Transplanting Holly Oakwood (8 page)

“I’m having a shower,” she said to Warren as he trailed after her into the bedroom. “By myself.” She peeled off her damp top. “Make yourself a coffee if you want to wait.”

The steaming water hissed and sprayed, fogging the glass shower but Warren stayed, his eyes bulging with excitement. Slowly she dribbled gel onto her breasts, then lathered herself luxuriously, teasing her nipples and trailing her hand in the delta between her legs.

“God, I want you,” Warren muttered, his colour so high she pictured steam exploding from his ears.

“Out. Now,” she said and he turned away dejectedly, his erection straining the fabric of his trousers.

After her shower she changed into a short skirt and white tank top and moved to the living room. Warren’s composure had returned, and she brushed against him deliberately, determined to arouse him again.

He put his coffee down, reached for her wrist and pulled her down beside him, his eyes shining with lust.

“I’ve got something for you.” He took a small box from his pocket, inscribed with the initials HW, her favourite jeweller. “Only the best for my girl,” he said.

She opened the box, while he watched, a benevolent expression on his face. A diamond nestled in a bed of black velvet, glinting in the afternoon sun. It was dazzling and more importantly, large.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said, taking it from the box and holding it to the light. It was perfect, or would have been, if it had been a ring instead of a necklace. “Thank you.”

“Let me put it on you.” He drew her hair aside and fastened the necklace, tracing his fingers down her neck to the rise of her breasts.

She touched the diamond appraisingly. “It’s beautiful, Warren,” she said softly. “Too beautiful for these casual clothes.” She drew the white tank top above her head, and her firm high breasts bounced free. “Don’t you think bare skin sets if off better?”

His breath came in shortening rasps and a crimson stain moved across his neck. “God, yes,” he said, as she guided his fingers to her nipples.

“Sssh, don’t talk.” She pushed him back onto the sofa and straddled him, then pulled up her skirt slowly, teasingly, showing him a glimpse of the down between her legs.

His eyes glazed and a vein pulsed in his neck. He nodded mutely.

Satisfied she was back in control, she leant over and kissed him deeply, while her fingers moved to his zip.

He was rock hard and ready, and, shifting position, she guided him into her slowly and sensuously. “Bet you don’t get this at home, darling.”

His breathing was ragged, his face pink. “God, I’m close,” he grunted and stood up, pushing her back onto the couch. He knelt and parted her legs, sucking and licking until she moaned with desire. Then he pulled away and thrust into her roughly, his trousers bunched around his ankles.

As he slammed into her, his face purple with effort, she couldn’t help but think how ridiculous he looked. But God, she wanted to come. She slid one beautifully manicured finger into her mouth, then between her legs, and rubbed herself gently, imagining Guy’s body moving above her.

The image wasn’t enough.

Her finger moved faster, faster, frantically. As a white heat spread through her body, she considered how much the diamond was worth, and came with a shout of triumph.

TEN

Holly

With a resigned sigh Holly picked up her bag and left the office, an hour after the others had gone. She could have left earlier, but what was the point? She had nowhere to go, and no one to rush home to. She was sick of her routine of lonely Friday nights in front of the telly, but the alternative was sitting here staring at her office walls.

The apartment was unnaturally quiet and she flicked on the TV for company, finding the echoing voice of the newsreader strangely comforting. Back in London she would’ve been surrounded by noise: Sonia’s incessant chatter, Tom’s rundown of the upcoming footy matches, and the continual ringing of the phone. She’d always imagined peace and quiet would be a welcome respite, but now she had it, the silence felt sticky and oppressive.

She wrapped herself in a duvet from the bed and curled up on the couch with a pile of magazines and her microwave supper. It was the weekend, she was in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and she had nothing better to do than sit at home by herself. Life sucked. She ate her meal dispiritedly, then lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, drifting with her thoughts.

The phone rang, and she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Who’d phone her on a Friday night? Someone from home? A quick calculation confirmed it would be past midnight in London, a strange time for anyone to call, unless it was bad news. Suddenly alert, she dived off the couch and picked up the receiver, but although the line crackled, no one spoke.

The silence lengthened, and her pulse sounded loud in her ears. “Is anyone there?” she shouted down the phone, a habit she hated in other people. She shivered despite the fact the room was warm.

“It’s me,” echoed a reedy voice down the line. “Don’t hang up.”

Her heart pounded so hard her body shook and her breath caught in her throat. “Tom. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“It’s been practically impossible to track you down. You left without saying goodbye.” His tone was accusatory.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had a couple,” he admitted.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” She paused for maximum effect. “You were a right bastard to me, and I should hang up on you straight away.”

“I miss you, Holly.” He paused again, as if he wanted her to help him, but she remained silent. “I know I was a bastard, and I can’t explain why I did it. Why did you leave London? Didn’t you want to work things out?” he asked, his words slurring in a lisp.

“What do you think? I needed to get away, and this opportunity came up.” She shrugged. “I certainly didn’t want to see you or Sonia ever again. Anyway,” she said reproachfully, “you’d clearly decided you didn’t want to be with me.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. Can’t we work this out?” he pleaded. “I love you.”

Was he telling the truth? People always told the truth when they were drunk didn’t they? Tom usually opened up after two or three, and she sure as hell wanted to believe him.

“How on the earth could we work it out, even if I wanted to? I’m here and you’re in London. You should’ve said something before I left.”

“I was scared to. I wanted to give you space.”

“Space? I was bloody miserable, and you didn’t bother to pick up the phone and see how I was.”

“Then I heard you’d gone.”

“I’ve been here for two months now. You’ve taken your time.”

“No one would tell me where you were.”

“It’s called loyalty, but you wouldn’t know what that means. So how’d you track me down?”

“I ran into Ewen and he told me. He didn’t know we’d broken up.”

“He had enough on his mind without hearing all my dramas,” she said. “Is he still at White’s?”

“No, they fired him.”

She winced. Poor Ewen. “And Sonia?” she asked, spitting out the words. “What’s happening with you and Sonia?”

“I’m not with her,” he mumbled. “She’s not important. Never was.”

An hour later, her head swimming, she hung up and paced the apartment, sleep the furthest thing from her mind.

Finally she lay back down on the couch and flicked through the channels with the remote, but nothing held her interest. She got up again, switched off the lights and lay down on the bed, where she tossed for what seemed like hours.

Giving up on sleep, she threw the sheets off and got up again, poured herself a glass of wine and sat back on the sofa, revisiting the conversation with Tom.

Thank God she wasn’t in London. If she had been she would’ve rung him back and asked him to talk. Or worse.

Should she pack her bags and head back to England? Or try to forget he’d called and get on with her life here? She examined both scenarios from every angle and before long her head was spinning. As she climbed back into bed she acknowledged it was safer to be a long distance from Tom. But that didn’t change her feelings, and as she drifted into a fitful sleep she imagined his strong arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace.

She woke with a sore head and gritty eyes, wishing she could sleep the whole day away. Had Tom’s phone call been a dream? The empty wineglass on the coffee table told a different story, and after toast and tea she headed out the door, resolved on a brisk walk to clear her head. She needed to think things through carefully and come to the right decision.

Throngs lined Ocean Front Walk, and the beach was a hive of activity, even though it was late winter. The sky was cloudless and the sun beamed down. The white sands of the beach stretched three miles ahead down the Santa Monica coast, but the scenery did little to lift her mood. Emptiness welled up inside her and drove her down towards Venice Beach.

The boardwalk was lined with shops and a dress caught her eye in one of the storefronts. She walked in and flicked through the racks, eventually pulling out a bright pink halter neck dress.

“Would you like to try it on?” The assistant was a teenage matchstick with long tanned legs and immaculate make up, who’d look good in anything.

In the changing room, she shut the door firmly behind her and wriggled into the dress. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she viewed the tall cerise sausage looking back at her. Oh God, was that how others saw her? The view wasn’t much better side on: a tall cerise sausage bursting out of its skin. She hitched the dress up, and tried to smooth her crinkled knickers over her hips.

“How’s it going?” asked the matchstick encouragingly over the top of the door.

“I’m nearly finished,” she said stiffly, pulling the clingy fabric back down over her baggy knickers. She hated assistants who were tall enough to look over doors and compromise her privacy.

The girl suppressed what sounded like a strangled giggle. “Oh, doesn’t it look lovely?” she said in a bright tone.

“Um, I think it’s too tight. Perhaps you can get me the next size up?”

“That’s the biggest size we do.” The girl paused, then added unconvincingly, “But that’s how people wear them. Tight.” She avoided making eye contact. “Maybe a different style?”

Holly looked back into the mirror at the half stone of flabby white flesh she needed to shed, wrapped in tight pink jersey. “No. Thanks.”

Back on the boardwalk she stomped along, unhappier than she’d been when she started out this morning. The crowds thickened as she neared Venice, the atmosphere loud and congenial. Musicians, comics, magicians, and religious zealots grandstanded for the attention of passersby, and the smell of hamburgers and fried onions wafted in the breeze. It wasn’t unlike Camden Market on a Sunday morning, except for the beautiful weather, beach and palm trees.

She wriggled through a knot of people who were watching a group of Roman-God-like bodybuilders, oiled and pumped to perfection, flexing and preening for the crowd. A tall, tanned living statue with flowing dreadlocks moved in front of her, curling a lethal looking barbell like it was a toothbrush. He winked, twisted, then bowed, his taut cheeks bursting out of his fluorescent g-string.

“Ooh, look at him, isn’t he gorgeous?” A woman beside her drew in her breath in admiration.

“He’s a poofter. Probably dresses in drag at night,” scoffed the woman’s burly companion, sucking in his belly.

“Hey, watch what you’re doing,” someone shouted as a group of youths rushed towards Holly. In the next instant she stumbled to the pavement. A sharp pain shot up her arm.

“Let me help you up,” said the burly man, squatting beside her. “Young thugs.” He gestured, but they’d run off. “Are you hurt?”

She got up slowly, and felt her elbow. “I landed in a funny position, but I’m fine. Thanks for your help.”

She watched him and his partner walk away, wishing she’d asked them to have coffee with her. Too late, but she could murder one herself, and a bite to eat.

A small unpretentious lunch bar was ahead and she walked in and stood in the queue.

“Seven dollars, please,” said the girl behind the till.

“My wallet’s gone,” she said, frantically patting her pockets. “I was knocked over outside. Must have dropped it.”

The girl gave her a sympathetic look. “Pickpockets. They’re all over the place and they’re good. Got to be careful out there.” She nodded towards the beach.

“I’ll have to put this back,” she said, picking up the sandwich from her tray.

“Let me,” said a familiar voice. The hairdresser from Santa Monica extended a ten dollar bill to the cashier.

She searched her memory for his name. “Charlie? Thanks.”

“Glad I can be of help. Mind if I join you?”

“You’re not working in the salon today?”

“Day off. I love Venice, always something happening here, as you’ve discovered. Are you staying locally?”

“Yes, down the beach at the Shangri-La. I can’t remember where you said you lived.”

“Not far from the salon. Got the bus over here.” A wide grin split his face in two. “As you know, I don’t drive, but I’m not a car thief either. If you let me buy you lunch, I’ll tell you about that.”