Transplanting Holly Oakwood (3 page)

She grasped the armrest and tried to pull herself up, moving several inches before falling back into his lap. A tangy, fresh and masculine scent she recognised as Eau Sauvage enveloped her as she settled against his muscled frame.

“Your seat’s in the row in front. Can you move please?”

“Sorry. I’m trying to.”

“Steward, perhaps you can help this lady?” His breath was warm against her neck and she had an overwhelming urge to lean back into him.

“Let me help you, miss.” The steward’s eyes flashed with amusement, or perhaps it was contempt? She wished he’d go away.

He pulled her up with difficulty and she glanced back at the man she’d sat on, trying hard to focus. His crumpled shirt, stubble-washed jaw line and tousled hair gave him an air of vulnerability, as did his obvious exhaustion. She racked her brain for something to say, but before she could think of anything smart or funny the steward propelled her back to her own seat.

“Apologies, sir,” he said behind her.

“Not your fault at all,” replied the man she’d sat on.

Should she turn around and apologise? She pondered for an instant, but spirals were whirling through her head. She pulled the blanket around her and fell asleep, her fists balled together.

Three hours later she unfurled her body and blinked against the harsh morning light. The aroma of fried bacon, eggs and coffee filled the cabin, but she’d slept through breakfast and the plane was descending.

Soon after, clutching her pounding head, she disembarked from the plane, next to the man she’d briefly shared a seat with. Tall, dark haired and now wearing an immaculately pressed shirt, he looked like a film star from the fifties. She brushed her hair back behind her ears and tried to smooth her crumpled outfit. Squaring her shoulders, she smiled bravely in his direction.

FOUR

Holly

He looked straight through her, and crushed, she disembarked and went to collect her baggage. At the luggage carousel she stared vacantly at the swirling mass of black suitcases. The slip of pink ribbon that marked hers sailed by, and she ran after it and heaved it onto her trolley with a grunt.

With mounting excitement she made her way outside. It was early January, yet the air was balmy and the sky clear, a welcome contrast to the sleety streets of London. Despite the early hour the sun was high in the sky and her mood lifted as she waited in line for a taxi.

“Where to, lady?” The driver hopped out and popped the boot, but made no attempt to help with her bags.

“Marina del Rey.” She fished in her bag for her notebook, but he was getting back into the long yellow machine.

“Address?” he asked abruptly, when she’d clambered in.

“The Shangri-La,” she said, fiddling in her bag and wishing she’d sorted everything out on the plane.

“Know it. Nice place.”

Fifteen minutes later she took in the Mission style façade and agreed with his assessment. The walls were a pale terracotta hue, mellow against the lush green of the manicured gardens and pristine pebbled path. It was in stark contrast to the graffiti and litter of the semi-gentrified street where she’d lived, in a shabby part of London.

“Let’s call it twenty.” The driver pronounced it twenny.

She thrust the fare at him, and positioned the Prada to cover her creased outfit, before walking into reception.

“Hello, I’m checking in. Holly Oakwood.”

“Welcome, Miss Oakwood. You’re with the Consulate?”

She looked at him blankly. “The Consulate?”

“The New Zealand Consulate?” He tapped on his keyboard. “Yes, the Trade Office, part of the Consulate. Follow me please.”

They walked in silence down an endless corridor, which opened onto a tropical courtyard with shimmering swimming pool.

“Ooh, it’s lovely isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” he said, sounding amused. “Gym and spa this way.”

“Don’t suppose I’ll be using the gym much.”

“Tennis courts and BBQ area.”

“Ditto the tennis courts.”

She followed him around a corner, through double doors and an identical long corridor stretched ahead. Silence enveloped them, a pleasant change from the noisy streets outside.

“BBQ would be great if I knew people here,” she said loudly, and pinched herself to prove she wasn’t sleepwalking.

“Lots of single people staying here,” he said sympathetically.

“The place looks deserted. I haven’t seen anyone yet, except for you.”

“Everyone’s at work,” he laughed, “but you’ll meet them at our social events. Film evenings, dance classes, free Sunday brunches. Plenty of opportunities to make friends.”

He pushed open a fire door and the light stung her eyes as they moved outside into a smaller courtyard fringed with dense plantings of succulents. Up a flight of stairs to the second floor, through another door, and a further expanse of beige carpet stretched ahead. At the third door the concierge stopped, unlocked it with a self-important jangling of keys and stood aside.

She gasped at the sight of the room, as luxurious and immaculate as a show home dressed for sale. Sumptuous soft furnishings, burnished wood surfaces and thick plush carpets set the theme. Crystal adorned the dining table and vanilla candles and orchids scented the air. The room was warm from the morning sun, yet the fireplace was set with fresh logs and ready to be lit.

“Everything to your satisfaction, miss?”

She tried to suppress a grin. “It’s nice, thank you,” she said nonchalantly. “Actually, it’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ve always dreamed of living like this.”

He raised his neatly clipped eyebrows.

“If I won the Lottery. Of course, if I won the Lottery, it’d be perfect.”

“Perfect, miss?”

“Then I could afford maid service.” She laughed ruefully. “It won’t look quite this perfect in a week.”

He pulled his eyebrows together. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No, thanks,” she said, wishing he’d leave. She wanted to get undressed and showered, then sink into the overstuffed sofa and channel surf on the flat screen TV.

He held her gaze expectantly and the silence lengthened.

Hell, he was waiting for a tip. Did she have any American money in her wallet? She bit her lip and looked away, but he remained there, an expression of mock modesty etched into his features. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember where she’d dropped her bag, but at that moment he coughed discreetly and left. Too tired to feel embarrassed, she kicked off her high heels and threw herself onto the sofa, groaning as she sank into its downy depths.

Over the next days she rode a roller coaster of despair over Tom, self-congratulation over her move to LA, and excitement over her new job. But while the roller coaster ride was exhilarating, it didn’t take her anywhere and what she most needed was a car to navigate around this sprawling city. She nearly hugged the concierge late one afternoon when he handed her a note from the New Zealand Trade Office, telling her they’d organised a rental for her.

The next morning she stood in the rental yard, overawed at the size of the vehicles surrounding her.

“What’s your booking reference?” asked the assistant.

“Not sure, I didn’t do it myself. The New Zealand Trade Office booked it.”

“Back shortly.” A couple of minutes later he came back with a set of keys. “Follow me,” he said, leading her to the other end of the yard.

She drew in her breath at the sight of the clichéd red Chevy, a gleaming expanse of polished paintwork and shiny chrome fenders. “Surely this isn’t for me?”

His finger traced the paperwork. “Holly Oakwood?”

She nodded. “It’s enormous.”

The attendant regarded her pityingly. “You from England?”

“From London, but I’m a Kiwi.”

“Kiwi?”

“From New Zealand.”

“New Zealand, huh? Kiwi? Like the fruit? Go figure. All our cars look big to you foreigners. It’s our smallest car, a compact. Good on gas.”

“Gas? Do you mean petrol?”

“I guess. The juice that makes it run.” He unlocked the door and slid onto the seat. “Brakes, indicators, aircon,” he said, briefly touching each in turn, before taking several minutes to tune the radio to a heavy metal station.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“What else do you need to know?”

“I’m not sure,” she said to his departing back, “but thanks for the comprehensive once over.”

He didn’t turn, as if he hadn’t heard her, but the slight shrug of his shoulders told her he had. “Whatever.”

She got into the car, tried to put the key into the ignition but the warm metal was slippery in her clammy grip. She took a deep breath. This was silly. The Shangri-La wasn’t far away and it couldn’t be that hard to drive on the right hand side of the road. Why was she panicking?

Carefully she adjusted the seat and the mirrors, flicked the indicators and the lights, then moved slowly out of the lot. With a cheery wave she honked and pulled away, but the attendant didn’t look up from his book.

The stream of traffic raced by like a Formula One loop, and she drove out, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She went slowly round the block, looking for the familiar green of Starbucks, which she’d spotted earlier. An empty car park was right out front and she edged past it, indicated, put the car into reverse and touched the pedal. She backed carefully, but went in too wide. She moved out, lined up the car up again but this time came in too close, bumping the kerb. A compact? What rubbish. This car was about as compact as her arse.

“Hey, lady, need a hand?” A group of youths laughed raucously from the sidewalk.

She bit her lip, put the car into drive and pulled out into the steam of traffic without looking. A horn blared loudly and she waved apologetically, then recircled the block. Round and round she went, hoping each time the youths had moved on. After five circuits she pulled into a side street where she found a space big enough to drive straight into. She got out of the car, grimacing when she saw she was spanning two spaces. She wasn’t game to try again, so she pulled her oversized sunglasses on before turning the corner and walking back to Starbucks, resolving that next time she’d find a drive-through.

Twenty minutes later she left Starbucks sipping her second Caramel Macchiato, the brew sweet and syrupy on her tongue. Wide eyed and alert, her confidence rising, she circled back to Wilshire Boulevard, travelling along the ribbon-like road at a steady sixty.

“Jesus.” She slammed on the brakes, and came to a screeching halt metres from a pedestrian. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?” she yelled though the window, her pulse beating erratically. “Have you got a death wish or something?”

“You stupid woman, you nearly ran me over.” The man’s fists beat the bonnet in a staccato frenzy. “You could’ve killed me.” He moved to the window, his face inches from hers. His stubble was stark against his pallor and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been on the turps all morning. “You blind or something?”

“No, I’m not blind. You jumped out and I didn’t have time to stop. Have you been drinking?”

His eyes bulged, his skin flushed puce and the veins on his neck pulsed. “The sign. Didn’t you see the sign?” He waved at something behind him.

As she looked in the direction he was waving, another pedestrian stepped jauntily into the road and a car came to a controlled stop beside her. She stared at the pedestrian, then at the car, and understanding dawned.

“Stupid bitch. Watch where you’re going. You’re gonna kill someone.” He kicked her door and flipped her the bird before continuing on his way.

She slumped over the steering wheel, aghast that a pedestrian crossing would be placed somewhere it was barely visible to drivers. She’d have to be on her toes, and more importantly the brakes, at all times. Thoughtfully she restarted the car. If she was stressed out about driving in America, imagine how the poor bugger she’d almost killed must be feeling.

Safely back at the Shangri-La she backed into an empty space, pleased for an opportunity to practice her parking without stares and catcalls. In first time, compact intact. She locked the car and walked to her apartment, her footsteps echoing eerily in the deserted corridors.

She woke with a grumbling stomach and cursed herself for forgetting to shop. It was Sunday and if she remembered correctly, free brunch day at the Shangri-La. If she was the only person there, at least she’d be able to eat loads.

The smell of warm pastries and coffee wafted from the dining room. She stood in the doorway, hesitant and awkward. Groups of people were laughing and chatting companionably, their plates piled high from the buffet table. It was loaded with platters of bacon and cold cuts, fried eggs, scrambled eggs and boiled eggs. Donuts, breads, and bagels. Muffins, Danish pastries and donuts. Donuts, donuts, donuts. God, she’d never seen so many donuts in her life.

She remembered a conversation with her sister, the day she’d rung to tell her she was moving to LA. Her sister teased her relentlessly when she admitted she’d joined a gym, but she had to, she explained. She was overweight, had no waist or body tone and was white and pasty. She sure as hell didn’t want to stand out in LA for all the wrong reasons.