Transplanting Holly Oakwood (5 page)

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, hoping 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.

“Mr Cutler’s the CG. The Consul-General.”

“Consul-General,” she said, pricking up her ears for gossip. “Is she interested in him?”

“She accompanies him on official functions.”

“They’re a couple?”

“No, but she’s trying hard. Thank God he’s not keen.”

“I’m surprised, because whatever else you say about her, she’s gorgeous.”

“Doesn’t she know it. Thank God Mr Cutler’s immune.”

“Is he gay?”

Tina giggled. “No. His wife died a couple of years ago and he’s still not over it.” She rinsed her cup in the sink. “Back to work. Don’t brood on this, Holly.”

Goaded by Brittany’s insinuation, her flagging self-esteem plummeted further. She knew she wasn’t in the best shape. On a good day she could do with losing two or three kilos, while on a bad day five was closer to the mark. Or so she imagined when she was back in London, but since she’d been here she’d revised the number upwards. Either way, she could still fit into a size twelve, as long as it was generously cut. She knew she had to lose weight but diets and exercise were long-term strategies and she didn’t have the inclination for anything longer than a week.

Maybe she’d do a Trinny and Susannah and reinvent herself. First step, a new hair cut and colour. In a country of two hundred and eighty five million people it shouldn’t be too hard to find a salon stocking her favourite hair products. Eva Longoria was a L’Oreal ambassador, and Eva lived in LA so presumably had her hair done here. It’d be simple to check out the salons close to the office, but hours later, tired and with blistered feet, she trudged back to work to pick up her car, and drove back to the Shangri-La to consider her next move.

The next morning, she sought out Tina. “Do you know of any salons stocking L’Oreal products?”

“No, but they advertise on TV. Why don’t you check with them directly?”

Seven emails and numerous phone calls later, she spoke to L’Oreal in New York. “Thank you for calling, ma’am,” said the customer services rep after she’d explained she’d been using L’Oreal since she was a teenager in Auckland. “Welcome to L’Oreal Noo Yawk. I know we have a number of L’Oreal salons in London, but I didn’t think we had any in Oakland.”

“No, Auckland.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve checked and we definitely don’t have any in Oakland.”

“Auckland,” she repeated half-heartedly. “Oh, never mind. I left there years ago anyway. Do you have any in Los Angeles?” She scribbled down the names in shorthand legible only to her, and took the list to Tina’s office.

Cruising the affluent tree-lined streets of West Hollywood at sunset, she drank in her surroundings, but they seemed unreal, as if they were part of a movie set. What would her friends at home think if they could see her now, driving a red Chevy through one of the swankiest parts of LA? Her life here seemed glamorous on the surface, but she was lonely, and as she pulled into a boulevard lined with Spanish Mission buildings fringed with clipped grass and topiary hedges, she wished she had a friend to share it with.

She parked the car and approached the upmarket salon, wondering if the woman leaving was Sharon Stone. She fumbled in her bag for her mobile to take a photo to send home, but the woman shielded her face, as if aware of her intentions.

“’Allo, welcome to Salon de la Mode.” The receptionist was stereotypically glamorous, with platinum blond hair, angel-like features, and nails long enough to use as a letter opener.

“Hello, I have an appointment for a free consultation.” She smoothed back her hair, tucking the loose strands behind her ears, and wished she’d gone to more trouble with her makeup.

“’Olly? Come this way please.” The receptionist was polite to a fault, but something subtle in her manner screamed that in her view ’Olly was scruffy.

A junior stylist welcomed her effusively, then gave her a tour of the salon – lounge, dining area, cutting, colouring, and treatment rooms. In the final room, bijoux and beautifully decorated, he gestured proudly at the walls.

“Our cover room. Impressive, non?” Every inch of the walls was covered with articles and photos. “Yes, we have appeared in all these.” He beamed, as if he was singularly responsible for the salon’s good fortunes. “Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Elle, Harpers.” He tapped the articles one by one, lingering over one of Sharon Stone, and raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Oh,” she asked, “was that her I saw leaving?”

He tapped his nose self-importantly, and appeased, led her to a senior styliste who introduced her to the propriétaire, who brought her a glass of bubbles and a silver tray of chocolates.

“Oh, these look gorgeous,” she said enthusiastically, trying not to sound more excited than she had about Sharon.

“Thank you, Madam. We import them ourselves from Switzerland. Please do try one.”

“Thank you, I love chocolates,” she said, selecting the largest on the tray.

“May I get you anything else?” he asked. “Your stylist will be with you in a minute.” She shook her head, wanting to be left alone with the chocolates.

She settled into her seat and pulled out her phone, regretting she hadn’t got that snap of Sharon. But at least she was having her hair done in this glorious salon the star frequented. Maybe she’d send a text home to let her sister know, but first she’d have another of those divine chocolates. She popped one into her mouth, but as the creamy full milk chocolate dissolved onto her tongue, reason left her and she stuffed three more into her mouth in quick succession.

A light touch settled on her shoulders and she looked up to see a stylist regarding her intently in the mirror. The girl was petite, elfin, with high cheekbones and full lips. Holly’s lips on the other hand were swollen and distended from the huge wad of chocolate in her mouth. She tried to speak but couldn’t and hastily swallowed the remains regretfully. “I need a new look.”

The stylist nodded tartly and tousled Holly’s hair. “The cut, like this.” She pulled Holly’s hair up around her jaw to show off her bone structure, which unlike the stylist’s perfect jaw line, wasn’t worth showing off. “The colour, lighter.” With a click of her tongue she pushed a colour chart under Holly’s nose and tapped a swatch bearing little resemblance to Holly’s natural colour. “I will make you beautiful.”

Holly nodded enthusiastically, wondering if Sharon had been plain before coming here. “Do you have a free appointment now?” she asked.

“Today?” The girl sounded as if she had been asked if her mother was a pig. “Non. But next week is possible.”

Holly left the salon with an appointment for the following week, but as she wound down the window and cool air filtered into the car, logic penetrated her chocolate fuelled euphoria. West Hollywood location and cover room. Hand-made Swiss chocolates and French champagne. Hmm. Sharon Stone a client. Better go back in and check.

The receptionist raised an over-plucked eyebrow when she returned. “You have forgotten something?”

“Yes. I forgot to ask the price of my appointment next week.”

The receptionist gazed at her with an expression bordering amusement, and in that instant it dawned on her that if she had to ask, she couldn’t afford an appointment in this sumptuous salon.

“Two hundred dollars for the cut–”

“That’s not too bad,” she said, trying to calculate how much two hundred dollars was in pounds.

“And two hundred for the colour, fifty for the conditioner…”

She shook her head in consternation, but the receptionist hadn’t finished.

“And of course, a tip for the stylist.” Her voice had a hard edge and her eyes glinted with contempt.

Four hundred and fifty plus tip. Five big ones. This was way out of her budget. “I’m sorry, please cancel the appointment,” she said, laughing self-consciously. “But thanks for the chocolates. They were scrumptious.”

“Zut alors,” said the receptionist haughtily, reminding Holly of weekends spent in Paris. The city itself, sophisticated, smart, and fun. The problem was the locals. Parisians are arrogant. But nowhere, she now realised, near as arrogant as the French of West Hollywood, California.

SEVEN

Charlie

Charlie paused, scissors midair, glowing with pride and satisfaction. Two years ago Solice’s had been facing closure but to the eternal relief of the cash strapped owner, Charlie had taken over the management of the salon and had transformed it into the thriving and profitable business it was today.

“Thanks, Mrs F, it’s been a lot of hard work, but clients like you make it worthwhile.”

The old girl smiled indulgently in the mirror, and he winked back at her, checking himself out in the process. At thirty three he considered he was as fit and attractive as a twenty-five year old, but with the experience and judgement of someone more seasoned. Compact and muscular with no excess weight, he wore his clothes with the confidence of a man used to getting female attention. His uniform of Gap jeans, white shirt and Nike sneakers was designed for comfort, and his shirt sleeves were folded back to show off his tan, and the expensive wristwatch a client had given him. Turning to his best side, he surreptitiously checked his profile in the mirror. His skin was lightly tanned, as he was mindful of the dangers of sunbathing, but his spiky hair was bleached a mellow gold reminiscent of the Californian sand, and his eyes were the shimmering blue of the Pacific.

“I trust you, Charlie. Feel great after I’ve been here.”

“You always look gorgeous, Mrs F.”

“Can’t wait to see my new look,” she simpered.

“You’ll be ravishing, the most beautiful woman at the party.” He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed them lightly.

“You’re such a flirt,” Mrs F twittered in her birdlike voice. She was, he knew, enjoying every moment of their exchange, and it was this as much as his cutting skills which kept the cash register ringing.

“Coffee, my love?” he asked, emphasising the word ‘love’. He beckoned to one of the juniors. “A coffee for the lovely Mrs F. But could you shampoo her first please.”