Transplanting Holly Oakwood Page 3

  “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.

  “You won’t stand out, believe me,” her sister laughed.

  “I will, I know I will. Everyone in LA is attractive, tanned and toned.”

  “Everyone who?”

  “Everyone on TV or in the movies,” she replied.

  “Yeah right. Don’t worry, Holly, there’s plenty of fat people in LA too.”

  Her sister was right. LA was full of fat people and they were all staying at the Shangri-La. Now she knew why the place was deserted all week. Everyone stayed in their rooms, recovering from the Sunday donut fests.

  FIVE

  Brittany

  Brittany pedalled furiously, considering Jenna’s question. It should have been easy to answer, but nothing was straightforward these days. She knew she could change things, told herself she wanted to, and yet, did she? Maybe she thrived on the intrigue that came with Warren.

  She stopped cycling and traced the back of her hand across her damp forehead. It was late afternoon and the gym was quiet, but within thirty minutes it would be heaving with young professionals, lining up to show off their perfect bodies.

  “I’m not sure I want him to leave her.”

  “Really?” asked Jenna, looking puzzled. “I don’t understand. Don’t you love him?”

  “I do, sort of. I’m fond of him, and the sex is great.”

  “That’s it?”

  “His power turns me on.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Jenna shook her head in disbelief.

  “And his connections.” She took a sip from her water bottle, then circled her lips with her tongue. “Not to mention his money.”

  “There’s more to life than money.”

  “Easy to say when you don’t have any. I love the way I live when I’m with him.”

  “You do love him then?” Her only female friend, Jenna was a hopeless romantic and Brittany knew Jenna wanted to believe her only motivation was the pursuit of true love.

  “I’ve got the best of both worlds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I love my job, I love my apartment, and most of all I love my independence. I need it in case Mr Right comes along. In the meantime Warren spoils me. I couldn’t afford half of what I have on my salary.”

  “Sounds like you don’t really love him.”

  “It’s complicated,” she said, ignoring the tone of sarcasm in Jenna’s voice. “You know how I feel about Guy. He relies on me more and more.” She paused. “I’m sure our friendship will develop into a relationship.”

  “You know it will take him ages, maybe years, to get over his wife,” said Jenna, puffing with exertion.

  “And when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.” There was an unspoken challenge in her eyes, but Jenna stayed silent. “In the meantime I don’t want him to know I’m seeing Warren. Guy’s old fashioned about things like that.”

  Jenna snorted. “Aren’t all men?”

  “I’m trying to keep Warren away from the office. I don’t want my two worlds to collide.”

  “Sounds stressful. Why don’t you finish with Warren and concentrate on Guy?”

  “I’m having too much fun.” She climbed off the bike, and towelled herself lightly. “Warren’s taking me to Palm Springs for the weekend. Want to come to the Beverley Centre? I need a new outfit.”

  Half an hour later, showered and changed, they left the gym and drove to the mall, recharging with an espresso before making their way to one of the centre’s exclusive stores.

  “What do you want?” Jenna asked. “Casual or dressy?”

  “A dress. Something simple and chic.” She flicked through the racks of cocktail dresses, and pulled out an exquisite satin sheath smothered in glittering bugle beads.

  “Oh it’s gorgeous. Try it on.” Her friend touched it reverently.

  Brittany slipped into the silver grey dress, then swanned towards the mirror. “What do you think?” She piled her long blond hair on her head and admired herself in the glass, although she knew exactly what she would see as she couldn’t bear to pass a window or mirror without pausing to appreciate the woman who looked back at her. “Looks great, doesn’t it?

  “Stunning. It could’ve been made for you.”

  “I know.” She preened, basking in Jenna’s compliment. “Everything suits me.”

  “You’re so lucky.” Jenna’s tone was without envy, and Brittany wished, not for the first time, that Jenna was envious. What was the point of looking gorgeous if your girlfriends weren’t jealous?

  “I want to knock Warren’s socks off this weekend.”

  “Dream on.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t afford it,” said Jenna, staring slack-jawed at the swing tag. She lowered her voice to a hush. “It’s three thousand dollars.”

  “You’re damn right I can’t afford it but Warren can. Three thousand dollars is nothing to him,” she said as Jenna made a gurgling sound. “I’m worth every cent.”

  Satisfied with her reflection she peeled the dress off, showing no hint of embarrassment in front of her friend. Tall and slim, her body was tanned to a light golden glow, save for the pink of her finely formed nipples. Her navel was pierced, and a white gold ring glinted against her skin.

  “Warren’s paying for it?” Jenna managed to sound incredulous and envious at the same time. “Has he paid for your clothes before?”

  “I have an account here.” The tip of her tongue darted to her top lip. “More to the point, Warren has an account here.” She left the changing room wearing a mantle of self-confidence as naturally as she’d worn the three thousand dollar dress.

  “How was it, madam?” An assistant approached her, extending his arm for the garment.

  “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

  “Follow me please,” he said deferentially, and
they followed him to the cash register, where an older woman was waiting. “I won’t keep you a moment,” he said inclining his head in her direction.

  She smiled in acknowledgement. “Lovely dress,” she said to Brittany pleasantly.

  “How would you like to pay?” the assistant asked with a professional air.

  “Charge.” She put her Gucci handbag on the counter and rummaged through it. “Where’s my wallet?”

  The assistant raised his eyes skyward while she piled the contents of her bag on the counter. “Name of cardholder?” he asked imperiously.

  “Um, Brooke.” She rummaged in the bag, tossing keys and lipsticks out.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have a Brooke on our system.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to regain her equilibrium. Wouldn’t do to get flustered, not with Jenna here to see her embarrassment.

  “Sorry, Cashmore. Mr Warren Cashmore.”

  She threw everything back into her bag haphazardly. Was it her imagination, or was the older woman staring at her? Jealous no doubt.

  “Address?”

  “Three hundred Maple Drive, Brentwood,” she said with a dazzling smile, then patted her pocket, and drew her wallet out. She took her charge card out and slid it over the counter, but before the assistant could reach for it, strong wrists closed around hers.

  “I’ll take that,” the older woman said in a voice dripping with hatred. “I live at three hundred Maple Drive, and I’m Mrs Warren Cashmore.”

  SIX

  Holly

  A shriek pierced the silence, and Holly sat bolt upright. Where was she? What was that God awful noise? As her eyes focused and adjusted to the early morning light she remembered today was her first day in a new job.

  Rolling out of bed, she hit the alarm and stretched lazily, glad she’d chosen her clothes the night before. Her eyes swept over the new navy blue suit she’d bought before leaving London, the sheer but not too immodest top, and her favourite peep-toe high heels. Her brow furrowed as she squinted at the outfit, judging the overall effect. Was the top suitable for her first day in a new job? She picked it up, testing the light silky fabric between her thumb and index finger, then hung it back in the closet and rifled through for something that looked less seven p.m. wine bar and more nine a.m. business.

  In the steaming shower she squeezed viscous gel onto a sponge and lathered it over her wet skin. The scent of geranium enveloped her, and filled with a sense of well-being, she warbled the lyrics to Manic Monday, one of her all-time favourite songs.

  Thirty minutes later she was in the car, leaving plenty of time to find the office. The journey was so straightforward she could’ve been driving on autopilot. Out the car park, turn left. Down to Venice Beach, turn right. Along the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Monica, straight through. The traffic hummed and flowed, and within ten minutes of leaving she was at the junction of Wilshire, turning right. She sped up Wilshire and circled the building, looking for the entry to the car park. She jumped as a horn sounded behind her, checked the mirror and swore softly to see the traffic piled up behind her. She slowed, then accelerated, swiftly braking when she saw the entrance looming ahead. She glided in red faced and flustered, hoping the drivers behind her weren’t her new colleagues.

  A concierge stood by the lifts, and she tried to smile at him the way she used to smile at the sixty year old doorman in the office in London. Impossible. Unlike the doorman at White’s, this one was tall, muscular and gorgeous.

  “Morning, miss, can I help you?”

  “Yes please,” she said with a smirk, imagining what he could help her with outside of working hours.

  “Visiting one of the companies here?”

  “Yes, the New Zealand Trade Office. I work there from today,” she said, hoping he was here every morning.

  “Fourteenth floor for the Trade Office and Consulate. Elevator one.”

  As the lift ascended her insides lurched, and her suit, comfortable when she put it on, prickled her skin. She put her bag on the floor and scooped her hair back from her damp neck.

  The lift opened and she took a deep breath, trying to steady the butterflies doing somersaults in her stomach. The entry to the Consulate was imposing. On the plush side of minimal, it boasted low white leather couches, glass and steel coffee tables, and luxurious woollen carpet. Floor to ceiling glass framed the panorama of downtown Los Angeles several miles in the distance.

  “It’s an impressive view, isn’t it?” A woman in her mid-fifties approached her, wearing a reassuringly conservative suit, modest jewellery and sensible shoes. “You must be Holly,” she said warmly, extending a hand. “I’m Ann French, the office manager. Welcome to LA.”

  Holly mirrored her wide, open smile. “Hello, nice to meet you. Yes, it’s a stunning view.”

  “Come this way,” said Ann. “Unfortunately the Trade Commissioner isn’t here to meet you this morning.”

  “Will he be in later today?”

  “She. Brittany’s the Trade Commissioner. She’s away on a trade conference but yes, she’ll be in later today. In the meantime, I’ll settle you in.”

  Ann showed her around the office and introduced her to the staff, mainly expatriate New Zealanders, with a few token Americans thrown in for good measure. Finally Ann led her to a small office with a picture postcard view of downtown.

  “I’ve put you in this one. It’s small,” she said apologetically, “but it’s next to Brittany’s and you’ll be working closely together.”

  “Lovely surprise. I’ve never had my own office before.”

  Ann gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll leave you to settle in until lunch. Everyone gathers in the kitchen.”

  The smell of percolating coffee alerted her the morning had passed, and she stood in the kitchen doorway, listening to the conversation rising around her.

  “How was your weekend?”

  “Wasn’t the Lakers game a shocker?”

  “Did you get to the sale at Santa Monica Place? Great bargains at Sears.”

  “Holly, come in. Coffee?” asked a petite woman with asymmetrically cut dark hair, bright red lipstick and matching nails. Holly knew it was the Consular secretary, but what was her name? “Tina,” said the woman, reading her mind. “Come and join us.”

  Holly nodded, took the steaming mug Tina held out to her, and sat down. She put her hand on her stomach, hoping the grumbling wasn’t audible. She checked surreptitiously for biscuits or a snack box, and seeing neither, added two heaped spoonfuls of sugar to her coffee. She touched her stomach again, running her hand over her soft curves self-consciously. She guessed she was ten or fifteen kilos overweight compared to the other women here. She sipped the strong sweet brew slowly, hoping it would appease her until she could slip out for a sandwich.

  She left the office twenty minutes later, faint from hunger. Longs Drugstore was on the corner by the office, and if it was America’s answer to Boots the Chemist it would be an ideal solution to lunch. She found the delicatessen counter at the end of a long queue which snaked around two aisles and decided to browse the store until the line went down. From curtains to kitchenware, foodstuffs to pharmaceuticals, magazines to makeup, Longs stocked everything she’d need to set up a new home.

  “Do you have the time?” she asked a customer in the magazine section.

  “Two fifteen,” the woman replied, not bothering to glance up.

  “Quarter past two?” Had she heard that right? Hell’s bells. More than an hour had passed since she’d left the office and she should be back there, not still here looking at kettles and alarm clocks and wine racks. Her gaze swept regretfully back to the delicatessen counter, but fear won out, and she ran back to the office, hoping no one had noticed how long she’d been out.

  By three o’clock her hands were shaking, she was seeing double, and the grumbling in her stomach sounded like the distant rumble of thunder on a muggy summer evening. She pushed her chair back from her desk and made her way to the kitchen, hopin
g a snack box had magically materialised.

  “Hi, Holly. Can I help you with something?” asked Tina. “You look lost.”

  “I’m looking for a snack box. I’m starving.”

  “Snack box?” asked Tina, frowning.

  “This is LA.” An ethereal blonde, groomed to magazine perfection, stood in the doorway.

  “I beg your pardon?” She wasn’t sure what the blonde was talking about, or whether she was talking to her.

  The blonde assessed her through narrowed eyes, taking in her figure from ankles to bust, then settling on her waist. “We don’t do snack boxes in LA. Anyway, a snack box should be the last thing on your mind.”

  Holly folded her arms protectively across her middle. She was overweight compared to the thin girls here in LA, but she was far from obese, which the woman’s look suggested. A stinging reply formed, but instead she took a deep breath, and tried to pretend her tongue was attached to the roof of her mouth, an act of self-control unusual for her. As she struggled to regain her composure, the blonde picked a piece of lint from her sleeve, then, as if nothing untoward had happened, spun on her expensively shod feet and left the room.

  She stared at the door, then turned to Tina in shock and embarrassment.

  “Don’t mind Brittany,” said Tina.

  “God, was that Brittany?” she asked faintly, pressing her temple. “The Trade Commissioner?”

  “You’re reporting to her aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She wanted to sit down, wanted to sink through the floor.

  “I think she’s having trouble at the moment.”

  “Trouble?”

  “It’s usually man trouble when she’s in a bitchy mood,” said Tina. “By that, I mean bitchier than usual.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s like that all the time?”

  Tina’s laugh was brittle. “Pretty much. Thank God the CG isn’t interested in her.”

  “The CG?” Had she heard the acronym before? If so, she couldn’t remember what it meant.