Transplanting Holly Oakwood Page 2

  “Mr Stayrdup will see you now.”

  She got up and walked in, her knees shaking. The office was large and the desk expansive, but the man sitting behind it small and round with sallow skin and oily hair. He regarded her coolly.

  “Holly Oakwood?” He read from a manila file, then took his glasses off, leaned back in his chair and regarded her appraisingly.

  “Yes,” she said, fidgeting under the intensity of his gaze.

  “I’m in charge of the new management team.”

  She nodded, wanting him to fast forward through the preamble and tell her she still had her job.

  “I intend to make this company profitable again. To do this, I need good people around me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Experienced people.”

  “I’m experienced.”

  He put his glasses back on and looked at the file. “I need people open to change.”

  “I pride myself on being adaptable.”

  He looked at her directly, his eyes huge through the milk bottle lens of his glasses. “I need a team who’ll put aside their old loyalties and move forward with me.”

  An image of Ewen Dugdale swam before her eyes. Could she put aside her loyalty to a man who’d been her friend and mentor for years?

  “Where do you stand on this?”

  Feeling sick with dismay, she bit back her anger and took a deep breath, trying to craft her words carefully. After all, she was single now, and had a mortgage to pay on her own. She had to work with this pompous man, whose name she struggled to remember.

  What was it? Oh yes, start up, start up, start up. Through a clenched jaw she forced an expression approximating a smile, and attempted an upbeat tone.

  “I’m with you, Mr Upstart.”

  THREE

  Holly

  Four weeks later Holly hunkered down as the engines whined and the cabin crew armed the doors for takeoff. She wriggled with satisfaction at the feel of the plush leather seats and soft cashmere blankets. Dressed in a Karen Millen wraparound and tailored black jacket, with matching shoes and designer handbag, she hoped she looked affluent and tasteful. She rummaged in her handbag one last time before she’d have to stow it under her seat. The Prada, one of her prized possessions from their winter collection three years back, was made of velvety black leather. She jingled the chrome chain and cast a glance at her seatmate, who wouldn’t know the bag had begun life as an accessory to someone far better heeled than she was.

  Her companion wasn’t taking any notice of the Prada, so with a sigh she pulled her novel out and tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled, then slowly exhaled, her anxiety spiralling out with her breath. She opened her eyes and leaned past her companion to look out the window, trying to capture every detail of the city she’d come to love. A lump formed in her throat. No, mustn’t think about Tom. She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and closed her eyes a second time.

  “You okay?”

  “I, uh–”

  “Scared of flying?”

  She shook her head, then nodded. “Yes.” Better than admitting she wanted to cry. It wouldn’t be sophisticated to cry in business class on a flight to Los Angeles.

  “We’ll be there before you know it. Going on holiday?”

  “I’m moving to LA.”

  “Never been keen on the place.” The woman grimaced, and shook her head. “Full of weirdos. I’m going on business. Know anyone there?”

  “No. A month ago, none of my friends would’ve believed me if I told them I was moving to LA.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Never liked it myself.” She considered for a moment before continuing. “Never been there, except for twelve hours once in the terminal.”

  “Twelve hours too long for me.”

  “Me too, I’ve never wanted to go back.”

  “So what happened to make you change your mind?”

  “Life.” She shook her head, took a deep breath. “My man cheated on me.”

  The woman tut-tutted.

  “With my best friend. Then I got fired.”

  “How does LA fit in?”

  “Got offered a job through a friend and it seemed silly not to take it.”

  “Good job?”

  “Better than the one I had.” She pulled a face. “With the New Zealand Trade Office.”

  “Good for you. Sounds like the best revenge a girl could have.”

  “Glass of champagne, miss?” A young steward with gleaming skin flashed peppermint white teeth at her, and handed her a glass of bubbles.

  “To life. Wherever it takes you.” Her new friend proposed the toast and Holly settled back into her seat, determined to enjoy the flight.

  The cabin was buzzing with post-dinner activity when her seatmate came back from the Ladies wearing pyjamas, eased into her seat, arranged a mink blanket around her and put on an eye mask. Within minutes she was sleeping and Holly yawned, but knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. She pressed the button on the arm of her seat.

  “May I have a brandy please?” she asked the steward.

  She scrunched her nose as the fiery liquid coated her tongue then slid down her throat, but within minutes her limbs were rubbery and a warm fuzzy sensation settled in her head. Fighting off the urge to close her eyes, she pulled her toothbrush out of the Prada and made her way to the Ladies, feeling queasy and disoriented. She shouldn’t have had that brandy.

  The harsh fluorescent lights burned through her grogginess as she sat in the tin-can-sized cubicle. Could you get seasick in the air? Spirals moved behind her eyes and sweat pooled between her breasts. She leant over, resting her head against the vanity. Would she be able to make it back to her seat? She stood, but turbulence rocked the plane and she pitched forward. She slid to her knees, clutching the vanity and willing the turbulence to subside, wanting to calm the fluttering inside her.

  “You alright in there?” asked a voice from the other side of the door.

  How long had she been in here? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes thanks, I’m fine.”

  Her fingers tightened around the cool metal of the tap and she pulled herself back to her feet and dashed cold water on her cheeks, before opening the door and peeking out. To her relief, no one was outside and she wobbled down the aisle, peering in front of her in the darkness. Everything looked different in the gloominess of the cabin, but ahead she saw her seatmate. Striding forward she crossed the space, and lowered herself onto something large, warm, and breathing.

  “What on earth? This seat’s already taken.” A man’s voice, quiet and authoritative, penetrated the wads of soggy newspaper filling her head.

  A flush rode up her neck to her cheeks but despite her embarrassment she giggled. “Bloody hell. Sorry.” A hiccup punctuated her sentence. “It looked like my seat.”

  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 ponde
red 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 lo
t. 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?”