More Than This

by Stephanie Taylor

  “Is this part of the game where I have to say yes?” she grumbles.

  “It’s all part of the game.”

  Grudgingly, Holly climbs out of bed and walks over to the window to peer through the curtains. It’s raining.

  “What happened to the sun?” she yawns.

  “First of all we’re in London, not Florida, so the sun isn’t a given. Secondly, it’s only May—not even summer yet.”

  “Oh.” Holly lets the curtain fall. “What should we do after coffee?”

  “It’s Monday morning and I think we should call your new modeling agency.”

  “Get out of town, O’Leary,” Holly says, shuffling into the bathroom. “No way. I know I agreed to this whole saying yes business, but I don’t want to waste these people’s time just for a lark.”

  “Who’s wasting anyone’s time? She approached you, Christie Brinkley!”

  Holly turns on the shower in the bathroom and leans in to examine her sleep-lined face in the mirror. “I notice that all the supermodels you’re comparing me to are over fifty,” she says flatly. “You could at least call me Gisele or something.”

  “I’ll call you whatever you want me to,” River says, poking his head through the bathroom door, “as long as you get your sweet ass in gear so that we can get your career in front of the camera off the ground.”

  Holly puts one hand on his shoulder and pushes him out playfully, shutting the door behind him.

  They’re out the door in under an hour, but Holly refuses to put on extra makeup or to dress in anything she wouldn’t normally wear. While she’d showered, River had taken the opportunity to use the phone in the apartment and call the agency. The chipper girl on the other end of the line had asked them to drop by at three for a cattle call, but promised to make note of the fact that Holly had been approached by one of the agents.

  “I still think this is dumb—I’m sorry,” Holly says. They’re wandering through Notting Hill in the drizzle of the morning. The air is crisp and refreshing in spite of the car exhaust and the other big city smells that tickle Holly’s nostrils.

  “It’s dumb to come to Europe and do what everyone else does,” River counters. “We can see Big Ben and the Tower Bridge and all that, but why not do some unexpected things while we’re here?” He puts a hand on the small of Holly’s back and guides her over a step and into a pub. River ducks through the short doorway of the old building, and they scan the room for an empty table.

  “Got room for two over here, loves!” calls a harried waitress as she breezes past. Holly and River grab the table she’s pointed at. They’re just getting settled when the waitress is back with two menus. “Coffee? Tea? Full English?”

  “Coffee is a yes—for both of us,” River says, making comical wide eyes in Holly’s direction as if he’s warning the waitress of an eminent meltdown if they don’t get coffee soon. “And what’s a full English?”

  “A full English breakfast, dearies. It’s sausage, bacon, beans, tomatoes, an egg, and toast. Oh, and black pudding,” she adds, nodding her head as she ticks off each item on the list.

  “What’s in the black pudding?” Holly asks, handing back her menu.

  The waitress sighs. “Oatmeal, onions, pork fat, blood—”

  “Nope,” Holly says, turning to River. “This is not part of the ‘yes’ game. I’ll never be able to eat oatmeal again if I taste it mixed with blood and fat.” She looks back up at the waitress. “The full English breakfast for me, please, hold the black pudding.”

  “I’ll take the whole kit and caboodle,” River says, passing his own menu to the waitress.

  “Got it. Back with the coffee in a titch.”

  “I can’t decide whether you think you’re British or whether you’re ready to retire to Christmas Key and start hanging out with everyone there,” Holly teases, reaching for the mug of coffee that the waitress sets in front of her. “Thank you,” she says gratefully to the woman.

  “Why?” River laughs, taking a sip of his steaming black coffee.

  “Eating disgusting food like black pudding and saying stuff like ‘kit and caboodle’—you’re just funny.”

  River shrugs, holding his mug with both hands, elbows on the table. “I’m just being myself. But if I entertain you, milady, then so much the better.”

  “You do,” Holly assures him. “So what are we going to do all morning to work off the pound of meat we’re about to consume?”

  River sets his coffee down and pulls a map from the pocket of his lightweight nylon jacket. “Well, let’s have a look-see here, dearie,” he says in a terrible British accent. “Shall we get a photo of you in a red phone booth and then take a tour of Buckingham Palace?”

  “That sounds fun,” Holly says, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee mug. The caffeine is finally hitting her, and she’s starting to feel more human, jet lag be damned.

  They eat as much of their full English breakfast as they can—Holly gags at the black pudding as River takes a tentative first bite, then finishes it off, declaring it “not half bad”—and afterwards they hit the wet pavement again to explore the city.

  The previous day’s drama of being mugged and spending time in the local police station hasn’t dampened the overall excitement of the trip at all. Her stolen credit cards have been cancelled, and even though not having her cash or cards puts Holly at River’s mercy, he’s promised her that he doesn’t mind paying for everything while they wait for her new Visa card to arrive via FedEx.

  They pass the morning looking for the famous red phone booths, and they watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace along with a throng of other people. Holly picks up a few Christmas ornaments shaped like crowns in the gift shop, and they brave the Tube to get around the city, hopping off at Westminster to see Big Ben and appreciate the view of the London Eye behind them.

  Holly and River get to the modeling agency just before three o’clock. It’s still raining, and Holly ducks under a doorway and pulls her Yankees cap off of her head.

  “Fix me,” she laughs, pointing at her damp hair.

  River looks her up and down. “Ehhh,” he says, assessing the damage. “Well, you could pull that hair up into a bun and put on some lipstick or something, but the wet tennis shoes and wrinkled cargo pants aren’t exactly going to scream ‘MODEL’ when you walk into the room.”

  Holly isn’t even sure that she wants to scream MODEL when she walks into the agency, but as two tall, lithe girls with smooth skin and tight black clothes slither past them, her shoulders fall. One of the girls punches a button on the buzzer and the door clicks open for them to enter.

  “Okay,” Holly says, “this is ridiculous. Did you see those twenty-year-olds? I’m old enough to be their mother. Let’s get out of here.”

  “You are not old enough to be their mother,” River scoffs. “You’re not even thirty-one yet.”

  “I look eighty-one today,” Holly argues with a frown as she catches a glimpse of herself in the window of the building. “And also a little like a drowned rat.”

  “Let’s go,” River says, grabbing her hand forcefully. He yanks her into motion before she can even ask where they’re going.

  “River,” Holly protests as he leads them down the sidewalk. “I’ll go in—seriously. If you want to keep doing this ‘yes’ game, then I’ll go in, even looking like this.” It seems like he’s angry at her for pouting about her wet hair, and Holly feels bad about ruining his fun.

  They reach the end of the block and turn right, where a tall building looms in front of them. In huge vertical letters on the corner of the building is the word HARRODS.

  “We’re going in,” River says. They cross the street with the other pedestrians and walk under the little green awnings that line the sidewalk.

  Inside, River takes Holly’s hand and leads her up to the first store employee they find. “We need women’s clothes, men’s clothes, and make-up,” he says, face serious. “We’re on a mission.”

  �
��For MI6, I presume,” the older man in the business suit says drolly with a twitch of his groomed mustache.

  “Yes, naturally.” River plays along. “We’re agents on a highly classified mission who need to look like, oh, let’s say we need to look good enough to pass as models.”

  The man’s eyebrows shoot up as he takes in their rain-battered clothing. “Menswear and Beauty are on the Ground Floor,” he says, “and Womenswear is on the First Floor.”

  “Thank you!” Holly is the one to pull River along this time as they head for the crowd that’s funneling onto an escalator.

  “Let’s go to Beauty and Womenswear first,” River says, stepping onto the moving staircase.

  “Because it’s going to take more work to make me presentable?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.” River leans over to plant a kiss on Holly’s cheek. “Hey,” he says quietly in Holly’s ear, “have I mentioned yet how glad I am that we’re here?”

  A warm feeling spreads through Holly’s core. “Me, too,” she says, squeezing his hand.

  The door to the agency swings open at three-forty-five, and a chic couple struts into the all-white lobby. Everyone waiting looks up from their phone screens for a moment to gauge the competition. River is dressed in fitted jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket, his hair combed to one side. Holly’s black skirt hits her mid-thigh, and her new black boots end just below the knee, revealing a patch of tanned leg. She’s wearing a body-skimming black turtleneck that’s tucked into her skirt, and the woman in the Beauty department had slicked her light brown hair into a tight bun and quickly powdered, highlighted, and enhanced her face with a palette of make-up that’s left Holly looking put-together but not overdone.

  “River O’Leary and Holly Baxter to see Louella James,” River says, leaning over the counter to speak quietly to the receptionist as he holds a shopping bag full of their old clothes.

  There’s nowhere to sit, so they huddle in the corner near a potted plant, Holly holding onto River’s arm nervously. “This is crazy,” she whispers between gritted teeth.

  “No, this is fun,” River says, tipping his head toward hers. “At least until I get my credit card bill next month.”

  “I’ll pay you back—I promise,” Holly says out loud, forgetting that they’re in a silent lobby as she remembers the numbers on the cash register at Harrods. She has no idea where she’ll ever wear this outfit on Christmas Key, but the whole thing makes her feel like a glamorous city-dweller, and she loves the square toes and chunky heels of the boots.

  “I’m not worried about that,” River says. “But we’ll definitely be wearing these outfits for every fancy meal we go out to on this trip.”

  “River and Holly?” the receptionist calls out. They step forward. “Louella will see you now.” The other would-be models in the lobby look at them with mild interest and a hint of distaste, obviously wondering how these latecomers are getting called into the office before them. “This way, please.”

  Behind a door is a long, white hallway that’s lined with blown-up, framed magazine covers. The receptionist leads the way to an office with an open door and holds out her hand wordlessly to indicate that they should enter.

  “Holly!” The woman behind the desk stands and walks toward them with her arms open like they’re old friends. “You came!” The office has high ceilings and tall windows. The walls are brick, and a clear, Lucite desk and chair face the door. Louella pulls Holly into a light embrace and touches her cheek against Holly’s. “And this must be your gorgeous boyfriend,” she says, reaching out a hand and taking River’s. “Stunning—both of you. Come in,” she says, closing the door behind them and pointing to the two zebra-print covered chairs positioned in front of her desk. Louella walks back around and sits in her own chair.

  There are poster-sized black-and-white images blown up and framed on Louella’s walls. One is of a very recognizable supermodel in a dark bikini top, her cleavage and shoulders covered with grains of sand as she looks into the camera with heavily-lidded eyes. Holly can’t help but wonder whether she’s one of Louella’s clients.

  “You look like a grown-up version of the girl I met at Heathrow,” Louella says, wrapping her bright pink cashmere shawl around her shoulders and holding it there. Her shawl and matching fingernails are the only pop of color in the whole office. Everything else—including Holly and River—is black and white. “And your man is simply dashing. I love the James Bond look,” she says, waving a hand up and down at their new clothes.

  “Thank you.” Holly crosses her ankles under the desk demurely. Something about being in a modeling agency makes her feel like she should be standing up straighter, or walking around with a book on top of her head.

  “I’m so glad you called, because I have something in mind for the both of you. Will you hear me out?”

  “Absolutely,” River says. “I think Holly was born to be a model.”

  Holly elbows him in the side without looking away from Louella.

  “There’s a client who wants a successful-looking couple in their thirties to do a shoot at a gorgeous residence in the Cotswolds. Have either of you been?” Louella arches her eyebrows expectantly.

  “To the Cotswolds?” Holly asks. “No, never.”

  “It’s lovely,” Louella assures them. “Just lovely. Anyhow, my client is a luxury magazine based in Dubai. They want to do an editorial spread that showcases a posh country couple at home. It wasn’t what I had in mind when I met you, Holly—in fact, I was thinking of something beachy and carefree and this is quite the opposite—but now that you’re both here and this opportunity’s come up…I’d like to submit you for it.” She looks back and forth between River and Holly. “What do you say?”

  “When is the shoot?” River asks.

  Louella taps on the keyboard of her open laptop. “Wednesday. And the pay is ten thousand pounds for the couple,” she says, reading the details from her email. “I’d need to take some quick pictures to send over to the client, but I think they’re going to love you both. What do you say?”

  There’s a moment of silence as Holly and River look at one another.

  “Well,” Holly says, pretending to consider such a ridiculous sum of money. Her mind spins at the utter ridiculousness of her posing as a paid model. “I guess we have to say yes.”

  10

  Coco shows up at the Jingle Bell Bistro with Gator and the Killjoys for dinner on the second evening of their visit and demands a seat on the patio.

  “We’d like to see the water,” she says to Iris Cafferkey.

  “No one else has asked to eat outside tonight,” Iris says, “but I can get a table set up if you give me five minutes.”

  Jimmy, Iris’s husband and the bistro’s resident chef, comes out of the kitchen with his apron and cap on. “Coco,” he says in a loud voice, his Irish accent on full display. “What brings you to the island?”

  “Hi, Jimmy,” she says, taking a step back so that she won’t be forced into an awkward embrace. “This is Netta and Brice Killjoy, and this is Gator.” Jimmy thrusts out a hand to welcome each of the guests. “And this is Jimmy Cafferkey. He and his wife own the bistro and have lived on the island for—what? About twenty years now?” Coco asks politely.

  Iris breezes past them with an armful of linens. “Twenty years in August,” she says. “Emily was just a wee lass when we moved here.” As if on cue, Emily herself emerges from the kitchen with a pitcher of water in her hands. Iris and Jimmy had moved from Dublin to Christmas Key with their daughter, determined to give their youngest child the richest life they could, and to raise a little girl with Down Syndrome in a tropical paradise. So far, they’ve been successful beyond their wildest dreams.

  “Hi, Coco,” Emily says. “Holly’s in Europe with her boyfriend.”

  “Oh?” Coco’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  “It isn’t Jake,” Emily says, shaking her head and smiling. It’s not a terribly well-kept sec
ret that Emily has a huge crush on the island’s only police officer, though she’d been ridiculously happy for Holly when she and Jake were an item.

  “As I mentioned,” Coco says to her guests, turning to Gator and the Killjoys, “my daughter does a passable job of keeping things running around here, but clearly her priorities aren’t always with the island.”

  “Now, wait just a second there,” Jimmy says, putting both hands on his aproned waist. “The mayor loves this island more than she loves anything.” His voice is defensive, his stance somewhat hostile. “She deserves a vacation every now and then just like anyone—”

  “Your table is ready,” Iris says, sweeping in and breaking up the potential showdown between her husband and Coco. “Follow me, please.”

  The group heads out to the patio that looks onto the beach, and as the door swings shut behind them, Jimmy grumbles to himself about Coco and her high-minded ways.

  “Dad,” Emily says, putting a hand on her father’s back. “Be nice. She’s Holly’s mom.” Emily is—perhaps above all else—loyal to her oldest friend in every way. “Maybe we don’t like her, but we like Holly.”

  Jimmy puffs out an impatient breath, considering the wisdom of his daughter’s words. “Indeed we do, lass.” He watches as Coco and her guests get settled at the white linen covered table outside. “Indeed we do.”

  “But if you want to spit in her food,” Emily whispers, leaning in closer, “then I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  Jimmy pulls his daughter in for a tight hug and plants a kiss on top of her blonde head as he roars with laughter. “Maybe I’ll just put a dash of baking soda in everything I make for her—how’s that?”

  “That’s a better idea,” Emily agrees, nodding as her dad lets go of her. “I’m going to go and pour water now.”

  “You do that,” Jimmy says, watching his daughter with pride. Everything is how they’d always dreamed it would be, and their little island is the perfect paradise. Jimmy narrows his eyes as he watches Coco gesturing with her hands and talking on the patio. There’s no way they can let this woman sweep in and change it all—he won’t let her.