Transplanting Holly Oakwood (6 page)

He patted his shirt pocket and signalled towards the front door. “Going out for a quick ciggie.”

“You’re supposed to be giving up.”

“Wish I could. Damn things make me feel lousy,” he said, shaking his head.

“Try to stick with it. The first week is always the hardest.”

“I should, but it wouldn’t be good for business. I’d be in a bastard of a mood with the clients.”

He slipped out the door to the sound of the girls’ laughter. Outside he pulled a Dunhill lighter from his pocket, a present from another adoring regular. He flicked the lid, spun the flint wheel and frowned into the flame, fancying himself the blond, sophisticated version of the Marlboro man. He touched the ciggie to the flame and inhaled deeply. The acrid smoke filled his chest and the ropiness in his neck and shoulders loosened. He tilted his face up and squinted into the mild February sun and exhaled slowly, blowing out perfectly formed smoke rings. Give up? Not likely. He’d been on his feet for hours and this was just the shot in the arm he needed to get through the rest of the day.

“Shit,” said a female voice.

A petite, middle-aged blonde stood near him, a frown etched into her pert features. Dripping with gold jewellery, she was exactly his type. He took a final drag of his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and moved towards her attentively.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Could be better,” she pouted. “I’m parked in and I can’t find the owner of the car in front, or behind me. Don’t suppose you’d be able to manoeuvre my car out, would you?” she asked in an ingratiating manner. “I have an appointment in Beverley Hills in twenty minutes.”

“Happy to help.” He moved to her side, extending his hand for the keys.

“Fantastic. The car’s new, and I’m not used to it yet.” A small knowing smile flickered across her mouth.

“Beautiful body work,” he murmured.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” she said, pressing the keys into his hand with a lingering touch.

“Yes, I am indeed.” Her skin was soft and warm and an image of her diamond encrusted digits stroking his body flashed into his mind.

“It’s true what they say about Englishmen. Gallant.”

“Pleasure,” he said, rolling the word on his tongue. “I’ll have you on your way in no time at all.” With your phone number in my pocket, he added silently. He knew her type.

He slid into the Mercedes and inhaled the scent of expensive leather and alpine air deodoriser. The vehicle probably cost as much as he made in a year, perhaps two. He hadn’t sat in a car like this before, hadn’t even driven a car for five years, but that wouldn’t stop him helping an attractive woman. He put the key into the ignition, adjusted the seat and checked the mirror, then touched the accelerator. The engine purred to life and with an air of confidence he put the car into reverse and tapped the accelerator lightly.

A sickening thud pulled him up short and threw him into the dashboard. What the hell? He twisted around to see he’d hit the car behind. Wasn’t likely she’d give him her phone number now, just her insurance details.Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he threw the car into drive, touching the accelerator tentatively this time.

With a crunch the Mercedes slammed into the car in front.

The blonde’s feet were rooted to the sidewalk and her mouth gaped like a hooked fish. Two things occurred to him in quick succession. She was in a state of shock, and therefore the damage was worse than he’d imagined.

“Get out of my car, you idiot,” she screamed and her volume rose from zero to sixty in the short space of the sentence. Her tanned skin was now a deep shade of beetroot and he marvelled, not for the first time, at how quickly anger could mask a woman’s attractiveness.

Passersby stopped to enjoy the commotion and a small crowd formed. Hopefully the noise of blow dryers and the stereo inside the salon would mask the hullabaloo outside. Last thing he needed was one of the juniors, or heaven forbid one of his customers, seeing what was going on outside.

He sat still for an instant, then, as adrenaline flooded his brain and body at the same time, he leapt out of the vehicle with the grace of a gymnast. He thrust the keys at the owner and half bowed. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more service. Have to dash now. I, er, have a bus to catch.”

He took two tentative steps, then broke into a sprint. After twenty yards he reached the corner of Santa Monica Place and looked back momentarily.

Five minutes later, his heart exploding against his chest wall and his breathing coming in ragged gasps, he jumped the fence in the alley behind the salon. Landing in a heap on the other side, he put his head against his knees to regain his equilibrium. Damn, she was gorgeous. He would have liked to take her to bed.

He got up and finger brushed his hair, straightened his shirt and let himself into the back of the salon, picking up a towel on the way through to the front. The juniors and a gaggle of clients were standing at the window, chattering excitedly.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked them, wiping his damp forehead with the towel.

“Charlie, when did you get back?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Did you see what happened out there? Someone tried to steal a car.”

“Steal a car?” he repeated, his pulse quickening.

“Yes, and smashed it in the process,” added one of the clients.

“Did you see it?” He held his breath.

“No, we heard the noise. The owner’s screaming blue murder out there. The guy ran off.”

“Did you see him?” he asked, his gut turning to water. “What did he look like?”

“He’d gone by the time we looked out. But you saw him, didn’t you, Mrs F?”

“Yes, I saw him running off,” she said. “Fast and fit he was.”

He dabbed his forehead with the towel. “Back to work, girls, no time to stand around when there are customers to attend to.” He exhaled slowly, and a sour taste filled his mouth. Had Mrs F recognised him?

“What do you think, darling?” he asked, winking at her.

She cast him a bewitching glance. “Santa Monica’s not what it used to be, is it, Charlie?”

EIGHT

Holly

Even though a month had passed, a month in which the days flew by in a jumble of new experiences, Holly was still stinging from Brittany’s barb about her weight. Maybe it was time to put her fears of high priced salons aside, and venture into Santa Monica to continue her search for a hairdresser.

Crawling along Wilshire Boulevard in the Chevy, she spotted a prominent sign that read ‘no appointment necessary’. She edged along the pavement, then reversed into the parking space slowly, wincing as the hubcap scraped the kerb. Throwing the gear stick into drive she attempted the manoeuvre again, but this time the bump of the tyre told her the back wheel was on the pavement. She sighed, but decided against another attempt, wondering if she had change for the meter. A quick glance in her purse confirmed she didn’t, but she could ask in the salon.

Two hairdressers, sporting bright orange and green hair respectively, sat reading magazines and chewing gum dispiritedly. When they looked up to see a customer walking in they leapt to their feet, and the silence was split by their chair legs screeching on the aged, cracked linoleum.

“Wanna haircut?” asked Orange, her jaw working furiously on her wad of gum.

“Not too busy at the mo,” added Green, waving a dermatitis covered hand around the salon. “We can do it straight away.”

“Um, thanks,” she said, her mind working as furiously as the hairdresser’s jaw. First impressions count, and she didn’t want to hang around for her first impressions to be proved correct. She frowned, scrunching her nose up to meet the furrows in her forehead. “I’m looking for, er, organic sheep protein conditioner for, er, dry hair.”

The hairdressers stopped chewing at the same instant and stared at her for a long moment. Orange eventually asked, through a mouthful of gum, “You Australian?”

“I’m a Kiwi.”

“Kiwi?”

“From New Zealand.”

“We love New Zealand.” Orange punctuated this with a bubble, which she burst with a loud crack. “Seen it in Lord of the Rings. Great place, and full of adventurous people.”

“Not to mention hobbits.” Green guffawed at her own joke, ignoring Orange who was shaking her head in warning.

“Can’t help with the sheep conditioner. But we can sort you out with a new hairdo.”

“I don’t know.” She edged towards the door.

“Yes”, interrupted Green, working her gum as she spoke. “Something more trendy.” She patted the tangled emerald twine on her head as she spoke. “Only two hundred bucks for a cut and colour.”

“G-great.” She swallowed, imagining turning up at work with her hair a vibrant shade of pink or purple.

“Might want to have a chat to the officer outside first,” said Orange, gesturing towards the door. “He’s ticketing your car.”

Relief crashed over her like waves at a surf beach, yet she managed to fix a look of mild regret on her features before bolting out the door.

Outside the parking warden was scribbling on his pad. He looked up momentarily, then tore off the ticket.

“Here you go, lady. Didn’t you know you have to feed the meters?”

“But, officer, this ticket’s for fifty dollars. I’ve only been here five minutes.”

“You’re lucky it’s not for a hundred.”

“A hundred?”

He shot her a look of tempered steel. “Your back tyre’s on the kerb.”

“Thank you, officer,” she said meekly.

“Thank you?” He snorted. “That’s a change of tune.”

“It’s cheaper than the two hundred dollar mistake I could’ve made in there.” She gestured towards the salon, where Orange and Green were standing in the window, watching with interest.

He bobbed his head in agreement and his eyes rolled heavenwards. “Go while the going’s good,” he chuckled, and she jumped in the Chevy and sped off, ticket in hand.

Back in Santa Monica she parked by Third Street Promenade, then walked to a bookstore, to browse the self-help section. It took up the entire second floor of the store, a testament to Californians’ obsession with improving their love lives, self-esteem, luck, and a hundred other attributes necessary for a happy life. After scanning a handful of covers, she picked up
The Secret
and sank into an armchair to read the introduction. Wasn’t the author on
The Oprah Winfrey Show
a couple of years back?Not that Oprah needed
The Secret
, but what a great endorsement. She closed the book with a determined snap and walked to the cash register, where a pimply adolescent assistant was staring into space.

“I’ll take this, thanks.”

“
The Secret
, huh?”

“It’s a present.”

“Uh, huh,” he sneered, nodding in an exaggerated fashion, his corkscrew hair bouncing with static.

A flush started at the base of her neck, then travelled up to colour her cheeks. “For a friend who’s broken up with her boyfriend.” Her eyes slid away as she said it. Why should she care what this schoolboy was implying? She felt like a fifteen year old again, buying her first packet of tampons at the supermarket.

“Sure,” he said and she couldn’t help but notice the fine down of hair above his lip.

“Um, can you tell me where I can get a good cup of coffee round here?” Was it obvious she was sad, lonely and had no friends? “I’m new to town.”

“Right. Danny’s do a good coffee. Out here, other end of the Prom, turn right.”

Several minutes later she slid into a leather booth, holding
The Secret
discretely downwards. The hiss of the espresso machine and the aroma of freshly ground beans reminded her she was hungry and she ordered lunch, then opened the book.

“Here you go, grilled cheese, fries and coffee.” The waitress slammed the meal down, spilling the coffee into the saucer.

“Thanks.”

“You reading
The Secret
?”

Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“What the hell?” The waitress was staring out the window with her mouth hanging open. Across the road a man had backed a late model Mercedes into the car behind it.

“Glad I’m not the only one who has trouble parking in this town,” she said to the waitress.

“Must be the owner of the car he backed into,” the woman replied, pointing to an attractive blonde.

“God, he’s crashed into the one in front now too.” She couldn’t believe someone in this town was a worse parker than she was.

The rest of the diners gathered to watch the spectacle and a running commentary buzzed through the café.

“Look, he’s getting out of the car.”

“Launching out more like,” observed a heavyset man from the table next to her, as the man in the Merc jumped out of the car, landing squarely on the pavement.

“Do you think she’ll hit him?” asked the waitress, nodding at the blonde, who was windmilling her arms in distress.

“I’d put money on it.”

“Hell, he’s running off.”

The waitress shook her head in disbelief. “He was trying to steal it.”

“I’d be straight after him if it was my car.”

“Looks pretty athletic, doesn’t he?” Holly said. “Don’t think I’d be able to catch him.”