Silence. And then, ‘I’ll need a photo. Add a hundred words and I’ll pay the usual.’
‘If you give me an extension, I’ll engineer a meeting with the guy – maybe we can get a feature out of it?’
‘Rock Star Has Meltdown? It’s hardly news – it’s practically their job description. Send me a photo to prove he’s there, and a hundred words will be fine.’
‘That’s not a story, that’s a caption!’
‘There is no story, and as soon as another Brit sees him it will no longer be news.’
‘Not if I can get an interview with him. Please, Jeremy?’
Another pause, long enough for her to wonder if she’d been cut off, and then, ‘Send me a photo and a hundred words and I’ll hang fire – but as soon as anyone else gets even a whiff, I’ll run it. If you can come up with something better, I’ll run that instead. Deal?’
It was the best she was going to get. ‘Deal,’ she said, and dropped her phone back into her bag as Pris strolled over, carrying two cocktails in neon-green plastic cups. She handed one to Gaby, who put the straw to her lips and took a long gulp – then almost choked. ‘What the hell is this?’
Pris’s smile was positively beatific. ‘Gin, rum, vodka—’
‘I thought it was non-alcoholic!’
‘It’s called a Hand Grenade,’ Pris said.
Although the top of the cup was long and thin like a test tube, the base was rounded and shaped like a hand grenade. ‘It has a happy, smiling face!’
‘I know, isn’t it brilliant?’
‘If you’re planning on drinking a cocktail like this in every bar we visit, we’ll end up face down in the gutter.’
‘I do hope so!’ Pris noisily sucked up every last drop through the straw and then dropped the cup into a bin. ‘Why do you think I made a list?’
Gaby handed her own drink back. ‘One of us needs to stay sober. I have to keep a clear head to write this story.’
‘Then you’d better get a shift on,’ Pris nodded in the direction of the hotel, ‘because your story is making a break for freedom.’
Luca Corbellini was no longer sitting on the hotel balcony but pacing the road outside. At least no one had recognised him – yet.
‘Do you have your camera?’ she asked Pris.
Her sister pulled a ‘well, duh!’ expression.
‘Start taking photos,’ Gaby told her and positioned herself directly in Luca’s path.
For once Pris did exactly as she’d been told. Although she still clutched Gaby’s Hand Grenade, somehow she managed to aim the camera in Luca’s direction, while simultaneously giving Gaby a thumbs up.
Luca was now kneeling on the road directly in front of her.
Gaby sighed. She knew musicians could be eccentric, but what on earth was he doing? And what was that in his hand? A ring? Seeing him knelt on the ground like that, anyone would think he was—
And that was her photo opportunity right there – and a story worth considerably more than one hundred words.
Without stopping to consider the consequences, Gaby snatched the ring from Luca’s hand and stuck it on the third finger of her own.
‘Darling,’ she beamed down at him, ‘of course I’ll marry you!’
Everyone around them cheered.
Luca stood up. And up, and up, and up.
Gaby felt her neck give a distinct crack. He was tall. She was a good five–ten, but he was well over six foot and probably on the way to seven. Tall, lean, overwhelmingly hot and, thankfully, smiling.
It didn’t stop her taking a cautious step back though.
‘Funny,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Now give it back.’ Considering he was supposed to be half-Italian, he spoke with a recognisably English accent.
Gaby prevaricated, hoping it would give Pris the time to take more photos. ‘You’ve changed your mind? Already? How heartless of you!’
‘Typical man, eh?’
‘But the girl always gets to keep the ring.’
‘Not this ring, cara mia. Hand it over.’
Gaby risked a glance back at Pris. Hurry up and take the damned photo!
‘Is this a scam?’ he enquired, when she didn’t answer. ‘Because if so, you may want to re-think your mark.’
‘No, no scam,’ she said quickly, turning her attention back to him. ‘I only want to…er, hold it for a little bit longer…’
‘OK, you win.’ He held out his hands, palms down, splaying the fingers. He had very nice fingers and he wore a ring on every single one of them. ‘Pick a ring,’ he said, ‘any ring, and be done with it – but I want that one back. Now.’
The ring was made of silver and shaped like a skull, with two tiny red stones for eyes. It looked like the kind of thing you’d get out of a Christmas cracker. Why was it so important to him?
‘You already have one just like it,’ she felt obliged to point out.
He slid the other ring from his finger and held it out to her. It was not quite identical. The skull’s eyes were green instead of red and it was a slightly different shape. But, as Gaby bent her head to get a better look, he grabbed her hand and easily slid the other ring from her finger.
‘Grazie,’ he said. Then he tossed her the other one in return and stepped back into the crowd, effectively vanishing.
Feeling slightly dazed, Gaby returned to Pris. ‘Please tell me you got a photo?’
‘Relax, your entire humiliating experience is now preserved for posterity,’ Pris told her, with slightly more snark than was necessary.
‘I suppose that’s something.’ Gaby held out her hand and showed her sister the skull ring. ‘I’ve got a souvenir too. Luca had a ring on every finger and offered me my pick to get back the one I stole. Don’t you think that’s strange? There’s definitely a story there.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Pris. ‘Just don’t. You’re supposed to be on holiday, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know. Have you any idea which way he went?’
*
Luca did not return to his hotel. He let the crowd take him down Bourbon Street and into St Peter’s, before following a herd of them into the familiar terracotta-painted building that was Pat O’Brien’s. He took his seat in the darkest corner and ordered another bourbon. He’d hardly raised the glass to his mouth when the English girl walked in with a friend. What were the chances?
Quite high, he decided, watching a waitress show them to a table very close to his own. Evidently he’d been recognised.
He watched the two of them argue over the drinks list as the poor waitress waited patiently for them to make their choice. And then he decided to hell with it; they were pretty and he was bored. So he walked over and dropped into the seat between them.
‘Two Hurricanes,’ he told the waitress and she gratefully took the order and left.
His new drinking buddies regarded him dubiously. They were so alike, they had to be sisters.
‘If you were planning on stalking me all round the Quarter, I hope you can hold your liquor,’ he said. As he appeared to have effectively stunned them into silence, he added, ‘I’m Luca Corbellini – but you already know that. So why don’t you tell me who you are?’
‘I’m Gaby,’ the older one said, somewhat reluctantly, ‘and this is my sister, Pris. We’re not stalking you, we’re on a bar crawl. My sister has a list.’ The green-eyed skull ring appeared on the table in front of him. ‘And you can have your ring back.’
‘I thought the girl always gets to keep the ring?’
‘It was a joke. Sorry.’
‘I’m sure I can spare it.’ He regarded them speculatively. They expected him to believe their meeting was only a coincidence? ‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s see this list.’
Pris looked at her older sister, who shrugged, so she dug in her pocket and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper. Sure enough, she’d listed every bar in the Quarter, with the name of a drink beside it. Second on the list was Pat O’Brien’s and written next to that was
the word ‘Hurricane.’ They hadn’t been stalking him at all.
‘You’ve done some research,’ he said, handing Pris back her list. ‘But if you are serious about working your way through that, you’ll have keeled over before you’ve gone more than one block. Is that really why you came to New Orleans, to get pissed?’
‘We saw the jazz collection at the Mint this morning,’ Gaby said, somewhat defiantly. ‘And this afternoon we went shopping in Royal Street.’
‘Do you like jazz?’
‘Not especially,’ she confessed.
‘So, if I said “New Orleans” to you, what would be the first thing you thought of?’
‘Mardi Gras,’ sighed Pris. ‘Parties, music, food, cocktails…’
‘Gaby?’
‘Um, vampires?’
Which threw him somewhat.
Pris laughed. ‘It was my idea to come to New Orleans. Gaby would rather be on a beach.’
They had come to the Quarter for a traditional New Orleans experience and, typically, they were looking in all the wrong places.
Whatever Gaby had been about to retort was turned into a shocked, ‘Good grief, they’re huge!’ when the cocktails arrived. Followed by a very suspicious, ‘What have they got in them?’
What did she think they had in them? ‘Rum and fruit juice,’ he replied, pushing one of the dark orange concoctions towards her. ‘They were invented back in the 1940s as a way to use up a surplus of rum. The name comes from the glass. It’s shaped like a hurricane lamp, you see.’
She took a sip and must have liked it because she then took another. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I came for a visit seven years ago and ended up living here for two,’ he said. ‘Now, drink up. We’re not staying.’
‘What? Why not? I like it here.’
‘Me too. But if you want to experience the real New Orleans, come with me.’
Amazingly, they did.
*
Luca’s idea of the ‘real’ New Orleans turned out to be a jazz club that was hardly in the French Quarter at all. The distance was such that Gaby would have been tempted to take a cab, but Luca took it all in his long-legged stride. The busy streets were no hindrance at all; everyone automatically moved out of his way, hardly aware they were doing it.
The club was called Remy’s and was long and narrow and panelled with wood, making it resemble the interior of a pirate ship. There was a small stage at one end and the drinks (mostly bourbon and beer, much to Pris’s disappointment) were served from a bar in the middle. It was very dark and there was limited seating, so most people were standing. Some were even dancing. If Gaby had been writing it up for work, she’d have described it as a smoky jazz club – except the visiting band were playing the blues and smoking was apparently prohibited. There was a queue to get in but the staff knew Luca on sight. He was waved on through and shown directly to a table as if he was royalty.
I could get used to this, Gaby thought, before belatedly remembering why she was there. She dug her phone out of her bag, switched it to ‘record’ and left it casually on top of the table. Annoyingly, once they’d taken their seats and Luca had given them strict instructions not to talk too loudly (‘They take music very seriously in here’), he went off to chat to the woman working behind the bar. They obviously knew each other, because she gave a shriek of joy and threw her arms around him, almost knocking him off his feet.
Excuse me, that’s my rock star, Gaby found herself thinking. Put him down and go find one of your own.
She couldn’t even grumble to Pris, because at the first opportunity her sister had gone off to dance with a German tourist, thus improving Gaby’s evening no end. Feeling like Billy no mates, she drank her beer and then Luca’s bourbon to spite him.
He finally returned after about thirty minutes. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s Naomi, an old friend. We were catching up.’
And then some, thought Gaby, and pretended to fiddle with her phone. In reality she was moving it closer towards him, to ensure it picked up everything he said.
‘Did you meet Naomi when you lived here?’ she asked.
‘We all lived here,’ he said, and pointed to the ceiling. ‘I was twenty-one years old and living above a jazz club in the Quarter. I thought I was in heaven.’
The same age as Pris, Gaby realised, wondering what their parents would have said if her sister had done the same thing. Gone into meltdown, probably!
As though he could read her mind, Luca said, ‘It was always expected that I would go into the family business but all I ever wanted to do was play guitar. So when my father took me with him to New York on a business trip, I high-tailed it down here. Fortunately the first person I met was Remy. He got in touch with my father, who was so relieved I was OK that he agreed to allow me to stay.’
‘You performed here?’
‘Not quite! Remy helped me get a green card and eventually I went to work behind the bar. But I listened and learned from the visiting musicians, and after two years I was ready to move on. I never forgot my old mate Remy though.’ He pointed to the green-eyed skull ring she now wore on her finger. ‘He’s the one who gave me that ring – for luck.’
‘Really? Is he here now?’
The smile faded from his face. ‘He died three years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a horrible time, for everyone. I really miss him. He was my mentor.’
Luca was looking back at the bar as he said this, watching Naomi serving the drinks and taking the time to laugh and joke with all the customers. She really was incredibly beautiful and didn’t appear to be much older than Gaby herself. Was she Remy’s daughter? Did he think of her as a sister – or something more? Gaby didn’t like to ask. Suddenly all the excitement seemed to have been sucked out of the evening.
‘I think we need a change of subject.’ Luca picked her phone up off the table and handed it to her. The light was still on, showing that it was recording. Gaby froze, waiting for the recriminations, but instead he held out his hand.
‘If you really want to experience New Orleans, you’re going to have to get out of that chair.’
‘Wh– what? Why?’ She regarded him blankly.
‘Dance?’ he said. ‘With me?’
*
‘That was the best night of my entire life,’ Pris said. ‘Wait till I tell my friends I got thrown out of a jazz club. Me.’ And she did a little twirling dance along the pavement.
‘But better not tell them it was for talking,’ sighed Gaby. ‘Thanks, Luca, for everything. It’s getting late, Pris. We should return to the hotel.’ She looked up and down the street. ‘Um, which direction do you think it’s in?’
‘Uh uh,’ Luca made a movement with his hand and a taxi rolled forward. ‘You don’t want to be walking around this late at night.’
In no time at all their evening was at an end and they were back in reception, waiting for the lift. When it arrived, Pris bounded straight in. Gaby followed, slightly more demurely. Luca didn’t move.
‘Goodnight,’ he said, and just as Gaby had the idea he was going to lean forward and kiss her, he laughed and tapped her gently on the nose instead.
Her last sighting of him was as he strode off in the direction of the stairs. If it hadn’t been for Pris hauling her back inside, the lift doors would have clanged shut on her head.
Once in their suite, Pris headed off to bed, while Gaby hauled out her laptop to write up everything that had happened before she forgot it. It was fortunate she did, because the recording she’d made on her phone turned out to be unintelligible. Once finished, she drafted an email to her editor and attached the photos Pris had taken. She hovered the cursor over ‘send’ – and then slid it away.
What was wrong with her? She’d got the story she wanted, written it up and, as far as she knew, no one else had realised Luca was in New Orleans.
She clicked on the mouse again – and again she bottled out.
Gaby got up, pa
ced around the room, sat down at the laptop, opened another window and did a search on ‘Luca Corbellini’. There was no reason to do this. She’d done all her research before she’d begun writing. Luca Corbellini: English/Italian bass player for British rock band, currently touring America. Owns homes in London and Sorrento, famous for extensive tattoos.
Oh, yes? How extensive?
Click, click, click.
Ten minutes later and it turned out there were a lot of fan sites dedicated to Luca and his extensive tattoos. The most popular photograph, which appeared over and over again, was of Luca shot in moody black and white, wearing low slung jeans, showering beneath a waterfall.
‘As you do…’ murmured Gaby, and then sighed. She could certainly see why it was such a popular photograph.
‘Are you talking to yourself?’
Not for the first time did Gaby wish they’d booked into separate rooms and hang the expense. She slapped down the lid of her laptop and swung around to face her sister.
‘Are you trying to scare me half to death?’
‘Hah! Guilty conscience!’ Pris planted a hot chocolate onto the desk beside her. ‘Look, I’m being nice. I’ve bought you a hot chocolate to help you sleep. Not that you look as though you actually want to go to sleep. What are you up to?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, far too quickly.
Pris, being a typical younger sister, merely leaned forward and flipped the laptop open.
In theory, when Gaby closed her laptop it should have shut down, or at the very least locked itself. Unfortunately, it opened on the exact same shot of Luca, although the jeans appeared to have slid down even further than she remembered.
Pris didn’t even have to say anything. Gaby could feel her cheeks glow incriminatingly.
‘I was doing some research…’ she began.
‘Sure you were.’
‘…and double-checking my facts. I’ve already written the article and I was in the middle of composing an email to Jeremy.’ She closed the fansite. ‘Look, you can read it if you like.’
Pris’s smile faded. ‘You’re going ahead with your story? How could you? Luca was really sweet. He took us to that cool jazz club and told you all those things about himself, personal things, in confidence—’
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 42