‘Owen,’ Will pulled him back, ‘thegents’loo.’
Owen turned and smiled ruefully at Georgie. ‘Sorry, babes, won’t be long.’
Fiona was watching the proceedings sadly, looking as if she wishedshewas the one being invited to join Owen in the loo. Will felt like telling her she had no reason to be jealous, but he knew that wasn’t true. Any girlfriend of Owen’s would have to get used to playing second fiddle to Georgie Holland. She and Owen had a connection that went way deeper than sex.
As Owen left the room, Will stood in front of Georgie with his arms folded, glaring down at her. ‘Don’t eventhinkabout following him,’ he warned her.
Georgie looked mutinous.
‘Come on, give me a break.’ Will urged.
‘Sorry, Will.’ Georgie sagged, relenting.
‘You know that stuff’s no good for you anyway. I thought you’d stopped.’
‘I have – more or less.’ She evaded his eyes.
Will glanced at Summer, who spread her hands and raised an eyebrow helplessly. He sat down beside Georgie.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Okay,’ she said, drawing patterns on the tablecloth with a finger.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She looked at him this time, smiling shakily. ‘I just miss the tour, you know?’
‘I know.’
Georgie was the only one in the band – possibly the only person inanyband – who was happiest on tour. She loved the way they all lived in each other’s ears on tour buses, in hotel rooms, on flights. She loved the fact that there was always someone around if you got the night horrors. But, then, she rarely got the night horrors in the topsy-turvy days of touring because they stayed up all night and slept in the day. It was easier sleeping when it was bright.
‘Well, we’ll be going to Tuscany soon.’
‘I’m really looking forward to that.’ She beamed. ‘It’s a brilliant idea.’
Fiona was looking rather lost, Will observed. He didn’t envy anyone trying to infiltrate the tight-knit gang of four that was Walking Wounded. It wasn’t that they were hostile to outsiders; they simply didn’t need them. They were a self-contained unit, never more relaxed and happy than in each other’s company where nothing needed to be explained or justified.
Both sets of siblings were the product of one-parent families, Georgie and Phoenix (née Peter) having been raised by their father after their mother had died, Owen and Rory by their mother after their father had walked out. They had grown up next door to each other, united by poverty and a blistering hatred of their respective fathers. The Cassidy brothers hated theirs for having walked out, leaving their mother to fend for herself and two small children, while Phoenix and Georgie hated theirs for sticking around to inflict his drunken violence on them – and worse, Will suspected, in Georgie’s case.
When the three boys decided to start a band, they hadn’t given Georgie any choice about being part of it. She waspresented with a set of drumsticks and a teach-yourself-drumming book and ordered to learn. Then they had plonked her in the band where they could keep an eye on her and stymie any chance she might have of a love life. All three were fiercely protective of her. Will often thought the way they stood on stage was symbolic of their relationship, Georgie perched on her drum-riser, locked away behind her huge kit, with Owen and Rory ranged in front of her, wielding their guitars menacingly, and Phoenix in front, staring everyone out defiantly.
Musically, Georgie was the weakest link in the band. In the early days, her drumming had been decidedly ropey and several record-company executives had suggested replacing her. Instead, they had found themselves replaced, while Georgie was sent for more drumming lessons. She would never be one of the greatest drummers in rock, but anyone who knew the people involved was aware that Walking Wounded was about a lot more than music. It was a lifeboat for all of them, and they weren’t about to throw one of the family overboard.
‘Go on, do your best-man thing.’ Georgie smiled at him now. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Knock ’em dead, Baldy,’ Owen said, as he passed Will on his way back from the loo.
* * *
Grace’s sister, Iris, no respecter of cool, had planted herself in the empty seat at the Walking Wounded table, showing the same blithe disregard as they had for the seating plan. She hadn’t bothered to consult it. She knew exactly the sort of boring old fart Helen would have considered a suitable dinner companion for a sixty-something widow such as herself. Helen meant well, but these boys looked much more fun and more her kind of people.
Tessa was gawping at her now as though Iris was a bug she had found in her salad.
Owen seemed amused, though. ‘Hi, I’m Owen.’ He extended his hand, eyes twinkling.
Such a beautiful boy!Iris thought.If only I was forty years younger.
‘You look familiar, dear,’ she told Tessa. ‘Have I seen you on TV?’
