Transplanting Holly Oakwood (10 page)

“Okay, doesn’t sound too hard. When do you want it?”

“Two weeks’ time,” replied Brittany. “The client will be here in three weeks,” Brittany continued, “and they’ll want to read the report before arriving.”

Two weeks? Had she heard that correctly? “I’ll do my best,” she said doubtfully.

“Your best isn’t good enough. Make sure it’s finished. Familiarise yourself with the client profile before you speak to the target companies.” Brittany tossed a manila folder across the desk.

She opened it, pulled out a glossy brochure filled with exotic flowers, then read the client correspondence.

“This job brief’s dated a month ago.”

“Yes,” replied Brittany briskly.

“Have you started the research?”

“No.” Brittany eyed her coolly. “I decided it’d be a good job for you to cut your teeth on.”

“But I’ve been here for two months now. I could have started this as soon as it came in a month ago, and had a decent shot at finishing it on time.”

“I wasn’t here to brief you as I was travelling,” said Brittany. “It’s not complicated, and I do expect it to be finished on time. Two weeks should be plenty.”

“I assume you’ll help me with it?”

“No, I certainly won’t be helping you.” Brittany spoke in an icy voice and tapped her talons on the desk. “Your resumésaid you’re an experienced researcher. If you can’t turn this report around in two weeks there’s something wrong.”

Holly wanted to spit out a caustic reply but Brittany’s challenging stare made her swallow, and the unspoken words burnt the back of her throat. How unfair was this? She couldn’t possibly do the report in a fortnight’s time. She’d be lucky if she could do it in a month.She tried to smile at her boss through gritted teeth.

“I’d better get started today.”

“Good idea,” said Brittany brusquely. “You’ll find instructions and a template for the report in the folder. Any questions come and ask.”

“Thanks.” Like hell she would. Somehow she’d figure out how to do the report herself. She got up from her seat, eager to get back to the refuge of her own office.

“One more thing before you go. Over the coming months you’ll be meeting with clients,” said Brittany, “and it’s important you fit in.” She smoothed her blond hair back from her temples and paused before continuing, as if searching for the right words. “You may want to change your look. It’s too conservative, in an English sort of way.”

As Brittany’s spiteful remark hung between them, her chin quivered, and she dug her less than manicured nails into her palms to try to maintain her composure.

Brittany pulled the cap off a pen, and scribbled something on a piece of paper, before handing it to Holly.

“Here’s the number of a good stylist. He’ll be able to sort you out.”

THIRTEEN

Holly

Holly sat with her head bowed, unable to concentrate. She pressed her fingers to her temples and a tear plopped onto her blotter pad. Brittany was her boss, but she was a bitch, and looking as if she’d stepped out of a Vogue spread didn’t give her the right to criticise anyone else.

It was obvious she wasn’t going to be able to rely on Brittany for support. She was clearly more interested in helping Mr Bloody Cutler than in doing client work, and at his advanced age Mr Cutler probably needed all the help he could get.

The phone shrilled, and she reached for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, and took a deep breath before answering. “Holly Oakwood. How can I help you?”

“Charlie here. How’s things?”

“Charlie,” she said slowly. “I’m, um, good.” She paused long enough to signal she had a short memory. “How are you?”

“I think you mean
who
are you?” She didn’t reply, and after an uncomfortable pause he continued. “Car thief, hairdresser to the stars, man with money.”

Embarrassment flooded her. “Charlie, I’m so sorry. How are you?”

“Never better, apart from a bruised ego.”

She giggled in relief. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“I’m phoning because my neighbour’s looking for a room-mate, and I thought it might suit you. Why don’t you join us next Saturday night for a Mexican? You can chat to Tessa about the apartment.”

“Love to,” she said, scribbling the details on her jotter. “See you then.” Charlie was obviously a player, and not the type she’d hang out with in London, but he’d be a distraction from her heartbreak over Tom and her catty new boss.

It was the toughest week since she’d arrived, and by Saturday evening Holly was all cried out. Tom’s phone call had opened up barely healed wounds and she was unsettled and bereft. As much as she wanted to stay in and blob in front of the telly, a night out with Charlie would be a welcome break from her anxiety and loneliness.

She dressed with care, then examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. Pale blue chiffon dress and Nine West heels. Not too racy, but not too old-fashioned either. Or was it? Brittany was right, she was on the heavy side, matronly even, and despite the new outfit, overly conservative. Chocolates had been her constant companion since arriving in LA and it was showing. Peeling off the dress hurriedly, she grabbed her favourite black pencil skirt, and teamed it with a low-cut evening top and light jacket. Much more slimming, and with a bit of bling this outfit would do nicely. She put on dangly earrings and a sparkly bracelet, spritzed herself liberally with perfume and ran out the door. Although punctuality had never been one of her strong points, she didn’t want to be late.

She cruised past the Santa Monica Pier looking for parking, but saw a sign for valet parking in her rear view mirror.

Damn. She’d missed the turning.

She sped up and drove on to Wilshire, did a quick turn, and circled back, slowing to a crawl.

Good. The car park was ahead.

She indicated and manoeuvred into the right lane, putting her foot down to keep pace with the speeding traffic. A horn blared to her left and she glanced over quickly.

What the hell?

The entrance to the car park was now further to the right than she’d anticipated, and she couldn’t nudge through the heavy traffic. She’d have to drive past and round again. Easing off the gas, she looked for a place to turn, but it was impossible. The car was firmly wedged in the wrong lane and despite indicating with a jaunty wave, the other motorists ignored her signals to change lanes.

Swearing and gesturing profusely, she accelerated with the speeding traffic, to find herself racing down the onramp to the Pacific Coast Highway.

She peered in the rear view mirror in dismay. The traffic was as dense behind as it was ahead, and it slowed to a crawl, locking her in formation on the stark grey concrete which stretched on ahead with no exit in sight. She wondered why the entire population of LA was heading to Malibu on a Saturday night. Blood red and orange filled the sky as the sun set into the ocean, which meant she was at least half an hour late. Steering with one hand, she emptied her handbag onto the passenger seat, and felt for her mobile. Her fingers traced her lipstick, her brand new leather wallet, perfume, and then the smooth contours of her phone, but as she picked it up she remembered she hadn’t asked for Charlie’s number. Poor chap must be wondering if she’d stood him up.

She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently and saw the exit for Sunset Boulevard ahead. The traffic was barely moving but eventually she reached it, looped and re-entered the highway, this time racing until she reached the Pier.

An hour after first spotting it she pulled into the parking lot, with beads of sweat trickling between her breasts and down into her midriff. She pulled the damp fabric of her jacket away from her body, then fiddled with the knobs on the dash, and turned the aircon up to high in a belated attempt to cool herself off. The skinny moustached attendant looked at her curiously and in embarrassment she thrust a twenty at him.

“Can you tell me where Mariasol restaurant is please? It’s the Mexican, somewhere on the Pier.”

“Sure, right down the end. Keep going.” He gestured towards the ocean. “Can’t miss it.”

She ran the length of the pier, patting her face and hair, which were sodden with perspiration. Where was the damn restaurant? The ocean was straight ahead and she still couldn’t see it. She veered to her right, then stumbled, and a sharp pain shot up her leg. Gingerly she lifted her foot and felt it for damage. None, thank God, but where was her other shoe?

She looked around frantically, and saw it behind her, stuck between the planks of the Pier. A couple politely ignored her as she hobbled back and tried to pull it out, while a group of teenagers giggled. She pulled and twisted the shoe and finally it popped out, leaving the heel still wedged in the wood.

She looked at it in horror, unsure what to do, then too embarrassed to continue jemmying it out, she jammed the shoe back on her foot, tested her ankle carefully, and strode on tippy-toe the rest of the way to the restaurant, taking a moment to peel off her jacket, cool down and compose herself before walking in.

Mariasol was packed and noisy, with the shouts of harried waiters, the laughter of diners, and the clinking of glasses rising above the festive strains of a mariachi band. The aroma of sizzling meats and jalapeno peppers filled the room, but a drink, and finding Charlie, were top priorities.

“I’m meeting a friend. I’m late, should have been here an hour ago,” she said to the waitress, as she scanned the room and tried not to put her weight on her non-existent heel.

“Holly, love, over here.” She heard his voice before she saw him stand up.

“Sorry I’m late, I got lost.”

He pushed his chair back and came over, laughing. “That’s good. I assumed you didn’t want to fraternise with a car converter.”

“Not at all,” she said, shooting him a grateful look.

“You’re here now, and you look as if you could do with a drink. How does a Margarita sound?”

She nodded her thanks and the waitress hurried off, while Charlie pulled out a chair next to his.

“Everyone, this is Holly.”

“Sorry I’m late, everyone. I missed the valet parking at the end of the pier.”

“Where did you end up parking?” asked Charlie.

“Um, I doubled back to it, and ended up on the Pacific Coast Highway.”

Laughter erupted around the table and she blushed.

“Ouch. Rush hour traffic. No wonder you’re so late.” The drawl came from a man sitting on the other side of her. “You new to LA?”

“Yes, only been here two months,” she said, sipping the salty sweet Margarita.

“We’re all immigrants, mainly from out of state. I’m from Texas, but been here ten years now. Can still remember what it was like when I first arrived.” He nodded at her encouragingly.

Charlie introduced her to the rest of the group, and like the Texan, they told Holly their reasons for leaving their home cities and making a new life in LA: the climate, better job prospects, escape from their humdrum lives, or the magnetic allure of Tinseltown.

Charlie introduced Tessa last, a raven-haired girl of her own age with a sunny, welcoming expression and wide open eyes that signalled interest in everything around her.

“How long have you been in LA?” Holly asked her.

“Four years now. I grew up in Washington DC and my family still live there. But I studied in New York. Drama and English lit.”

“That’s why you came here? You’re an actress?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head ruefully. “I figured if I was going to get serious about acting I needed to be here.”

“Have you been in anything?”

“A couple of walk-ons but still doing the cattle calls.”

“Cattle calls?”

“Auditions.”

“It must be hard to make a living acting.”

“You can say that again. I walk dogs to pay the bills. There’s a lot of rich childless people in this town who pay really well. Do you like dogs?”

“Yes, I grew up with them, but haven’t had one for years. Too hard in an apartment in London.”

“That’s good,” said Tessa, looking relieved. “Now and again I have one to stay overnight.”

“I’m surprised you’re allowed dogs in an apartment.”

“I’m not. The landlady would have a fit if she knew, so I need a roomie who’s okay with it.”

“And a roomie who’s good at keeping secrets,” pitched in Charlie as the rest of their friends laughed.

“If you’d like to come and see the apartment,” Tessa said, “why don’t you come over tomorrow for coffee?”

“Sounds great,” she said enthusiastically.

“Knew you girls would hit it off,” said Charlie with a satisfied expression.

“If Holly moves in,” said Tessa, winking at Charlie, “we’ll have an excuse for a party. Whaddya think?”

“Good idea. Been awhile since we had one. You keen?” he asked everyone at the table.

They all raised their glasses in a toast and cheered.

Happiness swept over her. “I love parties,” Holly said. “Tom and I used to–”

“You’ll like ours,” said Charlie, squeezing her hand. “Won’t she, Tessa?”

“You will. Our parties are almost famous.”

FOURTEEN