Starcrossed

by Suzanne Carroll

“But please, please tell me you swapped phone numbers then. Before you did anything else.”

  Georgia laughed. “Yes, I gave him my phone number.”

  “Oh thank God. And he gave you his?”

  “No. He didn’t have a phone in the share-flat where he was living. Just a communal one in the hall that was broken more than it worked. Otherwise he probably would have called every florist shop in the phone book instead of walking the city looking for me. Would have been much quicker.”

  Sophie stared down at her phone. “I can’t even imagine…” she whispered, before looking up again. “What happened to TJ? Did he ever get into the Academy?”

  “He did. And I got into Langdon, but you knew that.” Georgia looked down at the diamond on her hand and smiled. “And then two years after he walked into the shop with that lollipop bouquet, he put this ring on my finger.”

  Sophie fell off her stool. “Ow!”

  “Soph!” Georgia rushed round to help her. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

  “TJ is Dad?” Sophie scrambled to her feet, glaring. “TJ is my father? Why didn’t you tell me at the beginning?”

  Georgia smiled sheepishly. “If you knew how the story ended right from the start, it wouldn’t be the same. I actually thought you might work it out when I said TJ loved music, and wanted to go to the Academy.”

  “I just thought you had a thing for musicians! Wow, so Dad was a busker.” Sophie smirked a little. “The Head of Music at Barkley Secondary College used to be a busker. I wonder if his students know. Oh wait! That Dave Dark guy is my grandfather?”

  “Mm,” Sophie frowned. “Sorry about that.”

  “Poor Dad. No wonder he never talks about him.” She blew out a sharp breath. “Did you ever see him again?”

  “No. Last we heard he was in Spain, doing one of those Where are they now? shows at a three-star holiday resort. But that was a while ago now.”

  Georgia gave her daughter some time to digest this new information about her heritage and wondered if she’d look Dave Dark up on the internet later. It would only be natural to be curious.

  “I’m so glad Dad didn’t take after his father,” Sophie said quietly after a moment.

  Georgia smiled. “So am I.”

  “Because if he did, you wouldn’t have fallen in love with him, and I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

  Georgia chuckled softly; it was always about Sophie. “I suppose not. Or your brothers.” Georgia went to sip the last of her tea, but it was stone cold. She scowled and tossed it down the sink.

  “Did you ever draw him?” Sophie asked suddenly. “With his guitar?”

  Georgia frowned as she stared down at the drain. “No, I didn’t,” she said, wistfully.

  “Why not?”

  “Never got round to it, I guess. Never found that perfect moment to do it. There was always something else happening.” She set the empty cup on the counter. "One day," she said.

  “You always told us you met at the beach.” Sophie seemed puzzled now. “Why didn’t you ever tell us the rest of it?”

  “You never asked.”

  Sophie gave her mother an incredulous look. “Are you serious? I had to ask if you were star crossed lovers? I had to ask if my father was a romantic hero who found you through a tacky TV talent show?”

  “Star-crossed lovers? I suppose we were, a bit.”

  “A bit? You’re positively Shakespearean!” Sophie shook her head and gathered up her laptop. She kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’m going upstairs and start writing. This is going to be brilliant!”

  “Glad I could help,” Georgia said, but Sophie had already gone.

  Smiling, Georgia rinsed the cups and stacked them in the dishwasher. It had been such a long time since she’d thought of those early days. They’d been so young. It almost seemed like a story about other people. And though she and Tom were very happy, and still in love, they’d slipped into the well-worn routine of every day living. As time passed, some of their dreams had had to give way to reality.

  Tom never performed with the London Symphony. He hadn’t played his own music at the Royal Albert Hall. His focus had changed; marriage and family, and instead, he’d fallen into teaching, working his way up to be head of his department at Barkley. His role as Music Master brought job security, and the satisfaction of sharing his love of music with his students, but Georgia knew that Tom often spent more time dealing with management and administration issues than in the classroom. Though he sometimes found time to play for himself, or Georgia, he hadn’t composed for a long time.

  She straightened the dishcloth on the sink and cleared a couple of used bowls from the large wooden kitchen table. Max and Alec had obviously had breakfast cereal for an afternoon snack and, as usual, had apparently forgotten what to do with the bowls when they’d finished. She shook her head as she rinsed them, too.

  She watched the water swirl before it disappeared down the drain, and it reminded her of one of the pieces she’d seen at the gallery the day before. A vivid blue spiral that subtly became darker as it flowed towards the centre. It had felt to Georgia like the painting was pulling her in, and she’d admired, and appreciated, the clever use of a single colour. She thought, maybe one day, she’d like to try something similar, when she got the time.

  Georgia had had one small exhibition while at Langdon, in a church hall with some other students. She’d sold two paintings there, but she’d eventually left the world of art for architecture when she realised oil and canvas wouldn’t pay the bills. But two of her paintings were out there and it always brought a smile to her face when she remembered that, and imagined them on someone’s wall.

  Georgia stacked the bowls in the dishwasher and decided to go and see what her sons were up to. Her question was answered when the sound of electric guitars blared through the ceiling. She winced. “Too loud,” she muttered, though she was glad they were off the video games.

  As she headed for the stairs, she heard Tom’s key in the lock. He walked through he door, shirt collar unbuttoned, tie loose around his neck. His eyes were tired, but they lit up at the sight of Georgia standing at the foot of the stairs. “Hi.”

  He was still a good looking man. There were some extra lines on his face that didn’t used to be there, and his hair was starting to grey at the temples, but as Georgia studied him, she could still see the boy with the guitar. He smiled a weary smile and came forward to kiss her; a soft peck on the lips, and a gentle nudge of her cheek with his nose. “Hi,” he whispered. “So good to be home.”

  “Good to have you home,” she said, then realised he was holding something behind his back. “What have you got there?” She thought of the lollipop bouquet.

  “Dinner,” he said, and held out the plastic carrier bag full of take-away containers. “Sorry I’m late. Has that been going on all afternoon?” He nodded towards the ceiling and the sounds of a Rolling Stones medley he’d taught them. “They’re sounding good.”

  “Just started,” Georgia said, taking the plastic bag from her husband. “I was going to tell them to turn it down a little bit. Why do you still have your other hand behind your back?” She tried to see, but Tom backed away slightly.

  “Nothing,” he said. “How was your day?”

  “Awful.”

  “Oh?”

  She waved away his query. “Just some last minute changes to a plan, and a short deadline to do it in, but it’ll be okay.”

  “Let me guess, another ‘invisible’ kitchen hidden behind stainless steel wall panels?”

  “Pretty close.” Georgia sighed. “They saw one on television last week. I swear all these home renovation shows have something to answer for.”

  Tom laughed and Georgia’s frustration gave way to a smile. She glanced at his still-hidden hand. “You do have something there. What is it? Tom?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, and then his face erupted in a brilliant grin, the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his deep blue eyes. “There mig
ht be something,” he said, and brought his hand out from behind his back. “These are for you.” He held out a box of paints, and a roll of artists brushes. “I saw it in your face last night,” he went on. “When you talked about that art exhibition, you were so…” He paused. “Beautiful. You need to paint again, it’s been too long, and before you say you don’t have time, we’ll make time. So I’ve been thinking, we can convert the garage into a studio…”

  Georgia could barely take in what Tom was saying. She simply stared at the gift in his outstretched hand while her heart danced in her chest. As the meaning of his words sunk in, she lifted her eyes. “This is why you were late? Why you rang the home phone instead of my mobile?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. I was going to make a bouquet out of them, but...”

  “I don’t need a bouquet,” Georgia whispered.

  “I don’t know if they’re the right sort of brushes…”

  “They’re perfect. The thought behind them is perfect.” Georgia set down the bag of take-away and wrapped her arms around her husband. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  He held her close, his arm curling around her back, pressing her against him. “I’ll get your easel down from the attic after dinner. On the weekend I’ll clear out the garage and I think we should take out the back wall and replace it with glass doors so it’ll give you a lot more light in there. And we’ll install a skylight in the ceiling. We can line the walls properly too, and paint them white, right?”

  “You could keep your guitars in there, and your violin,” Georgia murmured against his chest. “It could be a music studio, too. I’ll paint while you compose. Like we always planned.”

  Tom’s eyes were tender as he smiled down at her. “It’s a long time since I’ve composed.”

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t start again.”

  Tom pressed a gentle kiss to Georgia’s forehead. “True,” he said “We could maybe do that. It’s not quite the dream we had in mind, but it’s something.” He ran his hand slowly over the small of her back, something that usually made Georgia shiver and sigh, but not this time. Because suddenly her mind was too full of the future, and the memory of that night on the beach.

  “Sometimes dreams just change shape, and direction, that’s all. But they can still happen.”

  Tom’s hand stilled. His eyebrows pulled together, confusion on his face as Georgia’s excited words came tumbling. “There’s a sign in the window of the wine bar near work, down Murcott Lane. It’s one of those small moody places, very popular, people queue to get in, and they’re looking for musicians for Friday nights.” She grinned as Tom’s eyes widened, with possibilities, she hoped. “I know it’s not the Albert Hall, but…”

  “You’re thinking of me? Are you serious?”

  “Very serious. It’d be brilliant. You would be brilliant.”

  “No.” Tom shook his head. “It’s been too long. I haven’t played for an audience since…God, it must be fifteen years.” But Georgia could see the spark in his eyes.

  “No, it’s not too long,” she said. “There’s no use-by date on these things. No use-by date on dreams.”

  “That sounds like a bumper sticker, Georgia. A really bad bumper sticker.”

  She laughed, then grimaced. “You’re right it does. But you know what I mean. You have a great voice, and I don’t need to mention the killer guitar skills. You’re amazing with an audience, and you could sing your own songs…” She held her breath as Tom frowned and rubbed his hand along his jaw – the small gesture a sign that he was thinking hard. “Well?” she said.

  Tom chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m considering it,” he said and hugged Georgia hard. She sank into him, savouring the moment, savouring the familiar feel and scent of him, until Sophie started yelling for the guitars to stop, and her brothers yelled back.

  “Back to reality.” Tom grinned, and then slowly let Georgia go as he shouted up the stairs. “Hey! Dinner!” He picked up the bag of curry from the floor. Georgia clutched her gift to her chest. The guitars shut off and the sound of pounding feet could be heard above. “Quick,” Tom said, grinning. “Lets get moving before we’re lost in the crush.”

  Bent over the wide kitchen table, taking lids off containers and setting out plates, Georgia paused and looked at her husband.

  “Tom? Do you think we were star-crossed lovers in the beginning? When we first met?”

  He glanced up, licking some vindaloo off his thumb. “Star-crossed?” He considered for a moment. “Yeah, I’d say we were up there with Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, and then turned as Max and Alec appeared, their identical smiles matching their father’s. They were followed closely by their sister. There were hellos and I’m hungry, and a “please tell me you got butter chicken” from Sophie, followed by an argument over who should get the extra pappadum and Max telling Alec to stop hogging all the lamb korma. Then Sophie told her father that he was a genuine romantic hero and asked if she could get his side of the courtship story for her assignment.

  “I told her about how we met,” Georgia explained. “The busking, Star Factory, no mobiles or internet. Everything.”

  “Ah.” Understanding shone across Tom’s features.

  “You were a busker?” Alec looked up from his plate, eyes wide.

  “Cool.” Max grinned. “Tell us about it?”

  “Sure. It was…”

  “Not yet,” Sophie spoke up. “First he needs to tell me about…”

  “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.