“Bugger it!” George said as she continued to hold her finger under the tap.

What she really wanted to do was swear, really really loud. She wanted to stand in the middle of the kitchen and release a barrage of four letter words from her mouth with the ferocity and venom of a wronged banshee or maybe Pink. She took a deep breath and swallowed down the feeling, humming ‘So What?’ under her breath.

“You alright or are we having skin sandwiches again?” Marisa asked, raising her head to look at her boss.

“Have you finished buttering yet?” George questioned.

She wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm, particularly sarcasm with a thick Welsh accent and plenty of attitude. Marisa had already pissed her off singing badly to Beyonce all morning she didn’t need her questioning her ability right now.

“No, like there’s loads.”

“Well, stop worrying about what I’m doing and get on with it,” George told her.

Nothing had gone right today. She was short of supplies, the radio couldn’t find a decent channel and they were behind schedule. She could feel a headache coming on. It always started in her ears like a pressure building up. Then it would slowly move to the back of her head and spread until it had enveloped her entire skull and she couldn’t think let alone function. She needed Ibuprofen washed down with a nice cold beer. There was a six pack of bottles in the fridge, they were Mexican too. How ironic was that?

But it was only 3.00pm and having beer would be wrong when she was so busy. She needed to stay focussed, she needed to regain some momentum on the order they were finalising. Besides, drinking beer in the afternoon was highly unacceptable in front of someone as impressionable as seventeen year old Marisa. She knew Marisa dabbled in alco-pops after catching her snogging the lad from the butchers outside the Co-op, a half empty bottle of WKD in her hand. George had had to lay out Butcher Boy when he’d suggested she ‘fuck off and mind her own business’, Marisa had been frogmarched back to George’s and a gallon of strong Costa Rican poured down her neck before she was taken home contrite and hickey ridden. She hadn’t mentioned the alcohol to Helen and Geraint. She knew the evidence of intimacy would be enough to warrant a severe ear bashing for Marisa. In truth George sympathised. She’d been there, done that and worn countless rock band motif t-shirts, but she wasn’t that person anymore.

She let out a sigh and ran her uninjured hand through her short crop of blonde hair. There was still so much to bloody do and Marisa was back to singing. The myth that all the Welsh had voices to die for wasn’t true in Marisa’s case; she had a voice to die by. The passion was there but the execution wasn’t even debatable. She looked at her watch; thankfully Helen was due back any minute.

The phone rang and Marisa bounded over to it like an overeager puppy, hat askew on her head, hair flapping wildly, chewing gum close to spilling out of her mouth.

“Hiya, Finger Food.”

George cursed under her breath and shook her head in irritation. Every day she had the same conversation with Marisa. Greet the potential customers in a friendly yet professional manner, state the company name, try not to sound like you’re chewing gum even if you are. And do not say ‘hiya’ unless you’re referring to a fee agreement or something on a very tall shelf. Marisa changed hands with the phone and succeeded in wiping egg mayonnaise all over the handset.

“Tonight? A hundred people? You have got to be joking,” Marisa exclaimed, her Welsh accent becoming broader and thicker by the second. She almost sounded like she could round up sheep. Without a dog.

George turned off the tap, rushed over to the telephone and relieved Marisa of the call, shaking her hot hand around in the hope the air would cool it.

“Hello, this is George Fraser, the owner, sorry about that, temporary staff. Can I help? Tonight, yes, we can do tonight. A hundred people at the Hexagon. OK, hot or cold? OK, vegetarian, vegan, or traditional? Yes, that’s not a problem. As its short notice I would usually charge….oh….could you clarify that amount, I have a bad connection. Well, that’s er absolutely fine; we’ll see you then, bye.”

A smile crossed her face as she replaced the handset. The headache was easing a little; the painful hand was temporarily forgotten. Perhaps today was going to pick up after all.
“Are you like totally insane? We have Archie Reeves’ 65th birthday party to cater for tomorrow and I don’t know about you but I’m kind of struggling with Katie Murray’s princess shaped sandwiches for the party in like two hours,” Marisa said, wiping her hands on her apron and planting them on her hips.

“Marisa, I thought we talked about telephone answering again this morning. I thought we decided you were going to say ‘Good morning Finger Food’ or ‘Good Afternoon Finger Food’ depending on the time of day. I thought we said that ‘hiya’ was categorically banned,” George said, looking at her young employee.

“We did but I was trying to be efficient and ‘hiya’ just comes out quicker.”

“OK, well, telling a potential customer that ‘they have got to be joking’ isn’t efficient, it’s bloody rude,” George told her.

“I was just thinking time management, you know, getting to the point,” Marisa answered defiantly, her stance unchanged.

“You’re lucky we didn’t miss out on two grand.”

“Two grand! Jesus! Just for a hundred people! Is it for Elton John?” Marisa exclaimed, her eyes bulging.

“It’s an after show party at The Hexagon, obviously I’ll pay overtime. Could you call Callie, Alison and Bianca, see if they can help serving?”

“Callie’s got glandular fever,” Marisa replied.

“OK, well someone else who’s helped us out before, but not Gina. I know it isn’t her fault she’s got a brace but she spat over everyone’s food at Mr and Mrs Wong’s wedding anniversary.”

“She does do that a lot,” Marisa admitted.

“Right, so do you want me to help you with the sandwiches?” George offered, the news that she was going to get a large fee improving her mood.

“Why couldn’t she have bloody butterfly sandwiches instead of princesses? I can do butterflies,” Marisa moaned, scowling like an irritated child.

The back door swung open and crashed against the worktop as Marisa’s mother Helen Thomas entered, two carrier bags swinging from each arm. She huffed and puffed and groaned loudly and George hurried to relieve her of some of her load.

“Thank God I’m back its murder out there. Its market day isn’t it and you know what that means,” Helen began, unfastening her coat.

“OAPs and job dodgers,” Marisa remarked, not looking up from her sandwiches.

“Yes, exactly and both move as slow as each other ‘cause they’ve got nothing better to do. Anyway, I’ve got more prawns, more chillies and Simon’s bringing extra bread later on,” she said with another sigh.

“Great, let’s stick the kettle on and then we can wrap this job up,” George suggested, carefully carving the white bread to show Marisa how a princess was constructed out of Hovis’ finest.

Helen had worked with George since the beginning, some ten years ago. She had met her at the local pub where Helen had worked in the kitchen providing the town with hearty pub grub. George had treated ‘The Bell’ as a second home back then. She had always gone in after college, always managed to find someone to buy her beer and had always won enough from hustling on the pool table to afford a meal. She knew Helen had felt sorry for her back then but that had just meant she got extra chips and ice cream for afters. She could think what she liked; there were always others who thought worse, like her own mother. She was worse than The Boston Strangler in her mother’s eyes.

She’d qualified from college and after helping Helen improve her pastry making she offered her a job and Finger Food was born.

Finger Food was George’s pride and joy. It hadn’t been easy building a business from scratch when you had no idea where to start. George had struggled at school much to the horror of her parents, because apparently Frasers don’t struggle at anything and neither do Whittakers, but despite their insistence she retook her GCSEs, she had enrolled on a catering course at college. Two years and a lot of hard work later she achieved a hospitality and catering qualification. Cooking was the only thing she enjoyed and the only thing she could see herself not getting bored with. It wasn’t the usual job of choice for a jeans wearing, rock music listening, pool playing chick but for whatever reason it worked. When she was creating something new she immersed herself in the recipe, focussed on making the ingredients gel together in new and unseen ways, she was concentrating on that moment with the food and nothing else. She could only manage to do that stood next to a hot oven with her hands in a mixing bowl.

But apart from the therapeutic reasons she cooked, it was fun, she was good at it and she could see the money making potential. She had a heart full of woe but a head full of ambition.

She started making sandwiches and selling them at offices, on building sites, anywhere she could. She researched areas that already had a regular service and she undercut them where she was able. Then when she had the money to take on staff she had started catering parties. Gradually the functions became more frequent and her customer base had grown. It was then things really started to take off. She got a loan from the bank and used it to build a state of the art kitchen as an annexe to her two bedroom semi. It had meant losing most of the garden but she didn’t do gardens anyway and it was also an excuse to lose the hideous ‘love seat’ her parents had bought her one Christmas. She didn’t know what was behind their thinking on that one; most of her boyfriends never made it to a second date, let alone got invited to sit in the garden.

In fact she had only introduced one boyfriend to her parents and that was nineteen years ago. Her mother had hated him, but she had expected that, she hated everyone. She could have bought home Jesus himself and she would have commented about the state of his sandals. She forbade a fifteen year old George to see him and when that didn’t work she tried to get his parents to forbid him from seeing George. Any male acquaintances she had had since didn’t last. She found meeting someone new was just full of empty expectation. You knew immediately if there was a connection or not and if there wasn’t the best you could hope for was that he paid for dinner and he didn’t have a tongue like sandpaper.
But right now she was happy, on her own; she was in a good place. She loved her work, she adored Helen and Marisa and she quite enjoyed flirting with Simon who worked at the bakery.

Simon (tall, dark haired, smelt of Jazz aftershave) had been trying to ask her out for as long as she could remember. The trouble was he was just too obvious and it reeked of desperation, even over the rather fresh cologne. He was nice enough, he was fun to banter with but that was it, there was nothing that intrigued George enough to go any further. There was no spark, no charge in the air. And rightly or wrongly she got bored rapidly, their conversations never ended with her desperate for more and accepting a date would only raise his hopes. More importantly, as far as the business was concerned, she didn’t want to lose the 20% discount she had worked so hard to get out of him. She could imagine things might turn nasty if she went out with him and then decided one date was enough. Which she would.

“You’ll never guess what happened while you were out,” Marisa spoke as George helped her carve out sandwiches into crowned princesses.

“Don’t tell me Archie Reeves cancelled the birthday party! Please don’t tell me that, I’m liable to go round there and make sure he doesn’t make 66, five hours it took me to ice the cake. He hasn’t has he?” Helen asked, taking off her coat and shaking out her bubble permed hair.

“No, but you might want to sit down. George has taken on a catering job for tonight, an after show party at The Hexagon. But there is an upside, wait for it Mum....its two thousand quid!” Marisa exclaimed.

“George, tonight! We’re so busy,” Helen remarked as she washed her hands and prepared to get back to bread buttering.

“I know but catering a party there could be really big. We do this well and we could get recommended for more of the same. And Marisa just said, its two grand,” George reminded.
“We’ve only got an hour or so to finish the food for Katie Murray’s party and then it’s….,” Helen began.

“I know Helen! I know what we have on. Look if you don’t want the overtime I’ll do it all myself,” George said sternly.

“I don’t think Mum was saying that, were you Mum?” Marisa spoke hurriedly, worrying her extra cash was evaporating.

“No of course not, I just….,” Helen started.

“Good, right, well Marisa I’ll get these sandwiches done and you get on the phone to your friends, rustle up some waitresses,” George ordered, taking a deep breath.

“I could ask my friend Shirley if you like, she enjoyed it last time and she was ever so good,” Helen offered.

“Oh God, not Curly Shirley! You two look like a couple of prize poodles entering Crufts when you’re together you do. She’s the only person I’ve met that’s got curlier hair than you do!” Marisa remarked.

“I was complimented about my hair at the shop just now,” Helen told her.

“What shop was it? RNIB?” Marisa commented.

“Marisa!” George exclaimed in horror.

“Don’t worry George, the next time she wants to borrow money I know what to say.”

“Oh Mum, I didn’t like really mean it, I mean your hair’s individual isn’t it? Unique,” Marisa said, realising she had gone too far.

“If you could ask Curly Shirley that would be great,” George replied.

There was a loud knock on the back door.

“That’s early if it’s Simon, he could have given me a lift back from town in the van. Half a mile I struggled with those bags, my hands are red raw, they look like overcooked savaloys,” Helen moaned.

“You need to pass your driving test Helen; at this rate Marisa will be driving our van before you,” George remarked as she went to the door.

“Overtime will pay for more lessons Mum,” Marisa remarked, carefully cutting around the princess template with a sharp knife.

George opened the door and revealed a tall, slim dark haired man wearing a beanie hat and a big smile.

“Hello Sis. Need some help wrapping and stacking?” he greeted.

“Adam!” George exclaimed excitedly and she threw her arms around the eighteen year old, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“God, can’t breathe, let go, you’re squashing the street cred right out of me,” Adam remarked as George let him go and smiled up at him.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at uni?” George inquired.

“God, you’re sounding more like Mum every day, that’s exactly what she said. Don’t know whether it was because she thought I was skiving or whether it was because she didn’t like the big black bag of washing I gave her,” Adam spoke as he stepped into the kitchen.

“So, why aren’t you at uni?” George repeated.

“Hello Helen, hi Marisa. I love what you’ve done to your hair,” Adam said, giving both the women the benefit of his charming smile.

“It’s supposed to be magpie,” Marisa replied, looking at her blue\green streaks, her cheeks flushing.

“Well it really suits you. So, what jobs have we got on today?” Adam inquired, looking around at the organised chaos.

“All sorts. A princess party, a 65th birthday tomorrow and an after show party at The Hexagon tonight, it’s like totally full on,” Marisa answered.

“After show party at The Hexagon? Wow, you know who’s playing there tonight don’t you?” Adam inquired, his eyes lighting up.

“No idea, someone from Rocket Music just called me,” George replied.

“George likes Radio Two these days; I think it’s an age thing innit,” Marisa spoke cheekily.

“Hey that’s unfair, you know the radio’s broken at the moment,” George responded.

“Well it’s Quinn Blake. That’s why I’m home; me and Tom are going tonight. Quinn Blake’s awesome on the guitar and the piano; you got me the DVD remember?” Adam said excitedly.

“Er, yeah,” George answered, not remembering.

She knew who Quinn Blake was, everyone did.

“George! Miss Finger Food herself! My darling, tell me what you have done to this lamb?!

It’s gorgeous, it’s divine, it’s delicious, it’s delectable, it’s every word beginning with ‘d’ I can think of and more. It’s wonderful!” Michael shouted excitedly, slapping her on the back as he bounded up to her and jolted her away from thoughts of sleep.

“Oh, Michael, thank you,” George responded, stifling another yawn.

“No, thank you darling, people think I am a party planning genius and guests are picking up your business cards like they were money off vouchers for Harrods,” Michael informed her.

“Well that’s really good,” George answered.

“I’m sensing a slight lack of enthusiasm here. Your company could be huge I tell you, huge!” Michael exclaimed and waved his arms about theatrically.

George smiled at him and offered him the tray of canapés.

“Oh, the seafood medley is tempting me, should I indulge?” Michael asked, gazing adoringly at the plate.

George watched Adam, smiling at the female guests, handing out delicacies, offering glasses of champagne. She wondered why he hadn’t told her about his planned trip abroad. She didn’t even know where he was going. She needed to know where he was going, in case of emergencies. But of course her mother would have that covered, that and every other possible eventuality. She was the absolute Queen of control after all.

And then the double doors to the function room swung open and Quinn Blake entered. With an acoustic guitar around his neck, Belch at his side, also with a guitar, they began to play as they came into the room like two performers at a Spanish fiesta. The song was one of Quinn’s biggest hits ‘By your side’ that even George had heard played over and over on the radio. It sounded different though; there were no electronic overtones, no drum and bass keeping a rhythm, just two guitars and Quinn’s smooth confident voice.

He moved into the centre of the room, singing and playing, bewitching every guest in the room, stopping all conversations, turning every head. George watched along with everyone else as Quinn mounted a table and strummed out the crescendo to the song. Belch jumped up alongside him and the two men duelled on the guitars encouraging people to clap in time.

George fumbled with her tray, trying to hold it and clap at the same time. She looked over at Adam. His tray was on the floor in front of him and he was looking at Quinn and Belch in awe, mesmerised by the performance, clapping enthusiastically along.

Marisa was hopping about in an excited state, giggling and glowing as she stood at the foot of the table Quinn and Belch had mounted.

With loud raucous strumming and harmonised vocals the song came to an end and the whole room erupted into rapturous applause. George watched as Quinn jumped down from the table and passed his guitar over to Belch. Guests hurried to surround him but although sharing a few words and smiling he began to walk purposefully away from the crowds and straight towards her.

George quickly picked up her tray which contained less than half a dozen seafood medley parcels and prepared to leave for the sanctuary for the kitchen, her heart thumping in her chest.

But there was a large group in her way and she wasn’t quick enough. Before she could move Quinn was stood in front of her, his soulful eyes fixed on her.

“Hello,” she greeted in her most pathetic voice ever.

“Meet me outside, fire exit door, ten minutes,” he replied.

George just stared at him, trying to take in what he had said.

“Ten minutes,” he repeated.

He took a seafood medley parcel from the tray and turned back to his adoring public, smiling and accepting their compliments for his music.

George swallowed a knot of fear and excitement and looked at her watch. No, what was she doing? Why was she looking at her watch? She didn’t need to know when ten minutes was because she wasn’t going to have some clandestine meeting with someone she barely knew. OK, so she knew what the inside of his mouth felt like but she knew nothing about him in the ordinary sense.

She hurried past the large group partially blocking the exit route to the kitchen, trying to avoid looking anywhere in Quinn’s direction.

“Oh my life did you like hear what he just played? That is so my favourite song in the world ever,” Marisa exclaimed excitedly, buzzing about the kitchen waiting for Helen to serve up some more food.

“How are we doing? Running low on anything?” George inquired, trying to remain focussed.

“No we’re absolutely fine,” Helen replied, passing out trays to Marisa.

“George did you hear Quinn Blake singing? Isn’t he just AMAZING?” Marisa said again.

“Make sure you work round the room with the trays; check the crudities aren’t running low and that the business cards are still in the best position,” George ordered, taking a deep breath and ignoring her comment about Quinn.

“Did you know Adam spoke to him last night? Very unprofessional I thought,” Marisa piped up.

“Marisa, you’re just jealous, now take those trays out please before things start getting cold,” Helen told her daughter.

“Thank you, I’ll take those, just run out,” Curly Shirley announced, whipping the tray from Marisa’s grasp and hurrying back towards the function room.

“Mother, she’s trying to get Quinn Blake, she’s like old enough to be his grandmother. Give me the sausages!” Marisa ordered.

George waited for the young girl to disappear and then she bolted to the fridge and got out a bottle of lager.

“Is everything alright?” Helen asked as George rifled through a drawer for a bottle opener.

“Yes great,” George replied, rattling utensils around, looking for what she needed.

“Are you looking for this?” Helen inquired as she passed over the bottle opener.

“Thanks,” George answered.

She removed the lid and took a long and much needed swig.

“Something’s on your mind. I always know when something’s on your mind. It usually involves rapid swigging of Corona.” Helen spoke.

“Nothing’s on my mind, I’m just tired that’s all after the 1940s vodka party,” George said.

“You’re working too hard again, seeking solace in lager, not eating properly....,” Helen started.

“I am eating properly. I ate half a lamb trying to get the canapés just right,” George insisted.

“You need to make time for some you,” Helen told her.

“I do,” George answered.

“Hmmm,” Helen replied, unconvinced.

“OK, well, say I was thinking about having some fun and it was all a bit impromptu and strange and very confusing but I quite liked it...what would you say?” George questioned.

“You know what I think George. Have you thought about going out with Simon from the bakery? He seems such a nice lad and he’s very keen on you,” Helen said, checking the items in the oven.

“No, not thought about that,” George answered, taking another swig of her drink and a look at her watch.

*

It was twelve minutes since he’d said ten minutes and she was standing by the door to the fire escape, staring at the white character man simulating running for his life from a deadly inferno. What was she doing? She should be serving canapés and directing her staff to serve canapés and keeping an eye on Adam. Instead she was loitering by an exit door wondering whether she should open it or not.

Why was he having an effect on her? Why did she want to see him? Why had she enjoyed his kiss so much the previous night? This was uncharacteristic, she was usually the one driving situations, but now, here she was, on the inside of the fire door, responding to someone’s order. And there was no doubt it had been an order. He couldn’t have made it anymore clear.

There was loud giggling and George heard the doors further along the corridor open. People were coming. She needed to make a decision. Open the door? Or go back to the party?
The voices grew in volume, people were approaching. George took a deep breath and pushed open the fire door.

She stepped out onto the fire escape expecting Quinn to be waiting for her, like some gorgeous, brooding knight, all bolshie and irresistible. But to her dismay there was nothing but the black sky and the cold air to greet her. She was on her own and suddenly she felt very stupid. What an idiot! He must think she was some sort of pathetic groupie who would let him kiss her and order her about just for the thrill of being in his presence! He’d probably had no intention of meeting her, it was just a game. Of course! He probably did this stuff all the time. She should have known better. She did know better.

“Hey! You’re late!”

It was him. She heard his voice but she couldn’t see him. She looked down to the bottom of the fire escape but there was no one there apart from two security guards stood by the doors to the Hexagon’s back entrance.

“I said you’re late. Ten minutes I said, this is almost fourteen,” Quinn called.

George looked around her, still with no idea where the voice was coming from.

“Hey! Up here!” Quinn shouted.

George raised her head and looked up at the roof of the building and there he was, stood on the very edge, looking down at her, a broad smile on his face.

“What the Hell are you doing? Are you mad? You could fall!” George exclaimed in horror.

“Yeah, dangerous isn’t it? So, are you coming up? I have beer,” Quinn enticed.

He picked up two bottles and chinked them together temptingly.

“How did you get up there?” George inquired.

“Same way you’re going to get up here, give me your hand,” Quinn ordered, leaning over the edge of the roof and holding his hand down to her.

“I’m not coming up there,” George told him.

“Of course you are, you want to.”

“I do not.”

“Sure you do. Come on, live a little,” Quinn spoke, still holding out his hand.

George looked at the hand he was holding out and then looked down at the drop below. This was insane.

“Take my hand, put one foot up onto the bar there and I’ll help you up. View’s great,” Quinn spoke.

George felt a rush of excitement run through her, like she had when she was a teenager and finding all sorts of new ways to annoy her mother. She had loved rebellion and a little danger then, perhaps she had forgotten how to live for the moment.

She took off her shoes, put one down as a wedge to keep open the fire exit door and abandoned the other.

She reached up, took hold of Quinn’s hand, pulled herself up onto the metal fire escape and scrambled up onto the roof.

“You’ve done this before,” Quinn replied as they sat down on the tiles and he handed her a bottle of beer.

“Not for a long time,” George answered, taking a drink.

“This is the sort of extreme length I have to go to to get away from people,” Quinn told her with a laugh.

“And you enjoy every minute of it,” George answered, looking at him.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, looking back at her.

Neither of them spoke. They were sat very close together, looking out over the town’s skyline enveloped by a black blanket of sky. The air was so charged George expected birds to fall out of the sky and land lifeless and electrocuted on the tiles next to her.

“Are you cold?” Quinn inquired suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“A bit,” George admitted, trying to stop herself from shivering.

Without saying another word Quinn put his arm around her and drew her closer to him, so close she could feel his body tight to hers.

She was thirty four yet she felt like a teenager on some sort of awkward first date where neither of them knew the rules. It didn’t feel like she was sat in the arms of a major rock star, it felt like she was in another time and another place where she was young again, when she had no worries or responsibilities.

“If I could, I’d ask you out to dinner,” Quinn spoke as he stroked her arm, keeping the cold at bay and sending delicious shivers down George’s spine.

“If you could?” George queried.

“It’s complicated. I’m watched, a lot of the time, which is why.....”

“You climb on roofs,” George finished off for him.

“Exactly.”

“So what do we do?” George wanted to know.

“What do you wanna do?” Quinn replied.

“I don’t know,” George answered, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Yes you do,” Quinn told her, his eyes looking deep into hers.

Before she could stop herself she had reached out and touched his face with her hand, feeling the firmness of his jaw, looking into his eyes, waiting, pausing in anticipation. He just looked back at her and she could feel his heart beating as her hand dropped to his chest. Their eyes locked and then their lips were together, his mouth hot and sensual. He lowered her down onto the roof and the coldness sent shivers down her back. He kissed her jaw, her neck; he ran his hands through her hair and started to unbutton her blouse.
George thought she would explode with desire. She had never felt anything like the longing she felt for him now. She wanted him to touch her everywhere, she needed him to. He had to or she would combust.

She pulled his t shirt over his head and gazed at the perfect body underneath.
And then, completely shattering the moment, a mobile began to ring.

“Shit,” Quinn remarked, moving off of George and hurriedly taking the phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

George sat up and began to button her shirt back up. Suddenly she felt a bit stupid, sat on the roof of a theatre, half undressed.

“Hey Roger, yeah another great show tonight, where am I? Well I’m at the party, there’s a good turn out, yeah back to the hotel straight afterwards, sure I know. Yeah, OK, tell her ‘me too’,” Quinn spoke into the phone.

He snapped the phone shut and when he turned around George’s shirt was tucked back in and she was stood up, smoothing down her skirt and trying to pretend that nothing had happened. The flush on her face told otherwise.

“I’d better go, I should be serving your guests,” she spoke, trying to move away from him without him touching her again.

“Spend the night with me,” Quinn said, grabbing hold of her arm.

George looked at him, saw the sincerity in his expression and felt the tight grip on her arm. She swallowed, not knowing what to say. It wasn’t every day she had someone so hot and so well known for being hot asking her to sleep with them. And so what if he asked people all the time? Tonight he was asking her.

“Not on the roof, obviously. I have a hotel room,” Quinn spoke hurriedly.

“And you’re watched all the time,” George reminded him.

“Yeah, I know, I am. But we could work something out.”

“I’m not that sort of girl, sorry. I’d better go,” George said.

She had to remember normality and it didn’t involve bedding pop stars it involved crudities of a very different kind.

“I think your brother’s really cool by the way, he knows a lot about music,” Quinn said quickly as George began to balance over the roof edge to return to the ground.

George stopped and looked back at Quinn, who was still shirtless.

“He’s very talented, I mean really talented, he was grade eight piano at age eleven,” George informed him.

“Wow! I mean that is seriously good. I don’t remember doing any grades. He could definitely teach me a thing or two,” Quinn answered.

“He admires you and your music,” George said.

“Maybe we could spend an hour together doing something on the piano,” Quinn suggested.

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them, not where my brother is concerned,” George ordered harshly.

“I mean it. Tell him to ask for me tomorrow afternoon before the show, say 4.00pm?”

“4.00pm,” George repeated.

“Yeah 4.00pm….and if you wanted to come along that would be good too,” Quinn said.

“Sorry, 4.00pm’s no good for me, I’ll be busy coordinating an Army party and trying to create something new and exciting using salmon as my muse,” George answered as she clambered carefully over the side of the roof and dangled her foot down towards the fire escape.

“I want to see you again,” Quinn said, leaning over the edge and watching her descend.

“You will, I’ll be one of the waitresses holding a silver tray at your party tomorrow night,” George answered.

She jumped down onto the fire escape, put on her shoes and went back inside, closing the door behind her.

She leant against the door and tried to get her breath back. If the phone hadn’t rung would she have stopped him? Would she have stopped herself? Or would she have had sex on a rooftop without thinking about the consequences? Why did he have his effect on her? Yes he was gorgeous but there was more to it than that, something about him was different. He got to her.