Transplanting Holly Oakwood Read online

  “Aren’t you glad?” she teased. “Makes it easy for a serial dater like you.”

  Serial shagger more like, but he ignored her euphemism. He’d been close friends with his neighbour for the past two years, but lately he wasn’t comfortable discussing his women with her. She knew he got around, but he didn’t want her to know the full extent of his promiscuity. She might think less of him if she knew.

  “As it happens I can help on the room-mate front,” he said quickly, before she could question him on his latest conquests.

  “Great. I hate advertising for roomies. Tell me all.”

  “I met someone recently who’s new to LA. She’s staying in temporary digs and I’d say she’d be perfect for you.”

  “Sounds interesting. One of your women?”

  “No, a client from the salon. I ran into her the other day at Venice Beach, and she mentioned she needs to find a permanent place to stay.”

  She stirred her tea furiously. “What’s she like?”

  “Nice. Sweet in a naïve sort of way.”

  “Not your usual type then.”

  “No, but she does intrigue me. She’s from New Zealand of all places, but she’s been living in London for years, which means we have a lot in common.” It sounded unconvincing and he doubted if he’d fooled Tessa.

  “In other words, you do fancy her.” She grimaced. “I don’t think one of your women would be a good roomie for me. Could be complicated.”

  “She’s not one of my women,” he said, trying to look hurt. “What do you mean complicated?”

  “All the ups and downs and dramas. Whether you like them or not, after they’ve become hopelessly involved. Don’t get me wrong, they all make amusing stories. Afterwards.”

  He nodded, wishing he hadn’t told her half of what he had.

  “But if you’re only interested in her as a friend…” she tailed off. “I’d like a female, don’t want another situation like the last one.”

  “Can’t blame the guy for trying it on.”

  “Creep. All I want is a woman who’ll pay the rent on time and do her share of the housework. I’m not here much anyway.”

  “How’re the auditions going?” he asked.

  She got up from the table, walked over to the couch, and picked up a dog-eared script. “Frustrating,” she said, shaking it at him. “You spend ages learning the lines, get all psyched up, give it your best shot, then get the standard ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’.” She threw the script back onto the couch.

  “Do they actually say that?”

  “They do,” she said, her mouth curving downwards. “Then you never hear from them again.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “I feel as if I’ve been auditioning for decades and I still haven’t had a real break. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

  “Don’t get disheartened. You’re gorgeous and you’ll get the break you deserve.” He wasn’t exaggerating, and as he took in her smooth olive skin, slanting green eyes and black hair he marvelled that he’d never made a move on her. Maybe because he knew she’d reject him.

  “You’re such a darling.” She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “But LA’s full of gorgeous women. I’m glad I’ve got the dogs.”

  “Ah yes, the dogs,” he said, distaste plain in his voice. “I think you’re mad. I can’t understand why anyone would choose to spend their time with hairy, slobbery, unruly animals.”

  “They keep me sane and pay the bills. Apart from that, they’re loyal, not to mention full of fun and affection. And they keep you fit. I’d love one of my own but can’t living here.”

  “Thank God for that or I’d have to find somewhere else to live. Can’t imagine sitting around the pool with a large smelly beast gambolling around pooping everywhere.”

  Tessa raised her eyes heavenward but didn’t bite. “This way I get paid to enjoy them.”

  “I will concede it’s a great way to keep fit.” He cast an approving glance over her toned figure, and his eyes lingered on her slim hips.

  “Pet sitting’s great in this city. Look at all the flash houses I’ve stayed in.”

  He nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. “Shall I get in touch with Holly? I could ask her to join us for drinks and dinner at the Pier next Saturday.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to get her to come and look at the apartment first?”

  “There’d be no pressure this way.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “If you like her you can ask her to come over and see the place. If you don’t like her, you can tell her it’s already gone.”

  “Good thinking, 99. More tea?”

  He nodded, relieved he’d been able to solve Tessa’s problem.

  Not to mention his. Now he had the perfect excuse to phone Holly.

  TWELVE

  Holly

  “How’s everything going? Settling in?” Holly looked up to see Ann standing in the doorway of her office.

  “Good, thanks. I’m finding my feet,” she lied. Ann was a darling, but she didn’t want anyone to know how much she was struggling.

  “You’ve only been here a few months, don’t put too much pressure on yourself.” Ann looked at her intently. “You’ve got a job and temporary accommodation, and it’s only a matter of time before you make friends and start feeling settled.”

  It was obvious Ann could tell she was lying. She tried to keep an even tone to her voice. “It’s coming together. I feel as if I’ve got a handle on things here in the office.”

  “Have you been working with Brittany?”

  “No, she’s been away so often, but I’m meeting with her shortly. She wants help with a report she’s doing for a client.”

  The lines in Ann’s forehead deepened, she opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. “As you say she’s been away, and she’s also been busy helping Mr Cutler with Consular matters lately.” She coughed discreetly, then fiddled with her watch. “Better run, I’ve got the Australian Embassy staff coming over for a meeting in half an hour.”

  What had Ann wanted to say about Brittany? Although she hadn’t seen much of her, Holly got the impression Brittany wasn’t popular, and if her first meeting was anything to go by, it wasn’t surprising. Fortunately everything else at work was good. The staff were friendly, she was busy and the days passed quickly. Nights and weekends were the problem, because then she had time to think.

  She was sick of thinking. Why had Tom phoned out of the blue after all these weeks? He wasn’t being fair to her. She should be enjoying this opportunity, yet here she was wondering if she was doing the right thing staying in LA.

  She bit the end of her pencil. Of course she was doing the right thing. Wouldn’t be smart to give up, hop on a plane and go back to Tom as if nothing had happened. After all, he was rat-arsed when he called. What if he hadn’t meant any of the things he’d said?

  “Holly.” A sharp voice interrupted her flow of thoughts. “We had a meeting ten minutes ago.” Brittany was standing in the doorway.

  She dropped the pencil she’d been chewing. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

  Brittany shook her head impatiently. “Come to my office now and let’s get going.”

  Her boss’s office was as immaculate as she was, with a desk free of paper, and books arranged on the shelves according to size. No photos or personal mementos were on show in the room, unlike her own office which was littered with papers, pens, photos of home, and supplies to stave off mid-morning hunger. Did a cluttered office signal a cluttered mind?

  “I’m sorry I’ve been away so much since you arrived. I’m back at home base for awhile now, but I need to free up time to help Mr Cutler with diplomatic matters,” Brittany said formally. “We work closely together and he’s come to rely on me heavily.”

  “Ann mentioned you work with him a lot.”

  Brittany relaxed visibly. “I help with the social side of running the Consulate and the Consular Resid
ence. Takes a lot of effort I can tell you.”

  Holly made the sympathetic noises she expected Brittany wanted to hear, then said, “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “He’s travelling, but once this round of trade negotiations has finished he’ll want to meet you.” Brittany looked into space for a moment, a half smile playing on her lips. “I’d like you to do a report for a flower grower in New Zealand.”

  “They import flowers all the way from New Zealand?”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s a small export market for New Zealand. They want us to grow it, no pun intended.” She laughed at her own joke. “The aim is to target twenty cut flower importers who aren’t currently bringing in stock from the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “How do I do it?”

  Brittany thrummed her nails on the desk before answering. “Cold calling, but you’ll need to do the research first. Contact flower importers, talk to them directly, ask if they’re interested in importing from New Zealand.”

  “If they say yes?”

  Brittany tapped her nails on the desk again, drawing attention to her perfect manicure. “Should be obvious. Broker meetings between them and the client.”

  “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 s
tretched 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.