Transplanting Holly Oakwood (13 page)

“Hello. We meet again. Small world, isn’t it?”

She looked up in surprise, and the colour drained from her face as hazel eyes met hers and she remembered where they’d met before.

“Shit. It’s you,” she said to the man from the plane, and she prayed the floor would swallow her. “Can I help you with your shirt?” Her eyes scanned the room frantically, hoping to spot something to mop his shirt with, or better still, somewhere to hide.

“Don’t bother,” he said, attempting to brush the drops of Coke off his shirt and instead smearing them across his chest. “I think it’s beyond help. Fortunately I was leaving.” He smiled for the first time and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s only a shirt. Don’t worry.”

God, he was dishy when he smiled. “Thank you. Once again, I’m sorry,” she said, furtively checking out his left hand to see if he wore a wedding ring.

As she moved away, he touched her arm. “I don’t know your name.”

She smoothed her hair back, and looked at him flirtatiously from under her lashes. Might be married, but that didn’t stop a girl from practising her charms, did it? “I’m Holly,” she said encouragingly.

“Your dress,” he said hesitantly.

She moved closer, her confidence rising. Charlie said she looked hot in this dress, and this gorgeous man agreed. “Thank you, it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Er, yes, it certainly is lovely.” He stepped sideways, then coughed. “The back of it…”

The back of it? She twisted her neck and looked over her shoulder, then ran her hand over the fine soft merino which clung to her hips. As her fingers met a mountain of tangled fabric the horrible truth hit her. Her dress was tucked into her knickers.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly, waves of embarrassment engulfing her. For an instant she couldn’t prise her feet off the floor, and her and the man stared at each other; her in shame, and him in pity. She extracted her dress with as much decorum as she could muster, then rushed back to the Ladies, leaving him standing in the foyer in his ruined dinner suit.

Back in the safety of the stall she contemplated the evening’s collateral damage:

1.  She’d insulted ten people at dinner

2.  She’d spilt a drink over the man she’d sat on during the plane journey

3.  She’d totally ruined his shirt

4.  She’d been told her beautiful dress was unceremoniously tucked up into her knickers

Not her best knickers either, but her Magic-hold-your-tummy-in-bike-short knickers, the knickers no self-respecting girl would ever admit to wearing.

After what seemed like hours she poked her head out of the door tentatively, then came out and examined herself in the mirror. She looked exactly the same, though she imagined the humiliation would have altered her appearance. She traced an imaginary D across her forehead with her index finger. D for dimwit. She drew her index finger over her forehead again, this time tracing the letter F on her smooth unlined skin. F for fuckwit. Either way, she’d stuffed up big time. She used to be self-assured and adept in any social situation, but it was as if she’d lost her savvy when she’d broken up with Tom and regressed to the gauche, awkward and disaster-prone young girl from Auckland.

Charlie was pacing outside the Ladies when she came out, worry clouding his usually relaxed features.

“Who was that guy you were talking to? Did he say something to upset you?” He fired questions at her, without pausing to let her answer.

“It’s a long story. Let’s go outside. I need a cigarette.”

“A cigarette? Didn’t think you smoked.”

“Gave up ages ago, but I need one badly. Come on, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

To Charlie’s credit he didn’t laugh out loud, but as she told him the story the corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “Oh, Holly, everything’s hard for you at the moment, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling her towards him.

She leaned into him in response, drinking in the mingling notes of spice and musk in his aftershave. Her head was spinning from the cigarette and the wine, and bile was burning the back of her throat. His tenderness was a soothing balm, and she cried large, hot tears into his collar. She pulled away, and wiped her hand across her eyes, trying to stem the flow.

“Oh, dear love, you’re making it worse,” he said, dabbing his white linen handkerchief over her swollen eyes. It came away streaked with black mascara. “Better get you home.”

“I’m an idiot, inept and unsophisticated. A failure, a lush, and a total loser.” Her voice rose in despair. “What must he think of me?”

“Who cares? You’ll never see him again anyway. It’s bizarre you’ve run into him twice but the chance of it happening again is twenty million to one.”

“You’re right. Hopefully I’ll never see any of the people at the table again either. They must think I’m horrible.”

“They felt sorry for you,” Charlie said tactfully. He paused and she knew he was crafting a lie. “I told them your cat had died and your doctor had put you on strong medication, which reacted badly with the wine.”

She giggled through her tears.

“The man you spilt the drink on, what’s his name?” Charlie asked.

“Don’t know.”

“He looked like a total tosser in that penguin suit.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, then tamped it out forcefully. “This city’s full of smooth types like him, and it’s best to steer clear of all of them. You probably did yourself a favour.” He pulled her towards him and she leaned in again, grateful to have such a loyal friend.

“You think?”

“Yes I do, and like I said, you’ll never see him again, so you can put tonight behind you.” He got up, and reached for her hand. “Let’s go home. Believe me, you’ll laugh about this tomorrow.”

Holly woke abruptly, with a sense of foreboding she couldn’t shake. Squeezing her eyes together she tried to fall back asleep, but the attempt was useless and she lay in bed tense and tired. After checking the alarm clock six times in an hour, she got up, fighting an overwhelming urge to climb back into bed. She had a big day ahead, and she’d better get moving.

First she had to see if she could get some results for her flower grower client. She’d tried a few more calls, but not one person had returned her message, despite her upbeat tone and convincing pitch. She’d decided maybe Charlie’s suggestion wasn’t such a bad idea after all, so today she had a list of four flower importers she was going to see, as well as directions to find them. She wouldn’t let a lack of a pre-arranged appointment stop her chances of success.

As if that wasn’t enough for one day, today Mr Cutler was returning to the office after weeks away and she was dreading meeting him. Everyone said he was lovely but she knew she’d dislike him on sight. For weeks all Brittany had been talking about was Mr Cutler, and she was sick of hearing about him.

Mr Cutler likes things done this way.

Mr Cutler says that.

Mr Cutler, Mr Cutler, Mr Cutler.

Mr Cutler was obviously a middle-aged, grey haired fusspot, and as far as she was concerned Brittany was welcome to him.

Four hours later she arrived at the office and slumped listlessly at her desk, totally defeated, and attempted to summon up enough energy and enthusiasm for the rest of the day. She’d really wanted to drive back to the apartment and lick her wounds after the outraged rejections she’d received for not having made appointments, but she was determined to get at least one lead, and thought it was worth ringing a few more companies.

Perhaps some music would lift her spirits and inject some get-up-and-go into her. She rummaged in her bag for her iPod, but she’d left it back at the apartment, and there wasn’t a radio in her office. She leaned back in her chair, thought for a moment, and then sang the chorus of
I Don’t Like Mondays
, her foot tapping in time to the beat. Yes, this was working, she felt livelier now. Her voice raised a notch and she swayed in her seat, hands waving in the air, fingers clicking.

Brittany appeared in the doorway. Dressed in an even more glamorous fashion than usual, her black suit was impeccably cut, the skirt a smidgen away from being sluttishly short. A hint of cleavage popped above her soft white shirt, and a tackily huge cubic zirconia sat on the rise of her breasts. Her hair was piled high, with loose tendrils emphasising her perfect makeup.

Holly touched her cheeks defensively, feeling she was plain in comparison. She should’ve made more of an effort, but dressing up for an aging ambassador hadn’t been a high priority at six that morning.

“Where have you been, Holly?” asked Brittany, not even waiting for a reply. “Mr Cutler’s back today and you’re meeting him at two thirty. He likes punctuality,” said Brittany, beaming as if she’d won the Lottery.

Holly nodded in response and hummed
I Don’t Like Mondays
in her head.

“Holly,” said Brittany in a sharp tone. “Stop humming that song. Did you hear me?”

“Yup, I’ll be ready at two thirty. See you then.”

At two twenty eight she pulled her compact out of her bag and checked herself in the tiny mirror. She didn’t look stunning, but on balance she didn’t look too bad either. Winding up her new season Lizzie Arden lippie, she pouted, and deftly applied the vibrant red gloss. Next she fished out a hairbrush and pulled it through her thick hair, which crackled with static.

“Ready?” Brittany trilled outside her door. Her boss bustled ahead, her towering heels clacking importantly on the marble tiles.

Mr Cutler’s office occupied a large corner suite. It was sumptuous, as befitting the diplomat’s status, but it was also homely, with framed photos, a spare suit hanging on a coat rack in the corner, and books lining the walls. It was the office of a man who worked long hours and didn’t have a reason to go home.

Brittany steered her to a couch and they sat quietly while Mr Cutler finished his phone call. He faced away from them, looking out the window, and as he spoke he tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his high-backed chair.

She should’ve gone to the toilet before coming into this meeting. Her chest was tight, unease was surging through her veins, and she didn’t know if she could hold on. She looked towards the door frantically and had decided to excuse herself when the diplomat ended his call abruptly, spun round in his chair and rose to greet them.

“Holly, this is Guy Cutler, the Consul-General,” said Brittany importantly. “Guy, this is Holly Oakwood, our new trade officer from London.”

Her smile froze at the same instant Mr Cutler’s eyes widened in shock, and she silently cursed Charlie. He was wrong. She had her twenty million to one odds, and lightning
had
struck for the third time.

EIGHTEEN

Holly

“God, love, you don’t have much luck, do you?” Charlie said sympathetically, shaking his head in disbelief. They were in his apartment, drinking a pitcher of margaritas and munching on corn chips.

“What’s the chance of that happening, even in LA?” asked Tessa. “You can go to the same nightclub every Friday night hoping to see the cute guy you saw on your first visit. A year later, and you still haven’t seen him again.”

“Speaking from personal experience?” asked Charlie, and Tessa threw a cushion at his head, which he deftly avoided.

“I’d prefer to be in that situation,” said Holly, pouring her third Margarita.

“What happened next?” asked Tessa.

“He said ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Oakwood.’” She reached for a corn chip, and dipped it in guacamole. “Brittany was suspicious and asked how we knew each other. After a long silence Guy said we’d met briefly at a function.”

“Did he say anything else?”

She waved a hand in the air as she finished a mouthful of chips. “No, thank God. But I wanted to die. I went bright red and Brittany noticed. She was quite agitated.”

“She would be. Wouldn’t want any competition,” Charlie interrupted. “You said the Consul-General was an old guy.”

“They said he was a widower and I assumed–”

“He was in his sixties,” Tessa got up to stretch her legs, “instead of thirty, tall, dark, and handsome.” She laughed delightedly. “You lucky thing. Wish I had a boss like that.”

“No, not lucky.” She shook her head and put her glass down with a crash. I’ve stuffed up with him twice already. He’ll be wondering why they employed me and he’ll get Brittany to send me back to England faster than you can say air mail.”

“Send your CV out to a few agencies,” said Charlie. “Surely you don’t want to work for him anyway.” He lifted his chin dismissively. “He was a right plonker from what I saw the other night.”

Her mouth was full of corn chips, so she shook her head and touched a napkin to her lips before speaking. “Not an option. I’m getting settled and the last thing I need is more change in my life. Anyway, probably wouldn’t earn as much if I left.”

Tessa nodded. “You’re right and hopefully it won’t come to that. Surely he’d be too professional to judge you on a couple of incidents outside the office.”

“That’s right,” conceded Charlie. “You’ve got to march in there tomorrow as if you own the place. Hold your head high and get on with it. You’ve been through worse things before.”