by JS Taylor
I can’t stop smiling. “It’s always been my dream to come here,” I admit. “But I never thought… Are you really going to buy me something from here?”
“Of course I am. You and George.”
He takes my hand and walks me towards the glittering glass doors. But as we cross the threshold, I’m caught up in feeling unworthy.
“Are you sure?” I ask, taking in the beautiful glass caskets of jewellery, and the soft green interior. “I mean. It looks so expensive. I can’t let you buy George a present too.”
Adam stops walking, and turns to face me.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, my record sales weren’t bad this year,” he says. “And besides, I thought I was in charge today?”
“I know but…”
“No buts.” He puts his finger to my lips. “I want to buy you a present. It’s my pleasure. Ok? Particularly since I know you’re not wearing anything under that skirt. Now stop worrying about how worthy you are and just enjoy yourself.”
I breathe out, trying not to blush at the reference to my absent panties.
“Ok,” I say. “Thank you.”
“That’s better. Now. I’m guessing you’ll feel more comfortable choosing George’s gift first?”
I nod, a little embarrassed at how well he’s deduced this.
“Ok then,” he says. “What kind of thing did you have in mind?”
“Well,” I begin, feeling easier now I’m picking for someone other than myself. “I would really love to buy her something classic. Something that will last. She’s twenty-one after all. So I thought. Maybe some pearl earrings?”
Adam nods, and pulls me along with him, over the soft carpet.
“I think that’s over here,” he says. “Let’s get some help.”
We approach a counter stocked with the most incredible spread of glittering earrings.
They are all so beautiful.
There are teardrop earrings with diamonds and jewels, tiny hearts in shining silver, and intricate twists of gold and pearl.
A smartly dressed man wearing white gloves approaches us. He recognises Adam and smiles.
“Mr Morgan,” he says warmly. “How good to see you.”
Adam smiles back. “Good to see you too,” he replies easily. “We’re looking for some pearl earrings, for a twenty-first birthday gift. Can you help us?”
“Certainly Mr Morgan.”
The man slides open a counter, considers for a moment, and then carefully places three sets of pearl earrings in front of us.
I feel my eyes widen. Each pair is so delicate and sophisticated. Shining gold, with a creamy drop of glittering pearl.
“They are all so lovely,” I say, my eyes flicking over the three. “What do you think Adam?”
“I think these are the most classic,” he says, pointing to a simple pearl drop with a subtle diamond hilt. “They’d suit George.”
“They’re perfect,” I agree.
“We’ll take these,” says Adam to the man behind the counter. As we watch, he slips them into the classic green box, and expertly gift wraps it. His movements are so graceful, I find myself half-mesmerised by the turning white gloves as they pack up the earrings.
Then my eyes drop to the display beneath, and I notice the price tag.
Holy shit! Those earrings were over £1000!
I look at Adam uncertainly. He’s noticed me looking at the price, and he frowns.
“Ladies shouldn’t look at the cost of things,” he says. “That’s for men to worry about.”
Hmmmmm.
I shoot him an uncertain glance, and he takes my hand and squeezes it.
“Will that be all Mr Morgan?” asks the jeweller.
“We’d also like to take a look at the Schlumberger range,” says Adam.
The jeweller seems to visibly grow a few inches.
“Of course Mr Morgan,” he says. “Please. Follow me.”
We follow the man as he guides us to the back of the shop. Then he opens a discreet door at the back, and leads us inside a sumptuously finished little room.
We’re in a restricted section of Tiffany’s. I guess this means expensive.
In the centre of the room is a glass cabinet, edged with gold. And inside, are lined a collection of exquisite enamelled bracelets, rings and brooches.
I recognise the style immediately. It’s the look which Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor wore. But the jewellery has a timeless feel, and the bright colours lend themselves to rock star look too.
I love this style.
“Do you like them?” asks Adam, bringing me nearer the cabinet.
I nod slowly. None of the jewellery is priced, I notice.
“I thought a bracelet would match your style,” he says. “What do you think?”
It’s all so beautiful that I hardly dare breathe in here. Even the air seems to smell of fine jewels.
I nod. “I love them,” I admit.
“Good. I’ll buy you whatever you like.”
“Are you sure?” I manage weakly.
In answer, his hand slides to my upper thigh. I shiver, reminded that I’ve no underwear beneath my skirt.
“What did we agree,” he whispers into my ear, “about who makes decisions today?”
I swallow, and concentrate instead on the display of exquisite bracelets.
“They really are lovely,” I sigh.
“Which colour do you like?” ask Adam.
I smile at him. “Maybe the blue? What do you think?”
“I was thinking exactly the same,” says Adam. He nods to the jeweller, who carefully lifts the electric-blue enamelled bracelet from the display.
“A lovely choice,” he says approvingly, handing it to me. “It will sit perfectly against your skin tone.”
Adam fits the bracelet to my wrist, and as soon as it snaps shut, it looks as though it was meant to be there.
“I love it,” I say, turning it admiringly. “Really. Thank you.”
“We’ll take the bracelet,” says Adam to the jeweller. “Thank you. Put it on my account with the earrings.”
The jeweller nods, waiting for me to slip it off.
“You have a small wrist,” he notes, “I’ll have it adjusted for you in just a moment. If you’d come with me to sign, Mr Morgan.”
Adam and the jeweller vanish to settle whatever the bracelet costs. Which guessing by the set-up of this private room, is many thousands. I make a mental note to pay him back somehow. In my own way.
My phone beeps, and I take it out distractedly. It’s Tammy.
“Hi Tams,” I say, “you’ll never guess where I am.”
“Summer, you’ve got to get down here,” replies Tammy. I’m immediately on high alert. Her voice sounds rushed and anxious.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “We’re not due to rehearse for another half-hour at least.”
“I know,” says Tammy, “But George and I got here early. George found something at the studio and… You’d just better get here and calm her down before Dushane arrives Summer. Or it’s going to be total carnage down here.”
Shit.
“What did George find?”
“It’s complicated. She thinks Dushane is trying to cheat the vote.”
“What the…”
“Just get down here,” says Tammy. “Quickly. Or this video is never getting made.”
Chapter 18
When Adam returns from jewellery purchasing, I’m practically dancing on the spot in anxiety.
“What is it?” he asks, “surely you’re not still worried about the price of the jewellery.”
I give him a little smile, despite myself.
“I totally love the bracelet,” I say, “even though it’s too generous. Really. But there’s a problem at the studio. I need to get back.”
“What kind of problem?” Adam is instantly primed for action.
“Nothing serious,” I assure him. “But I think there might be an argument between George and Dushane. I have
to get there before it all kicks off.”
“Ok,” he breathes. “There’s never a dull moment with you, is there Summer?”
“I could say the same of you.”
“Let’s get you back then,” he says.
Adam pelts through London at breakneck speed. We spin up outside, and he hands me a beautifully gift-wrapped package.
“George’s present,” he says, pressing it into my hand. “Yours is still being adjusted so I’ll bring it later.”
“Thanks,” I say, with feeling. “I really appreciate you doing this.”
Since we’re in plain view outside the studio, he doesn’t kiss me goodbye.
But instead leans close to whisper in my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“Don’t forget,” he says. “No panties today.”
I fight down a smile, remembering I’m naked underneath my skirt.
“You’re not going to be able to check up on me,” I point out. “It’s George’s birthday tonight, so we won’t be seeing each other.”
“Oh?” Adam looks disappointed. “I would have thought George would want the whole Sing-Win film crew there, to catch her special party.”
I shrug, sad myself, not to be seeing him later.
“That would mean having Scandelous and Dev.as.station in attendance,” I point out. “Even George would rather enjoy her twenty-first, than share it with a bunch of people she hates. Even if it means more publicity.”
Adam looks as though he doubts this.
“In any case,” he says. “No panties. I’ll know.”
“How?” I tease. I like him in this mood, and I’m enjoying playing dangerously with him.
Adam’s eyebrows rise obligingly. His voice lowers.
“I’ll just know,” he says. “You can test me out if you like.”
His blue eyes have a wicked gleam on them.
“I’ve got some consequences in mind for you,” he says. “Care to find out what?”
I shake my head quickly. Whatever he has planned I’m not at all sure of.
“I’ll do what you say,” I reply, tilting my head slightly, so he knows I might still change my mind, “probably.”
“Probably?”
“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“And it’s a man’s prerogative to keep his word. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Summer Evans.”
He revs his bike, and gives me a wink. His mouth moves over the roar of the engine, but I don’t catch his words.
I think he said: “I wish I could kiss you.”
But as he races away, I can’t be sure it wasn’t something else. And in his current mood, I couldn’t easily guess.
This should disconcert me. Though for some reason, it gives me a thrill of anticipation instead. If I didn’t know myself better, I’d assume I wanted to find out what Adam’s ‘consequences’ might be.
I can’t think of Adam Morgan’s dark side right now, I remind myself. I need to get to the studio.
As I race into the studio I can already hear raised voices. George’s. And Dushane’s.
Shit.
I burst into the recording room to see the two groups in a kind of face-off. Tammy and George stand on one side, Dev.as.station on the other.
George is screaming at the top of her voice at Dushane.
“What the fuck else could it mean?” she yells. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“That isn’t even my fucking handwriting!” counters Dushane, giving as good as he gets. “Ask anyone.”
Cher, who has been standing at the sidelines wearing a worried expression, steps forward.
“It’s true,” she says gently. “That’s not his handwriting George.”
My eyes track to Tammy, who wears the same anxious look as Cher. Then down to George’s hand, which seems to be bearing some kind of note.
“What is going on?” I ask loudly, stepping into the fray.
“Your fucking band-mate is accusing us of cheating,” says one of the Dev.as.station boys. “It’s all bullshit. If you don’t want to work with us, you should just say. Don’t start making shit up about us.”
I shake my head quickly, wondering how I can possibly mend all this.
“Of course we want to work with you,” I reassure him.
“No we don’t,” says George, turning on me. “Because they’re trying to cheat. They’re trying to rig the vote Summer.”
She brandishes the handwritten note.
“See?”
I take the note and glance at it.
At first it just looks like a lot of numbers. They look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place them.
Then I see at the bottom, some writing in normal text. And the meaning of these words is unmistakable.
Untraceable votes. Rigged by telephone.
I glance back up at the numbers again, and then at George. Suddenly they make sense.
“Are these…?” I begin.
George nods firmly.
“The numbers of phone votes from the first round,” she confirms. “And here,” she adds, jabbing with a long finger, “that’s next week’s date, and the percentage increases of the rigging. We’re out and they’re in.”
She folds her hands and turns accusingly to Dev.as.station.
“It could only have been them,” insists George, pointing to the note. “No-one else has been in this room. And we know it wasn’t us.”
George fans her hands, imploring.
“Summer, if this comes out, we’ll both be disqualified,” she says. “They’ll drag us down.”
I stare at the note, and then at Dushane.
“You say this isn’t your handwriting?” I say slowly.
George sighs in frustration.
“No,” says Dushane, looking at me gratefully. “And if I was gonna rig the vote, I wouldn’t have left this around where someone could find it.”
“That’s just it,” counters George. “It wasn’t just left around. The only reason I found this, is because Tammy and I needed some paper to sketch some ideas on. We pulled this out of the trashcan, because we thought we could write on the back of it.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “Because this is the kind of stunt Scandelous would pull, to try and cause conflict.”
Or Deven, I think remembering his strange certainty that we’d be voted out next.
“Totally sure,” says Tammy. “We weren’t meant to find it Summer. Why would we ordinarily look in the trash? It was a total fluke.”
I consider this. Tammy would never agree with George unless she really was clear on the facts.
“That doesn’t mean Dev.as.station had anything to do with it,” I reply.
My memory is tugging at something.
Didn’t Deven mention that we’d be voted out? What if this is something to do with him?
I resolve to talk with Tammy and George about my suspicion when we’re alone. No point in creating more drama now. There’s enough flying around the room.
I turn my attention to Tammy.
“I don’t think Dushane did this,” I say, trying to channel with my eyes, that I might know something more about the note.
Tammy looks as though she agrees with me. But my remark starts George on another rant.
“No-one else has been in here,” says George. “Not even Jenny Grogan. We were the only two groups given a key.”
“What makes you so sure it was Dushane?” asks Tammy, reasonably. “It could just have easily been one of the other boys.”
“It could have been George,” says Dushane sulkily. “Has anyone considered that? The person doing the most protesting is the most guilty.”
George opens her mouth to respond, and I step quickly between them.
“Ok, ok,” I say, raising my hands to fend off any further disputes. “There’s an easy way to solve this, isn’t there? We’ll just have everyone write something in their own handwriting.”
Tammy and Cher nod in approval. But no-one else looks convinced. The
Dev.as.station boys huddle together, muttering.
I pray that George hasn’t offended them beyond all reconciliation.
Cher joins the boys, and we hear her gentle voice persuading them to go with the plan.
Eventually they agree, a piece of paper and a pen is produced, and we all take turns in writing the incriminating text.
After a round of begrudging handwriting, we can all clearly see that no-one here is a match. And I also realise why Dushane was so belligerent about supplying a sample. His writing is barely joined up.
I guess Dushane never finished school.
“You see,” says Cher, holding it triumphantly as the last line is written. “No-one here did it.”
“Let me see that,” says George, snatching the paper with long fingers.
Her eyes scan the document, and eventually she silently hands it back to me. I know that coming from George, this is as close to an apology as Dev.as.sation are going to get.
“Cher’s right,” I sigh, reading the paper. “It doesn’t look like the handwriting of anyone in this room.”
I’m hoping that this might now settle things. But I can see from the looks on everyone’s faces, that this is far from over.
Oh dear. I think this could be the end of a beautiful friendship.
Somehow I can’t imagine the collaboration working now. Perhaps we are a doomed match.
Even if I can convince George of Dushane’s innocence, I can’t see things ever being amicable again. Not after she was so quick to believe their guilt.
For the next few hours, we try to make the best of things. But relations are strained.
The film crew arrive, and we start putting moves together. But the flow we enjoyed in the earlier rehearsal is gone. The fun we envisaged behind the dance-off seems forced.
There’s no denying everyone is working hard. The dance moves are physically demanding – made more so by repeated take after take, as the film group exasperatedly tries to bring out workable chemistry.
Since George is the most accomplished dancer of She’s All That, she’s the lead, and a lot of pressure falls to her. George is also the only one of us, who really struggles to perform on camera, with our music running in the background. She needs to be actually singing, to look like she means it.