by Di Jones
“Staying in LA?” He looked confused, but hope sang in his voice. “She’s not going back to London?”
“Her boyfriend’s proposed to her,” she said, going in for the kill. “She’s getting married and staying here in LA.”
If she hadn’t been watching for it, she would’ve missed the change in his expression – the imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the slight intake of breath, the way his eyes dulled. Her suspicions were confirmed, but by God it hurt. Guy wanted Holly.
FORTY
Guy
Guy read the page several times, then sighed and put it down. After a moment he picked it up but the words were still a meaningless jumble. He crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the desk, then stood up and stretched.
Below him the streets of Brentwood were laid out like the squares on a patchwork quilt. Its avenues were lush and verdant from the recent rain, the trees shielding the suburb from the noise of busy Wilshire Boulevard. He enjoyed the vista of Brentwood from this high vantage point, but today the panorama was wasted on him. Despite the fact it was Friday afternoon he took no pleasure in the prospect of the weekend, which stretched ahead as empty as the coffee cup on his desk. He’d drunk three bitingly strong cups already this afternoon, leaving him agitated.
A rap on the door signalled Ann’s arrival. “Guy, good to see you back.”
“Come in for a chat.” He motioned to the sofa. “I’m having trouble concentrating this afternoon.” He picked up the crinkled paper, smoothed it out, and waved it at her.
“Jetlagged? Age is catching up with you,” she joked.
“No, not jetlagged.”
“Late nights while you were away?”
“Not that either.” He sank back down in his chair and picked up a blank piece of paper from the desk.
“What is it then?”
He scrunched up the paper and took aim, sending it straight into the wastepaper basket on the other side of the office. “This thing with Holly’s been on my mind.” He picked up a pen and tapped the desk to underscore the point.
“I know what you mean. Still isn’t sitting comfortably with me either. I feel as if I’ve betrayed her, and I’m finding it hard to look her in the eye.”
He nodded in agreement. “You know I’ve always trusted your judgement.”
“Could we both be wrong?” Ann asked.
“I wonder. My gut’s telling me she’s in the right.”
She shook her head and bit her lip. “But the police…that’s the big sticking point.”
“I know, but it takes courage to maintain you’re innocent when the police aren’t backing you.” He crumpled another sheet of paper and took aim.
“Brittany’s unrepentant. She won’t budge on this.”
He nodded. “I had lunch with her and she made that clear. She also told me Holly’s engaged.” Was his tone neutral, or could Ann tell he was disconcerted?
“Engaged? What do you mean engaged?” she asked.
“As in engaged to be married.”
Ann’s brow furrowed. “Is she going back to her ex boyfriend in London?”
“No, she’s marrying someone here.” He folded a piece of paper, and this time it glided towards the wastepaper basket.
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend here. She came to LA because her partner in London was cheating on her. He came over recently and begged her to go back, but she said no.”
“She must have met someone else.”
Ann shook her head. “As far as I know, she hasn’t been dating anyone else.”
“I saw her at a function a few months back. She was with a man and they appeared close. Must be him.”
“This is all news to me. We’ve chatted loads of times and she’s never mentioned anyone.”
“That’s odd, but good luck to her,” he said briskly. He slammed the last paper plane into the trash can. Thank God he hadn’t confided his feelings to Ann, or he would’ve looked like a fool. It was for the best Holly was leaving, he knew it was. She’d gotten under his skin and was impairing his judgement. He needed to pull himself together, rise above this, and forget all about her.
He woke the next morning barely able to drag himself out of bed. The room was quiet but its peacefulness jarred him, and reluctantly he pushed the covers aside. Gone were the days when he’d lie in bed; gone were the days when lying in bed was a companionable way to spend the weekend; and gone were the days when weekends were enjoyable. He’d never be able to forget Sarah, never wanted to forget her, but these past weeks he’d been able to imagine a future with Holly, and what surprised him was how good that felt.
He pushed past his lethargy and got out of bed; lying in brooding was a waste of time. Donning shorts and a grey sweatshirt, he stretched before putting on his trainers, then let himself out into the clear still morning. The air was crisp, and he inhaled deep diaphragm breaths as he jogged through streets lined with coral trees and date palms. The Pacific breeze caressed his skin, and as he hit his stride the mental cobwebs dissipated.
How could he have possibly imagined he’d have a future with Holly? It was a ridiculous notion, and it was lucky Brittany told him she was getting married. If nothing else, it saved him the indignity of making a huge fool of himself.
He slowed his pace on Montana, his customary detour for a coffee. A strong one would go down well this morning, strong enough to stand a spoon up in. Then he’d pick up The Times and head back home for a leisurely breakfast.
Despite the early hour it was a brisk morning on Montana. Crowds were already lining the sidewalk, the cafés were full, shoppers were searching for treasures, and professional strollers were out to see and be seen.
“Hi there. Wouldn’t you love one of these babies?” A woman in tatty cut-off shorts and a red bandana was holding the leash of an equally tatty looking large black dog of dubious parentage.
“Who, me?” he asked.
“Yes you, mister,” the woman said, thrusting an Animal Rescue pamphlet at him. “He’d make you a great running buddy.”
He tried to hand it back. “Thanks, but I can barely look after myself, never mind a dog.” He knelt down to pat the animal, who nibbled his hand.
“He likes you,” the woman said encouragingly. “They can always tell dog lovers.”
“Haven’t had a dog for years and no one at home to look after one.” The woman shook her head in disgust, and moved to heckle someone else. “Good luck,” he said to the dog, pulling its ears playfully.
He ordered coffee from his favourite café, his mind still on the dog. It was tempting to take it home. He’d grown up with dogs, and he and Sarah had planned on getting one, but then she’d become ill. God, what was he thinking? First he fell in love with a ridiculous woman who was completely wrong for him, and now he wanted to take a scruffy looking dog home. Whatever was wrong with him, coffee wasn’t strong enough to fix it.
He strolled towards home sipping the espresso. At his corner two women were laughing and chatting, while their dogs strained on their leads. Everyone seemed to have dogs these days but it wasn’t surprising, and in different circumstances he’d love to have a dog to come home to. Someone excited to see him when he walked through the door. But it wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog home by itself all day, and he certainly couldn’t take it to work.
Dogs. Work. Had someone recently mentioned taking a dog to work? He racked his brain, but couldn’t for the life of him remember who it was. Had the conversation been about working dogs? He frowned, tried to think, but it was in the furthest recesses of his mind. He took another sip of his coffee, stared at the dogs, then a snatch of conversation came back to him.
Yes, that was it. Brittany had been talking about Holly the other day. What was it she’d said? “Who’d weave such a complex story, complete with carloads of cops and tracker dogs? She’s got a case of the Hollywoods.”
Yes, it was Brittany, and she had said tracker dogs.
He narrowed his eyes in concentration. He’d never heard tracker dogs menti
oned before. Was it Brittany embellishing Holly’s story, or was it a material fact which could help to identify the police who’d attended the accident?
He moved to the dogs and leaned over to pat one. “Lovely boy, you helped me remember,” he said to the animal. “Good, good boy, love you,” he burbled and laughed out loud. The women holding the dogs exchanged alarmed glances and edged away as he tried to pat the other one.
He gulped the rest of his coffee and sprinted back to the Residence, fuelled by excitement.
Twenty minutes later, the sweat cooling on his body, he put the phone down, looking thoughtful. Ann had never heard mention of the tracker dogs before. But she confirmed what he suspected, that Brittany had insisted on dealing with Holly herself, and was the only one who’d heard the whole story firsthand.
His fingers drummed the polished wood of the desk. What was the best way to handle this? Wait until Monday to speak to Brittany? No. Time was of the essence. He picked up the phone and dialled Brittany’s number.
“Brittany speaking,” she answered.
“Guy here. You sound puffed. Been out running?”
“Guy, what a lovely surprise. I, er, no, ran for the phone.”
“Sorry to bother you on the weekend. I was wondering if you’re free for lunch?”
“I’d love to.” Her voice lifted with pleasure then she said softly, “I have a girlfriend here at the moment, but she’ll be leaving soon.”
“Come over to the Residence when you’re free. We’ll eat here.”
“Great. I’ll be there around twelve. See you later.”
He hung up, sure that by the end of the afternoon, he’d know whether he could do anything to help Holly.
FORTY-ONE
Brittany
“Sorry, lover, I’ve got to go, something’s come up at the office.” Brittany lay back on the bed, extended her leg and examined her toned thighs, slim ankles and perfect pedicure.
“It’s Saturday, for heaven’s sake,” Warren whined.
“There’s a crisis in the Consulate, and I’m needed.”
“I need you here,” he said, grabbing the down between her legs. “You know how hard it is for me to get away these days. She thinks I’m golfing this morning.”
“I know, darling.” She opened her legs and he straddled her immediately. She lay back, closed her eyes, and arched to meet him, willing him to come quickly. Her thoughts were already focused on Guy, who, she hoped, had come to his senses and wanted to put things right between them. As she imagined the possibilities of a long afternoon together, with no one to disturb them, her breathing quickened, and she came with a shudder.
Minutes later Warren groaned in ecstasy, then rolled over. She crept out of bed and watched him as he slumbered. A film of sweat covered his florid features, his eyes twitched, and soft snores filled the otherwise quiet bedroom. In the shower she scrubbed herself to rid her body of all traces of the man she’d just made love with, then changed into a light dress, which struck the right balance between conservative and sexy.
Thirty minutes later she arrived at the Residence and the housekeeper led her into the garden, where a table was set for lunch. Guy was reading the paper and stood to greet her, looking boyish in his casual weekend clothes.
“Thanks for coming at short notice, Brittany. Can I get you a drink?”
“A glass of white wine would be nice,” she said and leaned in to kiss him. “Nice to be home?”
“Sure is. I’m not travelling again for two months, which means I can concentrate on Consular affairs. On that note, I wanted to ask you something about Holly’s accident.”
The housekeeper arrived with lunch, a welcome intrusion because she didn’t want to talk about Holly. She nodded as the woman put cold chicken on her plate. Hopefully Guy would forget the thread of the conversation, and they could move on to more interesting subjects.
“I’m glad we’ll have you back at the Consulate for awhile. We all miss you when you’re away.” She reached over and touched his hand, but he drew it away. Coincidental or deliberate?
“What were you saying at lunch the other day, about Holly having a case of the Hollywoods?” he asked, spreading a thick coating of butter on his bread.
She tilted her head to the side, deciding the best way to tell the story. When she’d recounted it at lunch the other day he’d had a total sense of humour failure, but maybe today he’d see the funny side. She took a sip of her wine and started.
“It was a real scream the way she laid it on. Fancied herself as Thelma or Louise in the middle of a big production. Carloads of cops,” she said, “all of them good looking of course. Apparently they looked like the cops in that 70s programme that used to be quite popular.”
“CHiPS,” he said encouragingly. Fancy him knowing that – he and Holly were the only two people she’d ever heard mention it. “Go on,” he said, sounding impatient now.
She frowned and closed her eyes, trying to recall the details. “The dogs, the tracker dogs. What do you call them? German Shepherds, I think.”
His eyes lit up, and he slapped the table with such force everything on it rattled. “I didn’t imagine it.”
“Imagine what?”
“You said tracker dogs. You said tracker dogs at lunch the other day too.”
“Yes I know, pretty elaborate huh? That’s what I mean when I say she has a case of the Hollywoods.” He was sitting on the edge of his seat, hanging on her every word. He’d changed his tune from the other day, but why should she care?
“Brittany, did Holly actually say tracker dogs, or have you embellished the story to make it funnier?”
She closed her mouth with a snap and crossed her arms across her front. Shit, she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the tracker dogs. How to back pedal out of this?
“I assume she did say it,” said Guy, “given you haven’t answered me.” His hazel eyes bored into hers and her stomach clenched and released. “Did you tell Ann or the police about the tracker dogs?”
Her chest juddered with fear and a wave of nausea overwhelmed her. The game was nearly over, and within a minute or two Guy would know the truth. She clutched the edge of the table in dismay.
“Mr Cutler, your sister-in-law’s here,” said the housekeeper from the doorway.
“Thanks,” said Guy, rising from the table. “We’ll talk about this later, Brittany. Would you mind if my-sister-in-law joined us for lunch?”
“Not at all,” she said as Guy left the table. Her heart slowed and relief seeped into her bloodstream. This interruption would give her breathing space to shore up her story. She refilled her glass, and took a long swallow of the wine. Why had she mentioned the tracker dogs at lunch the other day? She’d never mentioned them before, not to Guy or Ann, not to the police. She squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to think of a way to dig herself out of this hole.
Muted laughter came from the hallway, then the muffled tread of footsteps. She swallowed another large mouthful of the white, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and pushed her chair back to greet Guy’s sister-in-law.
“Brittany, I’d like you to meet Olivia,” said Guy.
Brittany pasted a bright smile of her face and extended her hand, but as her eyes locked on Olivia’s, her smile died, her blood froze in her veins and the sound of white noise filled her ears.
Guy’s sister-in-law gaped at her, but said nothing.
“Have you ladies met?” asked Guy.
Olivia’s pallor transformed from parchment white to a deep crimson. Lined hands fluttered, then reached for Guy. “This is her. Holly.”
“No, Olivia, this is Brittany. Holly was at the party too. In the garden with me,” he said, trying not to flush.
Brittany’s insides churned like a seething sea of gruel, and sweat broke out on her face and hands. She had to get out of here, and fast. In the next breath Olivia would explain how they knew each other and Guy would know she was screwing his brother-in-law. Why hadn’t Warren, the b
astard, ever told her Guy was related to him? Warren’s reluctance to come into the office, which had always suited her, now came into sharp focus and made perfect sense.
Like a caged animal, her desire to escape was peaking and she pushed against the table. The silence was broken by the sound of its iron legs screeching across the flagstones. “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to go,” she said, avoiding further eye contact.
She walked across the room, with her head held high, but when she reached the hallway all pretence of dignity left her and she picked up pace and ran to the front door. As it closed behind her a wail came from the direction of the terrace, and she knew Guy was hearing the details of her affair with Warren.
FORTY-TWO
Holly
Holly sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the stacks of manila files surrounding her. Why was she labouring to track down a piece of paper which probably didn’t exist? She slammed a file onto the floor and a dust cloud rose around her, making her sneeze. She put the file back in disgust, then stood up and lifted one final cardboard storage box from the shelves. If the report she was looking for wasn’t in this box she’d call it a day and tell Brittany to find the sodding thing herself. She sank back down to the floor and lifted the lid of the box.
The door opened with a creak. At the sight of Guy heat crept across her shoulders, stained her neck and threatened to move up to her face. Why did he always manage to find her unprepared? It’d been weeks since she’d seen him, but while she needed to talk to him, she wanted to have her shoes on, wanted to have make-up on, and wanted to talk to him on her terms.
“Hi, Holly,” he said. Then he cleared his throat.
She waited for him to continue but he didn’t, so she stood up, brushed her dress down and tried to stuff her feet into her shoes. An excruciating muscle spasm gripped her leg and she doubled over and grabbed her calf, kneading it with her fingers. “Cramp,” she yelped, trying to flex her leg, but instead she slipped on an open folder beneath her.
