolls his eyes.

  ‘Ed, come on … Georgie doesn’t want to hear all this, do you love?’ Ciaran smiles kindly and gives my arm a reassuring rub.

  ‘Yes she does,’ Eddie quips. ‘I just meant that once you’ve seen one lot of red rock with a river running through it, well, it gets a bit samey after the first ten minutes. By the end of our helicopter ride, I was struggling to keep my eyes open … Thelma and Louise, darling, the cliff scene at the end, that’s all you need to see!’ he finishes with a flourish, while Ciaran and I exchange exasperated looks.

  ‘I think it’s the spoiling-the-surprise bit, the not-getting-to-see-Tom bit, that Georgie is most upset about,’ Ciaran adds, tactfully.

  ‘But you’ll see him very soon. Come on, let’s get you flight-ready. I’m picturing a romantic reunion at Heathrow Airport. I wonder if he’ll bring flowers … will you run into his arms?’

  ‘Stop it!’ I snap. ‘He’s not coming to Heathrow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry – just trying to lighten the mood, honeypie. But why on earth not?’

  ‘Because when my flight lands, he’ll be in an all-day meeting which he can’t get out of. Something to do with the new store,’ I say dejectedly, remembering him telling me a few days ago, before my birthday, when everything was still good between us, which seems like a lifetime ago now. I’ve tried calling him since I got my phone charged back up in Vegas (the security men had to let me so I could call Eddie, who called Carly, a US citizen – Eddie figured it best that she speak to them), but Tom’s phone has been off. I guess he was on the flight home or maybe he just wants to cool off before talking to me.

  ‘Well, it’ll just make it all the more thrilling when you do actually see him then. And all will be forgiven and forgotten, and he’ll ask you to move in with him again and you’ll have incredibly filthy reunion sex, you’ll see.’ Eddie smiles, seemingly pleased with himself for having it all worked out. ‘And don’t forget our bet. Only a matter of time before the cash is mine.’ He winks before grabbing my hand and leading me like an obedient toddler into the bedroom. ‘Ciaran will pack while I find something suitable for you to wear. You never know, Tom might try to surprise you – second time lucky – by turning up at the airport … You’ll want to look your best,’ he instructs, flinging open the lid of my suitcase, which is on the bed, while casting a disparaging eye over my floor-drobe. ‘Honestly, Georgie, I know these are mostly Mango and Topshop, but really … you must look after your clothes. Hang them up!’

  ‘Hey, nothing wrong with high street clothes. I love them … and I’ll have you know that some of my Carrington’s clients do too. Even the fabulously wealthy ones – it’s not all Prada and Phillip Lim you know.’

  ‘Hmmm. If you say so.’ He pulls a face, unconvinced, as he plucks a pair of red pleather shorts off the floor and hands them to me. ‘Put these on. Tom won’t know what’s hit him when you emerge through Arrivals.’

  ‘No I can’t. They go a bit camel-toe after a bit; they’ll be hideous after a seven-hour flight.’

  ‘Ew, oversharer!’ He tosses them into the suitcase. ‘What about these?’ He hands me a pair of cotton buffalo print shorts instead.

  ‘They’ll do.’

  ‘Good. And put the Manolo’s on.’ I do as I’m told.

  ‘On seconds thoughts, no! Far too … TOWIE does Marbs.’

  ‘OK, I’ll decide,’ I say, holding up a palm, figuring this could go on all day if I let him have free rein. I slip the coveted heels off and carefully place them in the suitcase and opt for my gold flatform trainers instead, figuring comfort for travelling is best.

  ‘Fine. Now let’s sort out your hair and face.’

  A few hours later, having hugged and kissed Eddie and Ciaran goodbye, I’ve just checked in at JFK airport. I glance at the Departures board and see the flight to London Heathrow is scheduled to leave on time, and whilst I’m sad to be leaving New York, I can’t wait to see Tom, apologise and try to make amends. Sam, too – I really need to talk to her – and then I must get stuck in to finalising the last-minute bits and bobs for the regatta. If I can make sure my elements of it go smoothly, then I might just be in with a chance of redeeming myself with Tom, Isabella too. I hope. She’s bound to know that I let her son down on my own birthday!

  I wander over to a kiosk and am flicking through a copy of American Vogue when my phone rings. My heart lifts. I bet it’s Tom. I quickly retrieve it. Oh, it’s Dad. Ah well, it’ll be nice to talk to him. When he called on my birthday we only chatted for literally a few seconds. The signal was shocking, and when I offered to ring him back, he wouldn’t hear of it. Didn’t want me running up my phone bill.

  ‘Dad! How’s it going? What adventures are you having today?’

  Silence follows.

  ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Oh hi Nancy, sorry, I assumed you were Dad, how are you?’ Another silence follows.

  ‘I, I, um, I …’ She’s crying. Oh God. A horrible sickly shiver engulfs me. I toss the magazine back on the shelf and head outside.

  ‘Nancy, what’s happened?’ Tears fill my eyes.

  ‘It’s George, your father! He’s had a heart attack. And, I, I’m sorry, it’s … I don’t know …’ The airport sways. The harsh striplights flash all around me. I can’t hear properly. And why is everyone moving in slow motion? Gawping at me. I reach a hand out to a nearby wall to steady myself. I swallow hard before drawing in an enormous gulp of air, just like the drowning person who manages to reach the surface.

  ‘I’m coming.’ And I’m running. Running back to the check-in desk. Ignoring the queue, I tear to the front and fling my bag on the counter. ‘I need to change my flight. I need to go right now—’

  ‘OK, ma’am. See right there behind you? It’s a queue!’ the uniformed woman states in a bored voice, pointing a graffiti-print acrylic nail in my face before beckoning the next person to step forward. It’s a big beer-bellied guy wearing a cowboy hat and a bootlace tie with a metal sheriff badge clasped at his chubby neck.

  ‘But you don’t understand. I need to go right now.’ I slap my hand on the counter.

  ‘Security!’ The pretend cowboy sniggers, elbowing me sharply out of the way before fanning his passport and travel documents out across the desk in front of him, as if claiming his stake as the rightful person next to be processed. Not me. A feral instinct takes over and I shove him right back before sweeping my hand across the desk, messing up his documents
and then making them flip up in the air. They land in a jumbled pile on the floor right next to his lizard-skin boot-clad feet. ‘Bitch, you better pick that lot up, y’hear me!’ He clenches a fist, raises it, and then hesitates when I step forward; clearly not used to a woman standing up to him, he drops his hand. Twat.

  ‘Don’t call me a bitch, you fucking knobber. You’re not even a real cowboy.’ I shout in his face – spit actually skyrockets from my mouth and lands on his lapel. Fucking hell. ‘Do you know that I’m a personal friend of Dan Kilby? That’s right. The Dan Kilby. World-famous country singer. You’ve probably tried to line-dance to his music …’ My heart is hammering so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest. What the hell am I doing? I sound like some kind of lunatic. The words are coming out of my mouth but it’s as if somebody else, another crazeee person’s mouth next to mine, is actually saying them. A few seconds later, and a guy in one of the same blue uniforms as worn in Vegas has hold of my elbow. My heart sinks to a new low I never knew existed. Oh no, not again. Twice in one weekend. They’ll deport me this time, for sure.

  ‘OK, let’s calm everything down here,’ he starts, in one of those softly-softly negotiator-style voices. ‘Ma’am, please step aside.’

  ‘No, I need to go right now. My dad, he …’ My voice trembles, ‘Nancy just called. What if he … dies?’ My voice quivers as I say the actual word out loud. ‘And I’m not there …’

  ‘And where is your father?’

  ‘He, they … they’re doing Europe,’ I manage.

  ‘You need to give us more than that to go on,’ the negotiator man says.

  ‘I … hold on.’ The phone is still clutched in my hand. ‘Nancy?’ But she’s not there. I instantly call Dad’s mobile, praying she picks up. She does after the first ring. ‘Where are you?’ I ask immediately. There’s no time for niceties.

  ‘In the mountains,’ she says in a small, shaky voice.