Transplanting Holly Oakwood

by Di Jones

  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.”

  “I guess,” she said, chewing on her lower lip.

  “But?”

  “I’m worried he’ll tell Brittany.”

  “Would she laugh at you?” asked Tessa.

  “Yes. She’s a terrible gossip and thrives on other people’s misfortunes.” She expelled air into her cheeks and stared ahead vacantly before continuing. “But none of the women in the office like her. If she tells them I’ll get the sympathy vote.”

  “I think Charlie’s right, you need a strategy,” said Tessa seriously. “Move forward and pretend none of this ever happened. Sounds like Guy’s away from the office a lot and you won’t see much of him.”

  “Yup.”

  “Go in tomorrow as if none of this happened, and for heaven’s sake, don’t tell Brittany anything. Hopefully Guy isn’t such a plonker as Charlie thinks he is, and he won’t tell either.”

  “Hopefully not.”

  “Keep your head down and your bum up.” Tessa stifled a giggle. “Figuratively I mean. Show them how good your work is. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is,” she said slowly. “What do you think, Charlie?”

  “I’m with Tessa. Make this work for you and hang in there.” He squeezed her hand. “Be cool to him, darling, and he’ll soon realise there’s more to you than m
eets the eye.”

  “Thanks, you’re both right. I need to put this behind me.” She looked thoughtful. “From tomorrow my mantra will be professional, cool, detached. Professional, cool, detached.” She minced around the living room as Charlie and Tessa cheered her on. “Stuff Guy Cutler. I’ll show him I don’t give a damn.”

  She arrived at the office bright and early the following morning, chanting her mantra.

  Professional, cool, detached.

  Professional, cool, detached.

  Charlie and Tessa were right, Guy’s opinion of her didn’t matter. As long as she did her job to the best of her ability and conducted herself professionally they’d have no reason to get rid of her. If Guy did tell Brittany the awful details of their previous meetings it would be more a reflection on him than her, but for the moment she’d work on the assumption he’d be too much of a gentleman to tell.

  If the noise coming from Brittany’s office next door was anything to go by, professional, cool and detached wasn’t the space Brittany was in. Cupboard doors banged, heavy objects were slammed onto the desk, and foul language carried through the walls. Holly winced and decided it might be an idea to avoid Brittany at all costs.

  Ten minutes later her boss appeared at her office door, and casually leaned against the doorframe. Her mouth was warped wide, like a barracuda she’d seen in a fishing book of her father’s. “Morning, Holly. Settling in?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Thanks, yes I am.”

  “I was wondering how you and Guy know each other.”

  “We don’t.”

  Brittany’s green eyes narrowed. “Guy said the two of you had met before.”

  “Yes, we met at a function recently.”

  Brittany considered this for a moment, then moved into the office and stood close enough for Holly to smell her mint-fresh toothpaste. “I usually go to all the diplomatic functions with Guy. Which one was it?”

  “It was a benefit dinner for the Culver City Chamber Orchestra.”

  “The Culver City Chamber Orchestra,” Brittany repeated slowly, shrugging her shoulders. “Why were you there? All those invitations come straight to me,” she said, tapping her collarbone to underscore the point. “I’ll have to have a word with Ann.”

  “It wasn’t a work event. I was there with my friend Charlie.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Brittany in a conciliatory tone. “Charlie’s your boyfriend?”

  “He’s a good friend who’s helping me settle in.”

  Brittany scrutinised her carefully and then changed the subject abruptly. “I have some work for you to do. Have you finished the flower report?”

  “You must be joking.”

  “Joking?” asked Brittany in a deceptively soft, low voice. “I can assure you I’m not joking. I told you the report had to be finished in two weeks. Today to be precise.”

  “It was a tight deadline. If you’d given it to me earlier it might be finished. I’m still waiting for people to phone me back.”

  “Make sure you chase them. Today.” Holly nodded, but Brittany hadn’t finished. “The clients will be here in a week and they want to see the report before they arrive.”

  Holly’s fingernails drove into the soft flesh of her hand, but all she did was nod again, scared that if she spoke her anger would bubble over.

  “I’ve got a couple of other things for you to do, because I’m busy with Consular matters. I want you to go to the LA Gift Fair.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “The second job’s more challenging.” Brittany laid a manila folder in front of her. “I need you to find a buyer for this revolutionary sleeping bag.”

  She took the brochure from Brittany in disbelief. “Revolutionary? It’s laughable. Why would anyone buy a two-legged sleeping bag?”

  Brittany glared at her. “It’s not our job to make judgement calls on our clients’ products. Our job is to research the market.” She extended a tanned arm and admired the gold bracelet which slid gracefully down to her wrist, then studied her fingernails, before tapping them on the desk in a staccato fashion. “More to the point, your job’s to see what the market thinks.”

  “Waste of time in this case,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What did you say?” asked Brittany sharply.

  “I said it’ll take a bit of time.”

  “It might do, but I want you to find a buyer for these bags.”

  “That’ll be difficult.” She shook her head emphatically. “Let’s face it, they’re a gimmick.”

  “We have to do the best we can for our clients.”

  “What’s the deadline?”

  “No rush on this one. The client hasn’t started full manufacturing yet, as they want to establish their market first,” explained Brittany.

  As Brittany left her office Holly shook her head in disgust, hoping Brittany wouldn’t turn and see the gesture. Trying to sell a two-legged sleeping bag in a market as sophisticated as the United States was a ridiculous task. She’d be laughed at by every sportsgoods buyer she spoke to, which wouldn’t be good for her reputation going forwards. She threw the brochure down, and picked up the other folder. The Gift Fair would be more her style and would get her out of the office, and more importantly, out of Guy’s way. Wouldn’t leave much time though for one final follow up with the dreaded flower importers. She sighed. It was going to a long and trying week.

  Thank God for MapQuest. She peered at the driving directions, hoping they’d save her from getting stuck in a jam in rush-hour traffic. But to her relief the traffic wasn’t as heavy as she’d expected and fifteen minutes after seeing the sign for Downtown she was parking the car and walking to the Gift Fair.

  Housed in a twelve storied building crammed with furniture, art, and knick knacks, the trade show was buzzing with activity. She worked her way up and through the first six floors of the building, and by mid-morning she was laden with shopping bags. If the United States was the land of the consumer, the LA Gift Fair was its capital, and by God she was doing it justice. She ran over her purchases in her mind to make sure she hadn’t left a bag behind in one of the shops:

  – Seven bottles of Linden Leaves bath gel

  – Seven tubes of matching body moisturiser

  – A beaded handbag

  – Three pairs of art deco earrings, one pierced, two clip-on

  – Two sets of coffee mugs

  – Personalised writing paper

  – A case for her mobile phone

  – Two diamante-studded dog collars.

  By midday she was exhausted and hungry, and hobbled to a small sandwich bar for a bite of lunch.

  “How can I help you, pretty lady?” asked the man behind the counter in a thick Italian accent, winking at her.

  “Salami, cheese and cucumber on ciabatta.” It was nice to be noticed, even if the man was so old he’d been making sandwiches before she was born. “And a cappuccino please, with plenty of sugar.”

  “Take a seat, lady,” he said, gesturing to a table outside. She shuffled over, dropped her bags around her and sat down gratefully, closing her eyes to enjoy the sunshine. From inside the sandwich bar, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuated the sound of passing traffic and blaring horns. The bitter odour of freshly pressed beans wafted into the street, masking the fumes from car exhausts. It occurred to her she could be anywhere – at her favourite coffee bar in Soho, in Auckland, or even Italy. The best things, like the smell of good coffee, are the same everywhere.

  She heard the waiter approaching and opened her eyes. That was quick, she’d only placed her order two minutes ago. The waiter wasn’t the one who’d winked at her, and she squinted into the sun, attempting to get him into sharper focus.

  “Hello, Holly,” said Guy. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “Guy, er, I mean Mr Cutler,” she said, attempting a nonchalant, upbeat tone but missing the mark.

  “Please call me Guy,” he said, smiling pleasantly, and she wondered if he was ima
gining her bum hanging out of her evening dress.

  “Did Brittany ask you to cover the Gift Fair?” He gestured to the piles of shopping strewn around the table. “Normally she wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Yes, she said she’s flat out helping you with Consular matters. I’m on my lunch break,” she said, a defensive tone creeping into her voice. “I’ve been quite busy this morning.”

  Their eyes met over her overflowing bags and Guy laughed out loud. “I can see that. Don’t worry, I’m not checking up on you,” he teased. “I was in the area having lunch with my sister-in-law.” She sighed in relief. Presumably if he’d already eaten he wouldn’t hang around. “But I could murder a coffee. Mind if I join you?” He pointed to the seat beside her and she nodded unenthusiastically.

  “Um, yes, I mean no,” she said, wondering if she could slip inside and cancel her order without him noticing.

  To her dismay the waiter arrived with her lunch and pulled out a chair for Guy, who sat down and ordered coffee. She bit into her sandwich dejectedly.

  “Enjoying LA?” he asked and she wished she didn’t have a mouth full of salami and bits of cucumber stuck between her teeth. Hastily she swallowed, choking when she tried to answer him.

  “Here you go,” he said, filling her glass with water.

  She blushed, wishing she was anywhere but here. Did he feel the same way? He must have been horrified to have come around the corner and seen her sitting there, but was too good mannered to try and make an escape. Or maybe he enjoyed seeing her discomfort, and wanted to prolong it to torture her.

  “Thanks,” she said, the lump of food lodging uncomfortably behind her sternum. He looked at her expectantly, and it occurred to her she hadn’t answered his question.