Carrington's at Christmas

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘That’s my boy. You show ’em son, you’re ready now. You really are! Whoop whoop.’ And she practic-ally drags him towards the steps leading up to the stage.

  ‘Hey, Georgie. You made it. How’s it going?’ Jared beckons me over once the poor boy and his awful stage-mum are out of earshot.

  ‘Good thanks, no disasters today, thank God,’ I say, scanning the backstage area just in case Tom is here somewhere.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jared creases his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh just, you know, the stuff that went on yesterday …’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. I heard from our news team that the local constabulary want to shake your hand – apparently they had been after that guy at the carousel for some time, so they’re delighted that you effectively handed him to them on a plate as it were.’

  ‘Really? Well, um, that’s nice,’ I grin, thinking how things have a funny way of turning out. Today sure has been full of surprises – who would have thought that Isabella and I would now be the best of friends?

  ‘Yep, sure is. And the festival is going really well. I’m surprised Dan isn’t here, though. His security blokes are, and his manager said he has a routine he likes to go through before going on stage – get a feel for the crowd, that kind of thing. He’s cutting it very fine. Perhaps you could give him a call and chivvy him along; the crowd are starting to get impatient.’

  ‘Oh, sure. I’ll get onto it right away.’ I’m just about to call when my phone rings. Lawson’s ‘Juliet’ blares out. Jared, who’s still standing nearby, looks up from his clipboard, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He’s not a Lawson fan obviously.

  ‘Babe, it’s Cher.’

  ‘Oh hi Cher. How are you?’

  ‘It’s Dan, he’s been taken hostage!’ she cuts straight to the point.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, thinking this must be some kind of joke.

  ‘Exactly that! Hostage. Handcuffs. Locked to the bed. He was here in the green room one minute, tuning his guitar and chanting – I never knew he was a Buddhist: so cool,’ she pauses to catch her breath. ‘Anyway, some groupies turned up, ran in, body-slammed him and cuffed him to the bed. And now his manager is going mental. He only stepped out of the room for a second to get some drinks and they were in! Like athletes on the racket they were. And now they’ve barricaded the room, so we can’t even kick the door in.’ She inhales sharply.

  ‘Oh my God. But he’s due on stage any minute now – the crowd will go berserk if he doesn’t turn up. Shouldn’t we call the police?’ I ask, racking my brains for the fastest solution.

  ‘That’s the first thing I said, but his manager said not to. Not until we have, and I quote, “exhausted all the options”, I think he’s worried about the media getting wind of it and blowing it all out of proportion.’

  ‘I see, OK, I’m on my way. See you in a minute.’ I end the call before turning to Jared who, after overhearing me mention the police, is now standing right next to me with a concerned look on his face.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That was Cher! Apparently Dan is being held hostage by some crazeee groupies in a bedroom at the pub.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘You’re joking, it’s a wind-up, right?’

  ‘I wish it was.’ I toss my phone into my bag and go to leave.

  ‘Hold on.’ Jared puts a hand on my shoulder and I turn back to face him. ‘I’m coming too.’ He looks frazzled.

  ‘But you can’t, what about the music festival? Aren’t you in charge of it?’

  ‘Yep, but if Dan isn’t here to go on stage, then what’s the bloody point? He’s the headline act, the one all these people have come to see. And he’s supposed to be on stage in ten minutes! He can be a bit fashionably late – the crowd will wear a short wait – but not a no-show.’

  Jared races over to a guy wearing big headphones and thrusts the clipboard into his hands while simultaneously motioning for The Mulberry Mittens to get back on stage pronto. The guy nods back at Jared and gives him a man-hug. Jared is back beside me. We run as fast as we can out of the backstage area, across the pebbles and into the Hook, Line and Sinker pub.

  Cher, looking totally stressed, comes bombing over to us.

  ‘What a nightmare!’ she puffs, chewing her gum frantically. ‘I’m so sorry—’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Jared says, standing next to Cher.

  ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, then it’s mine.’ A guy steps forward, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’m Dan’s manager by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jared and I say.

  ‘I really think we should call the police,’ I suggest again, thinking it could take ages to talk the fangirls round and we just don’t have the time. ‘They’ll probably panic if the actual police turn up, and open the door in any case.’

  ‘But Dan won’t thank me if this turns into a media frenzy, and that’s exactly what will happen if we call the police in. There are already paps hanging around on the beach hoping to get the money shot before he goes on stage.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘OK, but we have to do something, because I’m sure as hell not telling the crowd that their idol, who they’ve been waiting months for, and now all day to see, here in their hometown of Mulberry, isn’t turning up,’ Jared says. ‘And what if they want a ransom? Or have set traps and stuff up there that get triggered when the door goes in? Do you know how to diffuse a bomb, because I sure as hell don’t!’ We all stare at Jared, goggle-eyed and speechless.

  ‘Look, why are we hesitating? This is ridiculous. I vote for calling the police and getting them to kick the door in. Done. We can chase away the paps or something,’ I say, knowing if we don’t sort this out soon and get Dan on the stage then that massive crowd will hate Carrington’s for promising their idol and then letting them all down. That’s hardly going to foster good relations in the local community – those girls, the DKers or whatever they call themselves, are definitely a force to be reckoned with. Plus, they’re customers, their families too. Mr Dunwoody will be raging when he has them all beating a path to his constituency office to complain.

  ‘Please, no police! Jared, you’ve obviously been playing too many games on your Xbox or whatever. They’re teenage girls, they don’t have bombs or traps or anything,’ Dan’s manager says, trying to laugh it off, but there’s a dart of fear in his eye. A short silence follows while we all stare at each other.

  ‘Look, if you’re adamant about no police involvement, then I have another idea,’ I say, pulling out my notebook. I thumb through until I find my list of contact numbers.

  ‘Go on,’ Jared says.

  ‘You’ll see.’ I rush to punch out the number and luckily he answers right away.

  A few minutes later, and commando man – the owner of the Mulberry Sound and Vision TV shop is running full pelt towards us like he’s auditioning for The Hunger Games – he’s wearing full-body black neoprene with a padded section to protect his vital organs, has a coil of thick rope in one hand and a proper bow and arrow in a holster slung over his left shoulder. He comes to a halt in front of me.

  ‘You rang!’ And for some ludicrous reason I have to stifle a laugh. I don’t know if it’s the bizarre circumstances I’m in, or that he looks totally ridiculous, but I cover my mouth with my hand and will myself to get a grip, truly hoping he does actually have some combat experience and doesn’t just like dressing up. ‘So what’s the MO?’ he asks in a deadly serious voice, his face set like concrete.

  ‘Um, MO?’ I ask, baffled.

  ‘Modus operandi?’ commando man explains.

  ‘Dan is being held hostage in one of the bedrooms upstairs and we have no idea what ammo they have in there.’ Jared offers a brief summary, throwing Dan’s manager a pointed look.

  ‘And we need to get him out and back to the concert in like …’ Dan’s manager pauses to check his watch. ‘Now!’ He paces up and down. ‘Jesus, the fans will go mental if we d
on’t get him there. But we must do it with the minimum fuss possible. If the media get wind of this, those fans will implode. I’m telling you now, they live for Dan, and I sure as hell don’t want a mass suicide on my hands.’ He stops pacing.

  ‘Which room is it?’ commando man asks Cher.

  ‘Follow me.’ And she goes to show him the way, but he swiftly places a hand on her arm to stop her.

  ‘Just tell me.’ Cher points to the room above us.

  ‘Right. I’m going in.’ And commando man strides off upstairs. We follow close behind. He stops on the landing and puts a finger to his lips, presumably so as not to alert the groupies who are singing ‘Sweet Sugar’ at the tops of their voices from the room at the end of the corridor. ‘Stand back,’ he whispers, lifting his right foot up as if to boot the door in.

  ‘Hang on. What are you doing?’ Dan’s manager hisses, his face creased with concern.

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’ commando man mouths.

  ‘Um, no, but what if they have set up a trap on the door?’ Dan’s manager whispers back.

  ‘Hmm. OK, I’ll find another entry point.’ And he runs back downstairs with us all following close behind.

  We’re in Cher’s private garden at the back of the pub now, and commando man has lassoed a length of rope up and over the roof. And, oh my God, he’s shinning up a drainpipe, just like Spider-Man, he’s that fast; because, within seconds, he’s smashed through the bedroom window. And all hell breaks loose. Teenage girls are everywhere after fleeing the room and racing out of the pub – screaming and shrieking, jumping up and down and flapping their arms around. There must be at least ten of them in the garden now, blaming each other and saying stuff like ‘grow some tits’ and ‘bore off and die’. Commando man appears at the window gripping Dan’s arm up in the air like a trophy and the screaming intensifies to near hysteria with them surging forward and shouting, ‘Ohmigod he’s sooooo quiche!’

  ‘Now you can call the police!’ Dan’s manager bellows to me, before bombing back into the pub to get Dan and race him to the stage.

  25

  What a day! And it’s a welcome relief to see the regatta drawing to a close. The still-warm sun is sinking slowly when I make it to Carrington’s, and the last of the regatta visitors are dawdling on their way home – eating ice creams and candy floss, the children being carried, sleepy but still clutching their helium banana balloons.

  ‘It’s all ready for you, my dear.’ It’s Mrs Grace, and she gives me a conspiratorial wink. And I gasp. It’s so much better than I ever imagined. I rang Mrs Grace from inside Marco’s ice-cream van and asked if she would mind leaving the beautiful twinkling lights in place for a very special last event – a surprise for Tom! And, right on cue, my phone buzzes with a text message reply from him.

  OK. See you at 9 x

  And my hands tremble with relief. Relief that he actually got the last message I sent, also from Marco’s van, asking if he could join me for a very special ‘apology picnic’ here inside the Carrington’s tunnels, where it all began, where we first met. I was going to come up with some pretext to lure him here, seeing as it’s pretty obvious by his silence that he’s still cross with me, but I figured it best to be honest about my intentions, something I should also have been months ago, instead of dithering when he asked me to move in with him.

  ‘You’d better hurry; he’ll be here soon. Come on, I’ll give you a hand – best be organised before he gets here.’ Mrs Grace grabs the blanket and the cushions from my arms and leads me further into the tunnel. ‘There’s a brilliant spot just around this corner.’ And she shows me a glorious little opening where the four tunnels come together in a circular junction; it even has an old-fashioned lamp on one wall and carved low wooden benches running around the sides. ‘I thought you could put the cushions on the benches and lay the picnic out on the blanket in the middle – like in a Bedouin tent. My Stan’s niece did exactly that for her wedding breakfast and it was wonderful. We all sat around on the floor, very bohemian.’ She smiles, getting into the romance of it all. ‘Mind you, my Stan is still moaning about his stiff knees, and it was months ago now.’ She shakes her head with a look of sheer exasperation on her face.

  ‘It’s perfect, and you didn’t have to go to all this trouble …’ I lean in to plant a kiss on her bony cheek.

  ‘Oh, it’s no bother, I’m just pleased to see you two lovebirds so happy. And here,’ she hands me an old-fashioned cassette player. ‘I’ve put a lovely romantic Frank Sinatra tape inside. Play it so Tom can follow the music to find you.’

  ‘Thanks so much.’ I busy myself by scattering the cushions – I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, which is that I have a lot of making up to do, if Tom and I are to be ‘lovebirds’ again.

  ‘Did you bring the champagne and the picnic food?’ she says, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘I sure did,’ I point to the two carrier bags on the floor beside the blanket, thanking my lucky stars for the new bakery. After the fangirls dispersed, eager to see their crush on stage, I raced over to the food marquee and managed to get the last of the ready-made sandwiches, some cakes from Sam and a box of strawberries, bags of crisps and a chilled bottle of champagne from the One Stop Shop opposite the pier.

  ‘Here, we can put it all in this.’ Mrs Grace lifts out an original Fifties picnic hamper from under one of the benches. ‘Far nicer than carrier bags. I “borrowed” it from the summer display instore – nipped up there just after you rang me – and got these too …’ She flings open the hamper to show me a selection of those gorgeous melamine Orla Kiely plates and bowls. ‘And there are two champagne glasses – I swiped them from Homeware; we’ll just put them back in the morning and nobody will be any the wiser,’ she chuckles as we start unwrapping the food and loading it onto the plates. I tip the Twiglets into a bowl – Tom’s favourite – and glance at my watch. It’s almost time!

  ‘Right, I’d better be off. Have fun.’ Mrs Grace gives me a hug before disappearing off into the dark of the tunnels.

  I sit on a bench to wait for Tom. Ahh, I can hear footsteps, it must be him. I smile and plump up the cushion next to me, but he doesn’t appear. Maybe it was Mrs Grace making her way outside instead …

  I pop a big strawberry into my mouth, unable to resist, and immediately regret it when Tom arrives. My tummy flips and my heart soars. He looks incredible as always, in jeans and a white polo shirt that shows off his glorious tan – like warm caramel – and he smells amazing, of chocolate and spice.

  ‘Oh, um … I wasn’t expecting you to come from that direction,’ I squelch through a mouthful of strawberry, jumping up and flinging my hand over my face to cover the truly unromantic mess I’m making. I duck down to grab a napkin from the blanket and quickly wipe my lips.

  ‘Sorry, did I startle you? I know these tunnels like the back of my hand. I came via the Mulberry Grand Hotel, the tunnel we ran along at Christmas time when we went up to the ice rink on the roof. Do you remember?’ he says, pushing his hands into his pockets. And how could I forget, it was the most romantic night of my life? But that’s a whole other story.

  ‘Yes, I do. It was amazing …’ There’s a short silence. ‘And no, you didn’t startle me, I was, err, just expecting you to arrive from …’ My voice trails off as I wave a hand nervously before stepping closer to him. But he takes a small step back and away from me. So he’s definitely still annoyed with me, then.

  ‘I followed the music. Shall we sit down?’ He gestures to the blanket.

  ‘Um, sure, would you like a sandwich?’ I ask, sitting down too and offering him the plate. He shakes his head.

  ‘No, thanks. How’s your dad?’ He lies on his side, propped up on one elbow.

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s much better thank you.’ God, I hate this. It’s like we’re strangers. Not lovebirds, as Mrs Grace called us, at all.

  ‘Good.’ He pushes his dark curls back from his face. ‘So when did you get back?’ he asks.

 
‘Oh, not until yesterday morning, can you believe it?’ I start speaking, too fast, and he frowns. ‘But it wasn’t my fault, it really wasn’t, there was a strike at the airport in Toulouse and I had to get a train and …’ I stop talking.

  ‘So is that why you didn’t call me on Friday? I was expecting to hear from you … when we last spoke, you said you’d call when you got home. I was …’ He pauses as if deliberating on what words to use, ‘… surprised not to hear from you.’ He looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘Tom, I truly am. And not just for not calling on Friday – it was chaos at the airport and then my battery died somewhere near Bordeaux and then by the time I had charged it up, I had to get to the regatta. Then I called you as soon as I could, but you …’ Silence follows.

  ‘Georgie, I was devastated when you didn’t turn up in Vegas.’ He gets straight to the point.

  ‘I know, and I was too,’ I say. ‘Tom, I really am so sorry for ruining your surprise. I did try to make it right, but you didn’t see me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I came to Vegas, I made it to the airport as you were leaving.’

  ‘Oh God, did you?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Well, it’s a shame I missed you, but it’s not just that …’ He picks at a loose thread on the blanket.

  ‘Oh. What is it then?’ I fiddle with the hem of my dress, rolling it up tightly over my knee before letting it go and starting all over again.

  ‘Look, Georgie,’ he clears his throat. ‘There’s no easy way to say this …’ Oh my God! No. Seriously, noooooo, surely not … Him being angry that I ruined his surprise proposal is one thing, but surely he isn’t about to dump me over it? I will myself to keep quiet, having made the mistake in the past of jumping in and making it all a million times worse. I inhale sharply and hold my breath. ‘But I’m just not sure how committed you are to this relationship. I guess what I’m saying is that, if you want out, then, well … then I’ll understand.’ He looks away and a shiver trickles down my spine. He’ll understand? But I don’t want him to understand. I want him to want me. And then I remember what Isabella told me – he’s been hurt too. I can’t blame him for wanting to put on a brave face, not after I’ve let him down too.