Transplanting Holly Oakwood

by Di Jones

  “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 th
e 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.”

  He patted his shirt pocket and signalled towards the front door. “Going out for a quick ciggie.”

  “You’re supposed to be giving up.”

  “Wish I could. Damn things make me feel lousy,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Try to stick with it. The first week is always the hardest.”

  “I should, but it wouldn’t be good for business. I’d be in a bastard of a mood with the clients.”

  He slipped out the door to the sound of the girls’ laughter. Outside he pulled a Dunhill lighter from his pocket, a present from another adoring regular. He flicked the lid, spun the flint wheel and frowned into the flame, fancying himself the blond, sophisticated version of the Marlboro man. He touched the ciggie to the flame and inhaled deeply. The acrid smoke filled his chest and the ropiness in his neck and shoulders loosened. He tilted his face up and squinted into the mild February sun and exhaled slowly, blowing out perfectly formed smoke rings. Give up? Not likely. He’d been on his feet for hours and this was just the shot in the arm he needed to get through the rest of the day.

  “Shit,” said a female voice.

  A petite, middle-aged blonde stood near him, a frown etched into her pert features. Dripping with gold jewellery, she was exactly his type. He took a final drag of his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and moved towards her attentively.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Could be better,” she pouted. “I’m parked in and I can’t find the owner of the car in front, or behind me. Don’t suppose you’d be able to manoeuvre my car out, would you?” she asked in an ingratiating manner. “I have an appointment in Beverley Hills in twenty minutes.”

  “Happy to help.” He moved to her side, extending his hand for the keys.

  “Fantastic. The car’s new, and I’m not used to it yet.” A small knowing smile flickered across her mouth.

  “Beautiful body work,” he murmured.

  “You’re English, aren’t you?” she said, pressing the keys into his hand with a lingering touch.

  “Yes, I am indeed.” Her skin was soft and warm and an image of her diamond encrusted digits stroking his body flashed into his mind.

  “It’s true what they say about Englishmen. Gallant.”

  “Pleasure,” he said, rolling the word on his tongue. “I’ll have you on your way in no time at all.” With your phone number in my pocket, he added silently. He knew her type.

  He slid into the Mercedes and inhaled the scent of expensive leather and alpine air deodoriser. The vehicle probably cost as much as he made in a year, perhaps two. He hadn’t sat in a car like this before, hadn’t even driven a car for five years, but that wouldn’t stop him helping an attractive woman. He put the key into the ignition, adjusted the seat and checked the mirror, then touched the accelerator. The engine purred to life and with an air of confidence he put the car into reverse and tapped the accelerator lightly.

  A sickening thud pulled him up short and threw him into the dashboard. What the hell? He twisted around to see he’d hit the car behind. Wasn’t likely she’d give him her phone number now, just her insurance details.Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he threw the car into drive, touching the accelerator tentatively this time.

  With a crunch the Mercedes slammed into the car in front.

  The blonde’s feet were rooted to the sidewalk and her mouth gaped like a hooked fish. Two things occurred to him in quick succession. She was in a state of shock, and therefore the damage was worse than he’d imagined.

  “Get out of my car, you idiot,” she screamed and her volume rose from zero to sixty in the short space of the sentence. Her tanned skin was now a deep shade of beetroot and he marvelled, not for the first time, at how quickly anger could mask a woman’s attractiveness.

  Passersby stopped to enjoy the commotion and a small crowd formed. Hopefully the noise of blow dryers and the stereo inside the salon would mask the hullabaloo outside. Last thing he needed was one of the juniors, or heaven forbid one of his customers, seeing what was going on outside.

  He sat still for an instant, then, as adrenaline flooded his brain and body at the same time, he leapt out of the vehicle with the grace of a gymnast. He thrust the keys at the owner and half bowed. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more service. Have to dash now. I, er, have a bus to catch.”

  He took two tentative steps, then broke into a sprint. After twenty yards he reached the corner of Santa Monica Place and looked back momentarily.

  Five minutes later, his heart exploding against his chest wall and his breathing coming in ragged gasps, he jumped the fence in the alley behind the salon. Landing in a heap on the other side, he put his head against his knees to regain his equilibrium. Damn, she was gorgeous. He would have liked to take her to bed.

  He got up and finger brushed his hair, straightened his shirt and let himself into the back of the salon, picking up a towel on the way through to the front. The juniors and a gaggle of clients were standing at the window, chattering excitedly.

  “What’s going on out there?” he asked them, wiping his damp forehead with the towel.

  “Charlie, when did you get back?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  “Did you see what happened out there? Someone tried to steal a car.”

  “Steal a car?” he repeated, his pulse quickening.

  “Yes, and smashed it in the process,” added one of the clients.

  “Did you see it?” He held his breath.

  “No, we heard the noise. The owner’s screaming blue murder out there. The guy ran off.”

  “Did you see him?” he asked, his gut turning to water. “What did he look like?”

  “He’d gone by the time we looked out. But you saw him, didn’t you, Mrs F?”

  “Yes, I saw him running off,” she said. “Fast and fit he w
as.”

  He dabbed his forehead with the towel. “Back to work, girls, no time to stand around when there are customers to attend to.” He exhaled slowly, and a sour taste filled his mouth. Had Mrs F recognised him?

  “What do you think, darling?” he asked, winking at her.

  She cast him a bewitching glance. “Santa Monica’s not what it used to be, is it, Charlie?”

  EIGHT

  Holly

  Even though a month had passed, a month in which the days flew by in a jumble of new experiences, Holly was still stinging from Brittany’s barb about her weight. Maybe it was time to put her fears of high priced salons aside, and venture into Santa Monica to continue her search for a hairdresser.

  Crawling along Wilshire Boulevard in the Chevy, she spotted a prominent sign that read ‘no appointment necessary’. She edged along the pavement, then reversed into the parking space slowly, wincing as the hubcap scraped the kerb. Throwing the gear stick into drive she attempted the manoeuvre again, but this time the bump of the tyre told her the back wheel was on the pavement. She sighed, but decided against another attempt, wondering if she had change for the meter. A quick glance in her purse confirmed she didn’t, but she could ask in the salon.

  Two hairdressers, sporting bright orange and green hair respectively, sat reading magazines and chewing gum dispiritedly. When they looked up to see a customer walking in they leapt to their feet, and the silence was split by their chair legs screeching on the aged, cracked linoleum.

  “Wanna haircut?” asked Orange, her jaw working furiously on her wad of gum.

  “Not too busy at the mo,” added Green, waving a dermatitis covered hand around the salon. “We can do it straight away.”

  “Um, thanks,” she said, her mind working as furiously as the hairdresser’s jaw. First impressions count, and she didn’t want to hang around for her first impressions to be proved correct. She frowned, scrunching her nose up to meet the furrows in her forehead. “I’m looking for, er, organic sheep protein conditioner for, er, dry hair.”