by Di Jones
“Good. I don’t want the next person to inherit a mess.” Brittany clicked her pen furiously. “We’re in enough of one already with this lawsuit you’ve got us into.”
“That wasn’t my fault. That man, Mr Cornelius, is clearly a con or something.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? You can fool everyone else around here, Holly, but don’t try it on with me.”
“I’m not trying to fool anyone,” she said, bristling with indignation. “I’m telling the truth. Why don’t you believe me? Why would I lie?”
“More to the point, why would the police lie?” Brittany clicked the pen in a staccato fashion. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“No, of course not,” she said, heat burning her cheeks. Her fingers twitched as Brittany continued her pen-clicking symphony. She’d love to rip the pen right out of her manicured talons, snap it in two and shove the sharp end right up–
“How do you explain the police not confirming your story then?”
“I can’t. None of it makes sense to me. But I wasn’t lying about the accident, and I’m not lying now.”
“I haven’t got time for all this.” Click, click, click. “We’ve been through it before. Let’s have a look at your reports.”
Click, click, click went the pen as she showed Brittany the documents she’d finished. Black spots pulsed in front of her eyes and lava bubbled in her core, but she bit her lip to stop her from telling Brittany to put the bloody thing down. There was a long silence and Brittany looked at her expectantly. Damn. Had she asked her a question?
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked how you came to this conclusion.” Brittany tapped the summary page of the report with one shiny red nail.
“What do you mean?”
“New Zealand has a strong relationship with the States, and there’s no trading barrier to these products.” She picked up the pen again, clicking it for emphasis. “So what’s the problem for this exporter? This doesn’t make any sense.”
She held out her hand for the page Brittany was waving at her, and tried to concentrate on the printed words. Click, click, click. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, after reading it twice. “I didn’t proofread it properly. I copied the summary from an earlier report, and I didn’t change one of the paragraphs.”
Brittany spun the pen like a majorette twirling a baton. “This isn’t acceptable, and you know it. Imagine if I hadn’t caught this and it had gone out to the client.” She tapped the pen on the desk forcefully. “I’m relieved you’re going.” She dropped the pen with a clatter, picked it up again, and clicked it furiously. “We can do without this sort of shoddiness.”
The black dots in front of her eyes became frayed red ink spots and her temples pounded. “Shut up,” she said, clenching her fists.
Brittany’s jaw dropped and the clicking stopped momentarily. “How dare you speak to me like that?” The pen started up again in a faltering rhythm.
Each click jabbed into the part of her brain that controlled hatred and anger. “I’m sick of this, I’m sick of you and I don’t care that you’ve fired me from this stinking job.” As Holly spoke, her words eroded the walls of her thinly-veiled composure. “You can stick your job, and your bloody pen, right up your bum. LA is a big city. I won’t have any trouble finding a new job.”
Brittany’s mouth formed an O and she paled as white as her expensively-bleached-perfectly-even teeth. “You should care,” she said, stretching her mouth back into a cruel smile. Click. She snapped the pen unhurriedly, as if to taunt her. “You clearly didn’t read your contract carefully.”
Click. Click. “You have an A2 visa,” Brittany continued, “issued for you to work at the Consulate.”
Click. Click. Click. “Your visa will be cancelled when you leave this office and you know what that means?”
Holly shook her head dismally.
Brittany snapped the pen viciously. “You won’t be able to work anywhere in the US. You’ll have to return to England.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Charlie
Charlie lifted the lid of the saucepan and sniffed the coq au vin appreciatively. He stirred it absently, then checked his watch for the third time. The girls would be here shortly but after a fortnight at a hairdressing expo, with long days on his feet and longer nights partying, he was exhausted, and couldn’t wait for a drink. He uncorked a bottle of red and poured himself a generous measure.
What he really needed was a quiet night, but the moment he’d pulled his bag from the taxi Tessa appeared with the alarming news Holly was on the verge of a breakdown. She wouldn’t be drawn further, saying Holly wanted to tell him everything herself. As tired as he was, he felt flattered to be the strong shoulder, and more importantly, whatever Holly’s problem was, he’d rearrange the stars, sun and moon to fix it.
At seven a light rap on the door signalled the girls’ arrival, and he opened it to find Tessa propping up a pale and drawn Holly, eyes red from crying.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, ushering them into the apartment.
Holly slumped against him, her fragile composure cracking.
“Let’s get you both a drink,” he said, “and you can tell me what’s going on.”
“Here you go,” said Tessa. “This could be a long session.” She passed three bottles over while Holly tried valiantly to compose herself.
“Someone please tell me what’s going on,” said Charlie, putting the unopened bottles in the fridge. He poured two glasses to the brim, and handed them to the girls. “It’s clearly something pretty bad.”
Holly drained her glass before answering. “God, Charlie, I had an accident…he’s suing the Consulate…wasn’t my fault…can’t find the police…no one believes me…he wasn’t hurt…”
He leaned forward in his seat, frowning. “Slow down, love, you’re talking nonsense.”
“Sorry,” she sobbed. “I had an accident and…” She broke down completely, and he looked to Tessa for help.
“Holly was in a car accident while you were away.” Tessa recounted the story quickly. “Then Holly was told Mr Cornelius was suing the Consulate for a million dollars.”
“Bastard, I’d like to put him in a wheelchair myself,” said Charlie. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, wishing it was Mr Cornelius’ hand.
“Wouldn’t we all,” said Tessa, “and then we’d kill him.”
“Anyway,” said Holly, “it gets worse, much worse.”
“It couldn’t get any worse,” said Charlie, “a million bucks is a shitload of money.”
“Ann, the office manager, has been on my side the whole time, and darling that she is, she’s been trying to track down the police.”
“That’s good,” he said soothingly.
“No it’s not. The police have come back to Ann, and they say they’ve checked and no one attended the accident.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I know.” Holly stopped momentarily, and sniffed loudly. “I can’t explain it, but the worst thing is, they all think I’m lying.”
“Lying? Of course they wouldn’t think that. They know you wouldn’t lie.” He reached for a cigarette, and picked at the end of it.
“Charlie, you don’t understand, they do think I’m lying. I think Ann believes me, but she can’t do anything.”
He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “What do you mean she can’t do anything?”
“Brittany called me into her office and said they have to let me go.”
“Let you go?” His mouth was dry and his chest hurt. He looked from Holly to Tessa, then back again. “They can’t fire you, I mean, you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s what I said to Brittany, but she said my contract says if I do anything to bring the Consulate into disrepute that’s grounds for letting me go.”
His pulse was pounding so forcefully he feared an artery would burst. “But you didn’t do anything, it was an ac
cident.”
“Brittany says the main issues are me lying and the lawsuit. She says it’ll tarnish the Consulate’s reputation.”
“Reputation bollocks.” He slammed his palm with his fist. “Who the hell does this woman think she is?” He picked up the cigarette from the ashtray, took a long hard drag, then exhaled noisily.
“The Trade Commissioner, and her role is hiring and firing. I have to leave in two weeks’ time.”
“Two weeks.” He moved over to sit beside her and took her small cold hand. “Don’t worry, it’s not the end of the world.” She squeezed his fingers and a soft fuzzy sensation moved through his chest, dousing his anger.
“Not the end of the world? How can you say that?”
“It’s only a job. Isn’t it, Tessa?” Tessa was shaking her head, but he ignored her. “There’s loads of jobs in LA, you’ll get a better one. Stuff the Consulate.”
Holly’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Fine for you to say, you’ve got a green card.” A drop slid from her eye and tracked down her smooth cheek. “Brittany told me today I have an A2 visa, which means I can only work for the Consulate.”
He stiffened, the cigarette midway between mouth and ashtray. Had he understood her correctly? The girls’ expressions told him he had, and he shook his head slowly, unwilling to accept it. A line of ash fell to his trousers, and he tried to flick it off, instead smearing it into the light fabric.
“If I leave my job in the Consulate,” said Holly with a sob, “I’ll have to return to England permanently.”
He took a long drag at the burning butt, tamped it out in the ashtray, then examined his fingernails, because he couldn’t think of anything helpful to say.
After the girls left he pottered in the kitchen, clearing up the empty bottles and remnants of the meal. He stacked dirty dishes with clean ones, put rubbish in the kitchen cupboards, and threw out food that should have been refrigerated. Eventually he gave up, uncorked a virgin bottle of red, lit a ciggie, and moved to the balcony.
It was a clear night, with a dense web of stars woven across the sky, but its beauty was lost on him. He dragged on his ciggie, and tapped his foot impatiently, his thoughts racing. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. What would life be like once Holly had left him and Tessa? Get real sunshine, he said to himself, it was time to be completely honest. He wasn’t the slightest concerned about Holly leaving Tessa. This was all about him. This girl he hadn’t even kissed had burrowed her way into his affections, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.
In the cooling air his skin grew clammy, his pulse beat erratically and the food he’d eaten sat like a festering lump in his abdomen. He paced back and forth, back and forth over the smooth terracotta tiles, feeling confined in the small space. He wasn’t sure what to do but one thing was certain. He wouldn’t sit by idly and wait for the woman he loved to be sent back to England in disgrace.
Feeling light-headed from the wine, he staggered back into the apartment where he stripped off, dropping his clothes in a heap at the end of the bed.
He lay in the cool sheets with thoughts of Holly’s predicament spiralling in his brain, until groggy from shock, tiredness, and too much Cabernet, he fell into an uneasy sleep.
In his dream the air was icy and his fingers were parchment white, his nails blue. He clapped his palms together to warm them and the sound reverberated in the stillness. As the sound died he heard a soft moan, but in the howling wind he couldn’t discern which direction it came from. He moved over the bracken to where the ground gave way, and heard it again, a soft, low, plaintive whimper. It was a human voice, and it compelled him to move to the edge of the cliff.
He looked down at the sea, crashing against onyx rocks silvered with ice. The whimpering grew louder, and as he peered over the precipice he saw a woman clinging to the twisted mass of a tree root. Terror was etched into her features, but at the sight of him relief flooded her face. He reached out to her, but as he did the root moved with a loud groan.
If he grasped her hand he’d be pulled to his own death. Adrenaline surged through his body and his chest pounded. Time stood still and with great clarity he could see his past and future. The wind roared and as he extended his hand to enfold her smooth one, the root slid from its anchor. Her scream filled his ears as she pulled him down, rushing faster, faster, faster towards the rocks and the sea and the spray. Before they hit the bottom she squeezed his hand, and his heart exploded in pain, love and recognition.
He woke late, muzzy from the after-effects of too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, and too little sleep. His throat was parched, his tongue tasted like bitumen, and as he tried to get out of bed the room spun.
“Shit, I’ve overslept,” he muttered, collapsing back into bed and shutting his eyes. He lay there for a moment, then sat up straight. “Holly,” he said out loud, tasting her name on his tongue. He lay back on the pillows, clutching his sore head as he considered her dilemma.
Odd that the police had no record of the accident, but no point in contacting them again. The Consulate had already gone down that route with little success.
Could he intercede with the Consular staff? Was it worth talking to Brittany? Probably not, given she’d fired Holly. What about Guy? He cast his mind back to the good looking man at the benefit, sure of himself and aloof. What would Guy do if he went to see him and pleaded Holly’s case? Tell him to sod off and mind his own business no doubt, and the last thing he wanted was that tosser in a penguin suit talking to him like that. Anyway, it would only make things worse.
But how much worse could things get? They were firing Holly, and she’d be sent back to England. Nothing could be worse than that. Maybe she could stay as a visitor if her visa was revoked? He struggled upright and picked up his cell phone.
“A couple of months back,” he said to his acquaintance, “you told me your friend had to go back to England because of visa problems. How did it pan out?”
Ten minutes later, he hung up, a thoughtful expression masking his hangover.
As an idea took root, he examined it from all sides, the way a child examines a shiny new penny; and in the same way a shiny new penny appeals to a child, this idea appealed to him. He’d spent tons of time with Holly, and enjoyed her and cared for her. He knew she felt the same about him. They shared the same sense of humour, and since she’d moved in with Tessa, the same friends. Their lives were interwoven. They were soul mates. She wanted to stay in LA, and he didn’t want to lose her. His mind made up, he lay back on the pillows, a foolish grin wreathing his face.
THIRTY-SIX
Holly
The doorbell rang at seven, and Holly opened the door to a dapper looking Charlie, dressed in a dark suit and striped button-down shirt. “Are we going somewhere special?” she asked, gesturing to her sundress. “I’m not dressed for it.”
“You look gorgeous,” he said, and a warm glow settled over her. Charlie was a sweet, dear friend, who made life brighter each time she saw him.
They strolled down Montana to her favourite bistro, a busy French café on a prominent corner. Couples queued outside, but the maitre d’ rushed over and greeted them effusively, then escorted them to a quiet table. Within minutes they had drinks in hand and were scanning the menu.
“How are you today, love?” Charlie asked in a considerate tone. “I’ve been worried about you.”
She considered for a moment before answering. “I feel as if I’m the middle of a nightmare and can’t wake up. Everyone’s looking at me sideways.”
“I’m sure they’re not,” he said.
“Everyone’s questioning my integrity, wondering if I’m lying. Back home people know me, know I’m honest, and support me. Most of them,” she added glumly.
“You have support here too,” he replied, touching her hand.
“Thanks, I know,” she said gratefully, squeezing his in return.
The waiter brought their orders, and Charlie ate for awhile in sil
ence. Holly pushed her meal around her plate, then took a bite of the fish, the lemon pepper flavour piquant on her tongue.
“Has Guy said anything to you?” Charlie asked.
She put down her cutlery and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Bastard,” Charlie said, spearing a sautéed potato with his fork.
“Maybe he doesn’t know,” she said. She appreciated Charlie’s zealous support but his anger at Guy rankled.
“He should know. He’s the bloody man in charge.”
“Yes,” she said, crossing her legs under the table and turning her head to avoid eye contact. “But he’s been away.”
“Surely he’s kept in the loop while he’s travelling?”
“I suppose Brittany wouldn’t fire me without him knowing.” She fiddled with her napkin. “Anyway I’ll be glad when he’s back,” she said defensively, “I’ve got to talk to him.”
“Wouldn’t waste your breath.” He put his fork down with a clatter.
“What do you mean?”
“He obviously didn’t stand up for you, did he?” He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth and lit it. The acrid smoke filled the air but before one of the horrified diners could object, the waiter hurried over with an ashtray and took away the smouldering stub.
She twisted her napkin in her hands. “I don’t understand it,” she said, her eyes pleading for sympathy. “He seemed to care for me.”
“Hate to say it, but that’s men for you. I should know.”
“I know. I’ve been involved with bastards before.” She flushed, and put her hand to her mouth. “Charlie, I’m sorry, I’m not talking about you.”
He ignored her apology. “You’re not involved as far as he’s concerned. Don’t waste your time.”
“I’ve come to care for him. A lot.” Tears pricked at her eyelids but she was determined not to cry in the restaurant. She picked up her glass, and took long, long gulps of her wine.
