Blair sniffed. ‘Not exactly sure.’ Then, reluctantly, ‘I suppose so. I didn’t realise they’d be so quick off the mark—’
Georgine’s breathing had calmed. It wasn’t hurting her chest now. ‘How could you put us through this again?’ she whispered.
Blair’s voice shrank to a squeak. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
Joe’s warmth still surrounded Georgine. He didn’t join the conversation but his embrace said You’re not on your own. For the first time in what seemed like forever, someone was letting her use them as a shield, instead of the other way around. She couldn’t open her eyes and look at Blair. ‘Is this the debt that came between you and Warren?’
‘Yes,’ Blair admitted, still in a tiny voice. ‘He said he was sick of it.’
‘So am I,’ Georgine rejoined. ‘Go back to work.’
‘I told them I felt ill.’ Blair sniffled – softly, not with huge snotty sobs as Georgine had.
Slowly, Georgine uncurled, sliding inelegantly off Joe’s lap. ‘Let’s go to Acting Instrumental,’ she said to him.
Joe uncoiled from his cramped position. ‘Sure? Then I’ll drive you.’ It was the first sound he’d uttered since Blair catapulted onto the scene.
‘Yes, please.’ On shivering limbs, Georgine eased to her knees and let Joe help her to her feet. At the foot of the stairs they collected her coat and he left her sitting on the bottom step while he gathered her laptop and everything she wanted to take to work. Then he helped her up as if she was really ill, slipped his arm around her once more and opened the front door.
‘Georgine?’ Blair quavered from the top of the stairs.
Georgine didn’t pause. She stepped out, then reached back to shut the front door. She didn’t bother deadlocking it with Blair inside. At that moment she didn’t much care if someone got in.
‘We don’t have to go to work,’ he murmured, opening the passenger door of his car for her.
‘I want to feel normal.’ She let her head fall back against the headrest and sat, eyes closed, as Joe drove. Despite it being her choice to go to work, she fantasised for a few minutes that he was driving her somewhere wonderful. A luxurious spa hotel on a clifftop, perhaps, where she could loll about an overheated pool in a fluffy robe and the wintry weather, like the harsh realities of life, couldn’t get at her.
When, after a few minutes, the car stopped and the engine died, she opened her eyelids, feeling as if her eyeballs had been rolled in desiccated coconut like truffles, to find Joe’s car not at a clifftop hotel – she hadn’t really held out much hope of that – but at the foot of the stairs to his apartment, shielded from the view of the rest of the property by the jut of the big rehearsal room. ‘You’ve parked on the grass,’ she said stupidly.
‘My grass.’ He hopped out and came round to open her door. ‘I think maybe you’ll want to clean up before going in.’
She felt as she had the only time she’d had flu, almost too weak to climb to her feet. ‘Right. Thanks.’ She toiled up the steps as if climbing Everest and entered his apartment, following his example when he kicked off his shoes inside the door. He pointed out the bathroom and she trailed into what proved to be a luxuriously appointed room. There, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gave a little shriek of horror.
Mascara rivers had solidified on her cheeks like lava flow. Her face was covered in red blotches. ‘I’m hideous,’ she groaned.
Joe, diplomatically, didn’t confirm or deny it, just produced a clean flannel and a wrapped bar of soap. ‘The soap’s not a girly scent, I’m afraid.’
The picture on the packet was of a pair of male hands and crystal clear water. ‘It’s OK. I don’t look feminine.’ She ran water in the hand basin and began, gingerly, to wash. Her skin felt too sensitive to rub, so she sat on the loo lid pressing a soapy flannel on her face until her misplaced make-up softened and disappeared. She repeated the exercise with clear cold water and the reddest of the blotches had calmed when she left the bathroom.
‘I’m afraid the flannel will never be the same,’ she confessed when she found him on a tan sofa in what was obviously his main living area. Two steaming mugs stood on the table. ‘Is one of those hot chocolates for me? Thank you.’ She dropped down beside him, inhaling the smell appreciatively, realising there was nothing she wanted more in the aftermath of the emotional storm.
Joe watched as she sipped. He’d discarded his glasses and his eyes looked brighter, more intense. ‘The flannel’s no loss. It came as some kind of free gift.’
She blew across the surface of her drink before taking a gulp, appreciating the immediate sugar hit. ‘Odd free gift.’
‘Bands attract all kinds of stuff. Probably supplied by someone hoping for an endorsement.’
‘I’d forgotten about your exciting previous life.’ Vaguely, she imagined him hauling instruments about as the glamorous rock stars who owned them discarded unwanted gifts and slid into sleek limousines. ‘I don’t suppose there was freebie moisturiser and make-up?’
He uncrossed his legs and rose. ‘Moisturiser I can do, if you don’t mind it being aimed towards men. But I’m afraid I left my guyliner and mascara in my other home.’
She laughed as he padded off down the short hall. ‘Pity.’ She drank the chocolate, which made her feel stronger by the mouthful, until he returned with a dark grey tube. She uncapped it and began to smooth on the thin white cream, closing her eyes, letting it relax the tightness caused by tears and soap. ‘Thank you. Sorry if I’m being a bit lavish with it, but it feels as if it’s giving my skin a drink.’
‘You’re welcome.’ When she opened her eyes he was smiling at her. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich. It’s nearly two o’clock.’
‘Wow.’ She felt a wriggle of alarm. ‘I can’t even think what I’m supposed to have been doing this afternoon.’ He got up and moved into the kitchen area while she found her phone, quickly opening her calendar app and studying it. ‘Not too bad, thank goodness. I was supposed to be watching rehearsals with Band Two and Troupe One. The rehearsal tape for “That Baddie is My Uncle” and “Dilemma” is quicker than Band Two have been playing it. It needs sorting out.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll catch some of the rehearsal, if you really feel you should. Or I could just report to Oggie that you’re under the weather.’
Inside her, warmth stirred. Joe Blackthorn was nice, just as he’d been in his youth, though it had been deeper down then. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘For coming to support me and looking after me. It was horrible …’ A shudder gripped her. ‘I don’t even want to think about it.’
‘Then don’t.’ He took down plates from a cupboard.
She laughed shakily. ‘You probably thought you were seeing the old Princess Georgine.’
‘No.’ He gave a decisive headshake. ‘I’ve never known you have hysterics – unless of laughter – so it had to be something really frightening or upsetting.’ He turned to the fridge. ‘Chicken, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, marmite or Nutella.’
She got up to join him in inspecting the contents of the big fridge. ‘May I have Nutella on toast? I’m in the mood for comfort food.’
‘Sounds good.’ He dropped bread into the toaster and filled glasses with fruit juice.
Georgine began to pay attention to her surroundings. ‘Nice place,’ she said, running her fingertips over the granite worktop. ‘Brave to have cream carpet everywhere. I see why you took your shoes off at the door.’
He unscrewed the lid of the Nutella. ‘It was already here. The other two apartments are more sensible colours, but this is the biggest.’
‘You could put your mum in one of the other apartments.’ She grinned, glancing back in time to catch his eyes-wide expression.
‘I came out in a sweat when you said that. Did you ever meet my mother?’ The toast popped and he began to give it a lavish coat of Nutella.
Noticing his dropped gaze, she felt small. She had no business making jokey remarks about the woman
who, at best, had been an embarrassment. ‘I knew who she was,’ she said carefully.
His mouth tightened. ‘One of these days I’ll take you to meet her. She’s a more stable person now, but we still have our moments. Here’s your comfort food.’
‘Thanks.’ She took the plate, the delicious smells of hot toast and Nutella mingling on the air as she seated herself beside him on a stool at the breakfast bar. She took the first bite, relishing the sweetness. ‘I suppose the past will always be between you and your mum.’
He shrugged. ‘True. But you can’t choose your family.’
‘No.’ She thought of Blair and heaved a sigh. She’d no idea how to sort things out with her little sister. She definitely needed time to calm down first. Maybe she’d go and see her dad after work. She wouldn’t ‘tell on’ Blair about what had happened, but she really could do with hearing his, ‘Hi, honey,’ as she walked in the door.
When she’d eaten her toast and drained her juice glass, Georgine glanced at her watch. ‘Right. Now I can face real life. I’d better get to that rehearsal.’
‘You get your afternoon back on track. I’ll catch you up.’ He cleared the counter and began to stack the crockery in the dishwasher.
Georgine put her hand on his arm. It was warm and firm beneath her fingers. ‘Thank you. It can’t have been nice for you to wade into that scene. I really lost it,’ she added, flushing at the memory.
He put the plates down to give her a quick hug. ‘You were terrified. Don’t apologise.’
The strength and broadness of his upper body hit her. His heat scorched her cheek, his stubble gently scratching. When she’d given him a spontaneous hug on Saturday at the Shetland estate, and when he’d held her protectively today as she crumbled, coats had provided padding between them and she hadn’t been so … aware. Thrown, she pulled back, trying to pin on a smile. ‘See you there, then.’
She grabbed her things, hurrying out into the inhospitable winter afternoon, clutching her coat closed against the slicing wind. Before long, she’d taken up station at the back of the big rehearsal room as Errol and Maddie conferred on the subject of the band having rehearsed a song at a considerably slower tempo than the dancers. Maddie was pointing out, reasonably, that as the composer had provided the rehearsal track, it had to be correct.
‘But surely the dancers can just follow—’ Errol was insisting, probably because he should have been aware the band had misread an instruction or not listened to the rehearsal track properly. Or both.
Georgine cut across him, not feeling in the mood to put up with his posturing. ‘Let’s show our belief in the band’s talents and ask them to play at the proper speed. It’s pretty basic stuff.’
The door to the rehearsal room squeaked open and Joe slipped in. His eyes sought her out and he mouthed, ‘OK?’
She smiled and nodded. The heat of the moment when they’d pressed together in his apartment hit her anew. It was Joe. The skin-tingling, breath-snatching response had been to Joe.
As the thoughts chased one another through her mind she continued to look at him, and his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled, as if divining her thoughts and saying: Noticed that moment we shared, did you? Me, too …
She felt herself blush.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The last half hour of rehearsal seemed endless. The band tried the new tempo and, under pressure, were ragged. Sammy, on lead guitar, flushed a dull red and seemed to lose the ability to play altogether.
Errol sidled up to Joe, smoothing his beard so he could mutter behind his hand. Georgine could see him out of the corner of her eye. Guessing he was trying to enlist Joe as an ally, she had to smother a smile when Joe replied at normal volume, ‘But playing at the requested tempo is within the capabilities of your students.’
Errol frowned, caught out by Joe disagreeing with him but at the same time complimenting his students.
By now the members of Band Two were beginning to look mutinous. Joe moved further into the room. ‘OK, guys, let’s do this. Mind if I take the drums, Dilip?’
Dilip looked relieved to quit his stool and hand over his sticks. ‘Go for it.’
‘Right, guys, I’ll give you the beat,’ Joe called.
The rest of the band angled themselves so they could see him, looking as thankful as Dilip had that someone was moving things forward.
‘One-two-three and …’ Joe brought his sticks down on the snare and the tom and everyone hit the first note of the introduction, the vocalist’s head keeping time as he waited to come in.
Crash-crash chakka-chakka, bang-bang, bang-bang, bang-bang chakka-chakka went the drums, Joe’s sticks flying, upper body swivelling to allow his arms to range around the full kit, thighs moving as his feet worked the bass drum and hi-hat cymbals.
‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me! Uncle Jones is a baddie,’ the vocalist came in, rocking out the lyrics to match the up-tempo mood.
Halfway through the song Joe stopped and the band faltered to a halt. ‘Let’s hold it there. Dilip, come back in on the drums. Can I borrow your spare sticks?’ Joe took up position in front of the band, waving the dancers into position. ‘Band, you can record this on your phones so you’ll have it for practice if you want.’ Phones were instantly set up and placed on the floor by feet.
Then Joe brought the band in again, this time using the sticks on one another above his head. ‘One-two-three and …’ He kept time and Dilip picked up the tempo effortlessly, along with the rest of the band.
Georgine watched the rhythmic motion of Joe’s arms, beginning to get an idea of where he got his upper body strength. Drum techs had to be drummers, of course. Why did Joe never perform? He was like a human metronome. Surely nobody learned to play an instrument so well just for their own entertainment? Musicians she’d known seemed to be always forming themselves into bands. Even if they didn’t gig, they jammed, or took part in open-mic nights.
Then she forced herself to concentrate on the rehearsal, ready to clap like mad at the end and give the students loads of encouragement, hoping heaped praise for Errol’s students would take the sour look off his face. She really could only deal with so much hysteria in one day.
Three o’clock arrived and rehearsal ended. Everyone clapped, then Georgine, exhausted, trailed back to her room. Joe followed.
She checked her phone and saw several texts from Blair and, though her finger hovered over the first, she decided to wait until she’d finished for the day. Her laptop was waiting for her to update her rehearsal notes, but she was flagging. She was also jumpily aware of Joe sorting through a box of props in the corner of the room and every time she thought about that quick hug in his apartment her spine shivered.
‘So,’ she said casually, ‘you really know your way around a drum kit. The students were awestruck.’
He glanced up. ‘Shaun taught me drums and a bit of piano, then drums were my instrument for my diploma.’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, my college band became—’
Fern popped her head around the door. ‘Your sister’s here, Georgine, so I brought her along.’
A small shock travelled through Georgine and she rubbed her forehead, which had begun to ache. ‘Blair’s here?’ Then seeing her sister step out from behind Fern, wearing her embroidered coat and a contrite expression, had little option but to reply, ‘OK, thanks.’
Joe cleared his throat. His military-short haircut had grown out a bit and was spiking at the front. ‘Shall I find somewhere else to work?’
‘No need,’ Georgine was quick to say. She waited until she heard Fern’s footsteps tapping back the way she’d come before speaking to her sister. ‘What’s up?’
Blair stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. ‘Do you hate me?’ Now she was nearer, her eyes looked red-rimmed.
Georgine’s heart thought about thawing, but then she remembered the awfulness of the bailiffs and it froze again. Her voice emerged stilted and odd. ‘I can be upset without hating you.’
‘I kno
w how you feel about bailiffs and everything. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me,’ Blair added piteously, ‘but I don’t have to clear out, do I?’
‘I haven’t said that,’ Georgine objected. ‘We need to talk. But now’s not the time.’
Joe closed the box he’d been working on and hoisted it into his arms. ‘I’ll stick this back in the props room.’
But Blair was blocking his exit and she didn’t seem to see or hear him. Her focus was on Georgine. ‘I am sorry. I know it was my fault, but you can’t blame me for last time.’
Stung, Georgine jumped to her feet. ‘I’m well aware.’
Paling, Blair said no more but turned suddenly and left the room. Weakly, Georgine sank back into her chair. ‘I should have dealt with that better,’ she muttered remorsefully.
Joe shot after Blair to see her to the main doors, while Georgine sat with her head in her hands. Blair had never forgiven her. The knowledge filled her with ice.
Then she felt the air in the room change and Joe was back, his hand on her arm. ‘How about coming to my place for a few hours? Give yourself time to chill. I make a mean Spanish omelette.’
‘Oh, really?’ she choked. ‘Haven’t you had enough of me and my dramas for today?’
He laughed softly. ‘I have a few hours left in me. Come on.’
Georgine scrabbled her possessions together haphazardly and they slipped quietly out by a door Joe unlocked at the end of the corridor near the big rehearsal room. She’d barely registered the door, but its presence explained how Joe came and went to his apartment. Outside, the winter’s afternoon was almost dark and the wind harried them with its chilly breath as they traversed the back of the building to access the stairs.
When they were inside, past the unoccupied apartments, and closing Joe’s door on the world, Georgine had to gulp hard not to bawl all over again with relief.
He rested a hand on her shoulder briefly, ushering her into the lounge area to sink down wearily onto the sofa while he went around the apartment switching on lights and turning up the heating. Georgine felt cold right through and not from the moments they’d spent in the raw December weather. It was more like being the little boy with the frozen heart in The Snow Queen. Cold on the inside.
A Christmas Gift Page 19
