A Wild Affair

'How dare you?' Quincy flared, turning on him, her eyes as green as an angry cat's. 'Who are you insulting? Don't you talk about me as if I was ten years old!'

'I'm not insulting you,' Brendan protested in aghast tones, staring at her furious face. 'What's wrong with you? I only want to protect you—you don't realise what could happen to you, what you could get yourself into!'

Quincy's teeth met and she went on cooking omelettes, her head averted.

'He's a sophisticated man,' Brendan told her. 'You're just another girl to him. He must have had girls all over the world by now. You only have to look at him to see what sort of morals he's got.' His voice held distaste and contempt. 'For him, you'll just be another one-night stand, Quincy, but you could get hurt, and I don't want that.'

She switched off the heat as she finished her cooking and turned to give Brendan a quick, contrite smile. He meant well and she was fond of him, it was stupid of her to get annoyed because he was trying to save her from getting hurt. How was he to guess that he had been damaging her ego when he pointed out how innocent she was—Brendan couldn't guess he was touching on a sore point. Quincy had not realised how cosy and protected, how innocent and peaceful, her world was until tonight, when Joe Aldonez and his entourage erupted into it to break up their halcyon serenity. Everything that had happened, everything that had been said about her by Billy Griffith and Carmen Lister, had given her a new image of herself. They saw her as a wide-eyed, unsophisticated country mouse who idolised Joe Aldonez from a distance and no doubt Joe Aldonez himself saw her the same way. Quincy felt that realisation inside herself like a poisoned thorn under her skin. She did not want Joe Aldonez looking at her with amused, mocking eyes. She did not want him to tease and torment her because he thought her lack of worldly sophistication something to smile about.

'I can take care of myself,' she told Brendan, assuming a calm confidence she did not feel. 'Don't you worry about me! I'm only going because they promised to give Bobby a transistor for his birthday—I'm in no danger from Joe Aldonez, you can be sure of that.'

Brendan did not look very convinced. He stared at her flushed face, then clumsily grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard. Quincy jerked in surprise, eyes wide open. Brendan let go and stood back, brick red.

'Just don't let them change you,' he muttered. 'I like you just the way you are!' He walked away, saying, 'I'll call Bobby, shall I?'

Quincy couldn't think of anything to say—it wasn't the first time Brendan had kissed her. They had been dancing together, had a few dates, but somehow although they were always at ease together there had never been that special, tingling excitement between them which she instinctively knew came with a genuine attraction. She liked Brendan, but she was far from falling in love with him. She knew him too well, he was always there, always the same; a part of her life like the wallpaper or the sound of the dogs barking in the garden. When love came, she had long ago decided, it ought to come like the sudden shock of a collision with the unknown, sending electricity sparking through the veins. Only today she had been telling herself that that was all romantic folly—love mostly came more quietly. After all, you were choosing a man for life, and one instant of dazzling sexual attraction was no basis for such a lifetime's decision. She might give herself wise advice on the subject, but how did you get yourself to listen?

Brendan was very quiet over supper. Bobby more than made up for that—he chattered non-stop as he ate, excited by what had happened.

'Wait till I get to school tomorrow—boy, are my pals going to be green with envy!'

'I want my album back,' Quincy told him sternly. 'You aren't swapping it for anything, Bobby Jones, don't think you are! That album is mine, remember, and don't you ever go hunting around my room again, keep out of it, you hear?'

He made an unabashed face at her. 'Who was in my room today, then? If you can, I can.'

She gave an indignant snort. 'I was trying to tidy your room for Mum—I don't know how you can bear to live in it, it looks like the local garbage tip.'

'At least I don't hide anything,' Bobby jeered. 'I heard you lying to Joe—telling him you didn't like his singing when you've been sitting around for weeks all starry-eyed listening to that album.'

Quincy was about to fly at him, descending to his level, when she remembered Brendan and felt him staring at her. She gave Bobby a sweet, forgiving sisterly smile of ineffable condescension.

'Time little boys were in bed, isn't it?' she asked.

Bobby glared. 'Very funny,' he snapped, but got up, all the same. 'I was going, anyway,' he told her.

It was not until she was in bed herself several hours later that it dawned on her that Bobby had successfully evaded her attempt to get her record back. She would have to catch him in the morning, she told herself, turning over on to her side.

What had Joe Aldonez written on it? Lying in the dark she remembered the way those thick black lashes had nickered against his cheek as he wrote across the record sleeve. A wicked little smile had curled his hard lips upwards. What had been in his mind?

She had to face the fact that she was unlikely ever to find out anything of the man but his sexy, smouldering public image—that was what he was always careful to project, she supposed. He had to be seen the way his fans wanted to see him. What was he like behind that, though?

She found it hard to get to sleep that night, and when she woke up it was broad daylight, the spring sunshine dancing on the ceiling of her bedroom and the garden alive with the call of birds, the shadow of their wings flitting past the window now and then as she lay watching, struggling to surface from the depths of sleep.

Her head felt heavy, she had a vague memory of strange dreams, but the strangest of them was lingering with her as she glanced at the clock. Had it been a dream? Or had Joe Aldonez really burst into her life last night?

'Aren't you awake yet?' Her mother came into the room with a cup of tea, shaking her head. 'You have to be ready at nine, remember.'

'Ready?' repeated Quincy dazedly, sitting up.

'They're coming to pick you up,' Mrs Jones reminded her, drawing the curtains. 'Shall I pack for you while you get ready?'

'Oh,' Quincy murmured, speechless, the cup trembling in her hands and almost spilling hot tea over the bed. It was no dream—it had all happened. 'I can't go,' she burst out. 'Mum, I can't!'

Mrs Jones laughed. 'Of course you can, you'll have fun in London. Mr Griffith promised your father you would be perfectly safe with them, the last thing they would want was any trouble, this is a very important publicity stunt.'

'What about Dad?' Quincy asked. 'Who'll do my job while I'm away? You know how the paperwork piles up, and somebody has to answer the phone when Dad and Brendan are out on their rounds.'

'I'll do that,' her mother assured her. 'Who do you think did it before you took over? I can do it with one hand tied behind my back.'