Transplanting Holly Oakwood (7 page)

The heavyset man nodded in agreement, and within minutes the show was over and the diners drifted back to their lunches.

She bit into her grilled cheese sandwich,
The Secret
forgotten. What sort of place had she emigrated to? Damn Tom, if it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t be in this strange city full of thieves and weirdos but back in London. She took another bite of the sharp, tangy, cold melted cheese, but no longer hungry, she pushed her plate away and left the café.

Across the road, the Mercedes was still surrounded by a gaggle of bystanders. She walked over, her curiosity piqued, but before she could join in the conversation she noticed she was standing outside a hairdressers.

“Can I help you?” asked a trendy young girl when she walked inside.

“Do you have any free appointments?”

The girl ran her finger down the appointment book. “If you don’t mind waiting, our senior stylist will be free shortly.”

“I’m happy to wait, thanks.”

“Let’s take you to the basin for a wash.” The girl led her to the back of the salon and settled her in before turning on a stream of tepid water. “We had a bit of excitement here earlier,” she said over the hiss of the tap. “A guy tried to steal a car outside the salon and ended up crashing into two others.”

“I saw it all from across the road.”

“Did you? What did he look like?”

“Pretty ordinary,” she said, struggling to remember. “Didn’t look like a thief, not that they have a particular look. Blond. Attractive.”

“The owner of the car was in a terrible state by the time we got outside.” The girl adjusted the water temperature, and steam rose around her.

“Pity no one stopped him.”

“Probably on drugs,” the girl said, rinsing frangipani scented conditioner out of her hair. “Best not to mess with people like that. Our stylist’s free now, so I’ll take you to our cutting bay.”

“What can I do for you today?” asked the stylist, a pin up boy with spiky blond hair, radiant skin, and candid blue eyes.

“I need a serious revamp. Colour and a wicked cut.”

“Let’s take a look at your hair.” He positioned himself on a stool behind her and ran a comb through her locks. “Your hair’s in great condition, but the style could be more up-to-date.” He lifted her hair at the roots, let it fall naturally. “I’d suggest taking three or four inches off and restyling it into a layered bob. You need volume.”

“Sounds good. You’re a Londoner, aren’t you?”

“Yes, love, East End boy through and through.”

“Your accent makes me feel homesick.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You don’t sound like a Londoner.”

“Lived there for years, but I’m from New Zealand.”

“That explains it. Been in LA long?”

“No, I arrived about five weeks ago. You?”

“Nearly five years.”

“You must like it.”

I love it here”, he said, “but I still miss a few things.”

“The pubs?”

“How did you guess? And the music scene, but I have a great social life here.”

“Do you hang around with other Brits?”

“No, most of my friends are Americans. I go to lots of parties and movie events.”

“The perfect LA social life.”

“A lot of it’s work related. But I’m not complaining.” He pulled the comb expertly through her hair and parted it deftly as he chatted.

She slumped back into the chair. “Do you live near the salon?”

“Yes, just around the corner.”

“You’re lucky. The traffic’s a nightmare in LA, isn’t it?”

“It is, so I’m lucky I can walk to work. Don’t have a car anyway.”

A feeling of déjà vu washed over her and as the scissors bit into her hair with a metallic snip, she looked at him closely, then widened her field of vision. An attractive man, he wore his jeans and white shirt with the confidence and style of a Calvin Klein model. Is that why he seemed so familiar? She couldn’t pin it down, but an uneasy feeling was settling over her.

He held a section of her hair at right angles to her head, then with a rip, the scissors bladed expertly through her hair. As the strands drifted to the ground, a knot massed in her abdomen and rose to her throat. Her fingers flew to her mouth to try and stop the words escaping, but it was too late and they came out in a hiss.

“Put those scissors down. I know what you are. I saw you outside.”

He froze, scissors midair. His eyes, which had sparkled with confidence only minutes before, widened in dismay, and his features contorted with what she could only imagine was guilt.

She rose from the chair and ripped the cape from her shoulders. “Hopefully you’re a better hairdresser than car thief, but I’m not taking any chances.”

NINE

Brittany

Brittany sat hunched in the passenger seat, shaking like a magnitude seven earthquake. “Damn that bitch of a woman.”

Jenna shot her a sympathetic look. “You look awful, you poor thing. I’ll stay with you tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to. Warren will be around soon.”

“I know,” Jenna replied doubtfully, “but I’ll wait with you until he arrives.”

The phone rang an hour later, and Brittany knew it was him before she picked up the receiver.

“It’s Warren. I’m phoning to let you know I won’t be picking you up for our weekend away.”

“What do you mean not picking me up?”

“I can’t, Brittany. Not after what happened this afternoon.”

“Your wife must be screaming blue murder. I bet she’s given you an ultimatum.” A thick silence on the other end of the line signalled she was right, and with difficulty she swallowed the stone that was forming in her throat. “Warren, say something please.”

“I love her,” he said haltingly, “and she’s agreed to try and work things out. I can’t see you again. I’m sorry.”

“You what? Love your wife?” She heard her voice growing shrill, a quality she disliked because it was one she associated with wives. “You said you wanted to leave her.”

“I can’t, Brit. We’ve got too much history together.”

“You don’t deserve me, you weak bastard. Go to hell.” She slammed the phone down with such force it nearly went through the glass coffee table, then she sank onto the sofa, shock engraved into her features.

“I can’t believe it, Jenna. He’s finished with me.”

“Let it all out.” Jenna said sympathetically, stroking her arm. “I’m here for you.”

She shook her head in irritation. “Did you hear what I said?” she wailed. “He’s finished with me.”

“He probably didn’t want to, but I guess he didn’t have much choice unless he wanted to end his marriage.”

“He said he wanted to leave her. He’s always said that.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

“I told you before, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.”

“Neither of you gave him much choice. What could he have done when she found out today? She was furious.”

“I know, but that’s her problem, and anyway, he said he loved me. I’m completely devastated.”

“You know it’s for the best.”

“Thanks for the support,” she said, shooting a venomous look at her friend. So much for exposing her pain and vulnerability.

“Come on, you know I’m on your side. You said he’s not what you want long term.”

“I know what I said but–”

“You’re better off with someone single who can commit to you,” said Jenna.

“I know, but we had great times together and I’ll miss them.”

“Them?”

“Him, I mean him,” she corrected.

“You’ll get over it, sweetie. You’re a strong woman and you’ll meet someone else.”

“I know, but in the meantime I don’t know how I’ll cope,” she said, her tears tracking mascara in their wake. “I’ll have to make major adjustments to my lifestyle.”

Everything that could’ve gone wrong this morning had, and after arguing with Tina over minor Consular matters, Brittany closed her office door and sat at her desk. After a full five minutes staring at the phone, she picked up the receiver, determined to make this call. Slowly she punched the number.

Rrrrng. Rrrrng.

No, she couldn’t do it. She hung up hurriedly, put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. How on the earth could she still want Warren after the way he’d finished with her? Damn his fat bitch of a wife, who had everything she’d ever wanted. The beautiful home, sleek cars, overseas holidays and designer wardrobe. In short, the security and privileges of marriage to a rich man, which she, Brittany, deserved.

Damn Warren, she hated him too, the spineless bastard.

She picked up the phone again, let it ring three times and hung up a second time. She stood up, kicked the wastepaper basket, then slammed out of her office.

Ann, in the office next door, was frowning at her computer screen, lost in thought.

“Ann, I’m going home.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” the older woman said absently.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry, I was concentrating on something,” Ann said, taking her glasses off. “You alright? You look under the weather.”

“No, I’m not alright,” she said a little too sharply. “I’ve got a migraine. I’ve cancelled my appointments for the rest of the day.”

“Can you drive, or would you like me to order you a taxi?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I can get home okay,” she snapped, not wanting sympathy for a malady she didn’t have.

Ten minutes later she parked her car outside her Brentwood apartment and walked through the landscaped garden. A neighbour was watering plants as she approached.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” said the woman.

She mumbled a greeting in return, but didn’t stop. Warren hadn’t encouraged her to talk to the neighbours, as he worried word of their liaison would get back to his wife. Not that it mattered anymore. Ironic really, that after all the care they took to be discrete in this apartment, his wife found out they were having an affair by busting her in the Beverley Centre.

She’d never get to know the neighbours now, couldn’t afford the rent on this smart apartment on her salary. Life wouldn’t be as comfortable without Warren’s patronage. No fancy apartment, no weekends away, no expensive restaurants, no gifts.

Damn his bitch of a wife – and damn Warren.

Once inside she headed straight to the chiller, pulled out a bottle of Chablis and poured a generous measure into a cut crystal glass. A couple of drinks, a quick lie down, then she’d phone Jenna to see if she fancied a night on the Strip. She’d be buggered if she’d stay at home in front of the TV.

Her doorbell buzzed, and she went to answer it, puzzled. Who would expect her to be home at this time of the afternoon?

“Ms Brooke? Delivery from Blooms.”

With shaking hands she opened an exquisitely wrapped foot-long box. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed, red roses, nestled in silver tissue paper.
I love you
, read the unsigned card with the flowers,
I’ll call you tonight
.

She slumped over the box in relief, but it was short lived. She’d been to hell and back the past week, and if Warren expected she’d fall right back into his arms, and his bed, he was deluded. If he wanted her back he’d have to grovel. No man was going to treat her like this, no matter how rich he was.

Two hours later the phone rang, but she ignored it, and instead checked for his message. There wasn’t one, and although the phone rang incessantly over the next few hours, the machine stayed empty. Must have been Warren ringing. Why the hell didn’t he leave a message like any ordinary person would?

Her plans to go out forgotten, she ate a light dinner, unplugged the phone, and went to bed. Hopefully Warren was beside himself wondering where she was, who she was with, and what they were doing. Served him right.

She woke early the next morning and plugged the phone straight back in. It rang instantly, although it wasn’t yet eight.

“Baby, it’s me. Did you get the flowers?” His confident and breezy tone rubbed like a rough nail file.

She slammed the phone down on him. Within minutes it rang again, but she ignored it. Eventually it stopped ringing, and her rising confidence waning, she paced around the apartment restlessly, then threw her gym gear into a bag and left the apartment.

After a strenuous workout she drove home, calm and philosophical, to find Warren sitting outside.

“Don’t ignore me,” he said as she tried to walk past him. “I had to say what I did the other day, Brit. My wife was there and I had no option.”

“No option? You could’ve told her your marriage is over and that you’ve fallen in love with someone else.”

“The time’s not right. She’s been depressed and this isn’t what she needs at the moment.” His voice trailed off as he followed her inside.

“You think it’s what I need?”

“No, baby, but you’re stronger than she is. Come on, this works for us, you know it does.”

She threw her bag onto the couch and stomped into the bedroom, fighting to hold her temper in check. Damn right this worked for them, and in case he’d forgotten how much, it could be time to remind him. Unless his bitch of a wife had given him an I-want-to-win-you-back fuck, he wouldn’t have had sex in the last week.