by Di Jones
Holly reached for the bottle of red and refilled the glass while she tried to think of something profound to say. Nothing came to mind, so she sipped the red, while the women wittered on around her.
The gym. Manicures and pedicures. Facials, fake tans, plastic surgery. Plastic surgery. Plastic surgery. After what seemed like years of vacuous conversation, she wanted to scream in frustration.
Didn’t these women have more important things to discuss? Why were they intent on improving themselves at any cost? They were ordinary, nothing more, although in the candlelight they were collectively radiant, with glowing treated skin, shiny, lustrous hair, and white, even, homogenous teeth. All were dressed magnificently, their gowns and bags embellished with sequins and bugle beads. Gold and diamonds sparkled at their throats and ears. It wasn’t too hard to imagine she was at the Oscars, surrounded by the beautiful people.
But they weren’t beautiful; they were plain under the polished veneers. No different from the run of the mill Londoners on the council estate not far from where she’d lived, none of whom would’ve dreamed of having plastic surgery. You’d never give these women a second glance in the street. Why didn’t they grow up and accept themselves the way they were?
Why on earth would ordinary people spend a fortune, and go through such excruciating pain and discomfort, to continue looking so ordinary?
A hush descended on the table. Ten pairs of eyes bored into her, ten pairs of eyes heavy with shock and disbelief. One lady’s complexion suggested she was on the verge of having a heart attack. Her mouth hung open, then snapped shut with a loud click of her teeth, only to fall open again. She raised an arthritic finger and shook it violently, her mouth now working furiously.
Oh God. She hadn’t spoken out loud, had she?
Her gaze slid to Charlie and his look confirmed her worst fears. She clutched the corner of the table with one hand, her wineglass with the other and pulled herself up, pushing her chair over with a loud crash. As she tried to leave the table Charlie grabbed her arm.
“Let go of me,” she said, trying to shake free of his grasp.
He pulled her close. “Refreshing sentiments, love,” he whispered, his voice bubbling with amusement. “You’ve got guts. Many have wanted to say those words but never dared, at least not in public.”
She dashed from the table, seeking refuge in the Ladies. She locked herself in a cubicle, sat down on the loo seat and chugged down large mouthfuls of wine, mortified at her gaffe.
How had it happened and what should she do? She couldn’t stay here, that’s for sure. She wanted to go home, needed to go home and no one would miss her at the table. They’d be pleased to see the back of her. Decision made, she drained the rest of her glass, opened the stall door and peered out. She rinsed her hands and fixed her hair in the mirror before squaring her shoulders, picking up her now empty wine glass and marching out, head held high.
SIXTEEN
Guy
Guy was closing the front door when the phone rang, but dashed back to pick it up before it went to his message service. He was hellishly late, but it might be important.
“Sorry, Guy, I’ve decided to stay home tonight.” Olivia sounded strained, and he moved back to the living room and sat down on the couch.
“What’s wrong?” His tone was tender and sympathetic.
“Feeling under the weather.”
“You sure that’s all?” As the silence lengthened his chest tightened. “Olivia. Is everything alright at home?”
Her muffled sobbing confirmed it wasn’t, and slowly and haltingly she confided in him. He held the phone tightly to his ear as she spoke, and the veins in his forearm stood out in contrast to the repose of his body. Leaning back into the overstuffed sofa, he raked his other hand through his hair. It wouldn’t help Olivia if he lost his temper and berated Warren. Berate him? He’d like to go round there right now and thump him. But Olivia was a grown woman and what she needed was his sympathy and support, not the condemnation he could feel festering inside him.
“Of course,” he said mildly, biting back the rage building inside him. “Whatever you decide, you have my support.” He balled his fist and slammed it into the sofa. “Yes, whatever you need. Goes without saying.” His voice was steady but his pulse was racing, and he shook his head again and took a deep breath before continuing. “I have to respect your wishes. But take my advice and think long and hard because you have other options.”
He listened carefully, then punched the sofa again. “Listen to me, Olivia. You do have other options. You’re like a sister to me, and I only want the best for you.”
He got up from his seat, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear. “Why don’t I come round? I don’t need to go to this function tonight.” He paced back and forth between the sofa and the window. “Okay, if you insist. I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we’ll organise lunch and talk properly.” He sat down again, absent-mindedly twisting his wedding ring as he considered his sister-in-law’s position.
As he battled the dense Friday night traffic, he wished he’d used his driver. But the benefit in Culver City wasn’t official business and he was always careful to differentiate between the two.
He arrived at the function late, and sat between two older ladies, both diamond encrusted. One was partnered, the other unescorted, and the latter fluttered her eyelashes at him archly.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said to the group. “Guy Cutler.”
“Hello, Guy,” said the unescorted woman. “Is your wife joining you?”
He winced. “My wife died three years ago.”
“My dear boy, I’m sorry,” she said, eyes wide and without guile. “But given you’re alone, I can monopolise you all evening.” She flashed lipstick smeared teeth at him, and despite her lack of tact he warmed to her immediately.
“You weren’t to know,” he said. “I’m still getting used to it myself. My wife was a big supporter of the orchestra and I still like to attend the benefit.”
“I understand,” she said, patting his hand. Her skin was dry and papery, but he found her touch strangely comforting. “My husband, bless him, died ten years ago and I still take an interest in his charities. I don’t work and these benefits are a lifeline to me.”
“My work’s been my salvation.”
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m in marketing of a sort. Travel overseas with the job.” He motioned to her wine glass, and when she nodded he filled it.
“You must be an eligible bachelor.” She laughed coyly. “And here you are talking to an old woman when I imagine you have the young ladies swarming around you. They’re forward these days, aren’t they?”
“I haven’t paid much attention. You know what it’s like when you lose the love of your life,” he said, grappling for the right words. “It’s lonely, but you know no one can ever take their place, and you realise there’s no point in trying.”
“I know. I’ll never love again although I have my admirers.”
He laughed, delighted at her lack of modesty. “I bet you’ve been beating them off with sticks. Good women don’t grow on trees.” It was true and he knew he’d lost the best. He’d never replace Sarah, never try to, even though a part of him longed for the possibility of love.
“You look thoughtful,” said his companion. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”
“Not at all, you reminded me how lucky I was to have had Sarah.”
It was a relief to be so open, and throughout dinner they chatted like old friends. Once dessert was served the speeches began, and he turned in his seat to listen.
“Can you keep the noise down,” said a woman across from him, directing a poisonous look at the next table.
A man of his own age, in a perfectly cut dinner suit, was laughing with another guest. Guy frowned, wishing they’d be quiet, and as if on cue their laughter died, to be replaced by expressions of shock and amazement. He followed their gazes across the table to a pretty, da
rk haired woman clutching a wine glass.
Where had he seen her before? She was tantalisingly familiar. The rest of the room disappeared, the speaker’s voice muted, and all that remained in the cavernous room was the two of them. He stared at her intently, taking in every detail of her face and her stance. She leaned against the table, unsteady on her feet, and with a shock of recognition adrenaline surged through his body, and everything in the room snapped back into focus. He needed to talk to her, to apologise for his cold behaviour the last time they’d met.
She tried to leave the table but the man grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. His hand rested comfortably on her shoulder and as he whispered in her ear, their easy familiarity suggested they were partners.
Relief and disappointment flooded through him in equal measures, and he slumped back into his seat at the same moment the woman pulled away and stumbled from the table. Regret played on his features, but he didn’t rise to follow her. She was obviously drunk again, and he disliked drunkenness in a woman.
He turned his attention back to the speeches, trying to concentrate, but more than anything he wanted to leave the table to go and find that blasted woman. His fingers thrummed the crisp linen tablecloth and his feet jiggled beneath the table, but by some measure of control he remained where he was.
When the speeches finally ended he rose from the table. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said to his elderly dinner companion. “I hope to see you again next year.”
“Thank you, dear boy, and to you, too. You know, it’s different for me,” she began tentatively. “I’m in my seventies and it wouldn’t be practical for me to fall in love again.” Her eyes bored into his and he had the uncanny sense she could see into his soul. “But you’re young and you have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t turn your back on happiness because you lost your wonderful wife. She’d want you to be happy again.”
“She would. But how do you know when you’re ready to move on?”
“You’ll know when the time’s right, because you’ll try to fight it. When the fight becomes too difficult, let go and surrender. Happiness will catch you as you think you’re falling into a pit.”
“That sounds like good advice.”
“It is, dear boy, and I’m guessing it’s timely.” She nodded to the empty chair at the next table.
“I’ll remember what you said,” he said, raising her wrinkled hand to his lips before making his exit.
SEVENTEEN
Holly
Holly left the Ladies clutching the stem of her wine glass so hard it was a miracle it didn’t break in her hand. How could she have spoken aloud without realising it? She’d offended ten people with only one sentence.
She had three options: go back and apologise, skulk off home, or stay and hope Charlie came looking for her. Staying put and sobering up was the best idea, so she slunk over to the bar, ordered a Coke, then looked for a place to sit. The only couch and chairs were occupied, so she loitered close by, feigning interest in the framed photos of musicians lining the walls until a couple rose to leave. She moved to the couch hurriedly, knocking into someone approaching from the other direction.
Her gaze connected with what had been an immaculately pressed white shirt under an impeccably cut dinner jacket. Rivulets of Coke were streaming down the shirt and spreading into the waistband of smartly pressed black trousers. Her eyes slid to the carpet, then closed in mortification. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she stammered, without looking back up.
“Hello. We meet again. Small world, isn’t it?”
She looked up in surprise, and the colour drained from her face as hazel eyes met hers and she remembered where they’d met before.
“Shit. It’s you,” she said to the man from the plane, and she prayed the floor would swallow her. “Can I help you with your shirt?” Her eyes scanned the room frantically, hoping to spot something to mop his shirt with, or better still, somewhere to hide.
“Don’t bother,” he said, attempting to brush the drops of Coke off his shirt and instead smearing them across his chest. “I think it’s beyond help. Fortunately I was leaving.” He smiled for the first time and his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s only a shirt. Don’t worry.”
God, he was dishy when he smiled. “Thank you. Once again, I’m sorry,” she said, furtively checking out his left hand to see if he wore a wedding ring.
As she moved away, he touched her arm. “I don’t know your name.”
She smoothed her hair back, and looked at him flirtatiously from under her lashes. Might be married, but that didn’t stop a girl from practising her charms, did it? “I’m Holly,” she said encouragingly.
“Your dress,” he said hesitantly.
She moved closer, her confidence rising. Charlie said she looked hot in this dress, and this gorgeous man agreed. “Thank you, it’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“Er, yes, it certainly is lovely.” He stepped sideways, then coughed. “The back of it…”
The back of it? She twisted her neck and looked over her shoulder, then ran her hand over the fine soft merino which clung to her hips. As her fingers met a mountain of tangled fabric the horrible truth hit her. Her dress was tucked into her knickers.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, waves of embarrassment engulfing her. For an instant she couldn’t prise her feet off the floor, and her and the man stared at each other; her in shame, and him in pity. She extracted her dress with as much decorum as she could muster, then rushed back to the Ladies, leaving him standing in the foyer in his ruined dinner suit.
Back in the safety of the stall she contemplated the evening’s collateral damage:
1. She’d insulted ten people at dinner
2. She’d spilt a drink over the man she’d sat on during the plane journey
3. She’d totally ruined his shirt
4. She’d been told her beautiful dress was unceremoniously tucked up into her knickers
Not her best knickers either, but her Magic-hold-your-tummy-in-bike-short knickers, the knickers no self-respecting girl would ever admit to wearing.
After what seemed like hours she poked her head out of the door tentatively, then came out and examined herself in the mirror. She looked exactly the same, though she imagined the humiliation would have altered her appearance. She traced an imaginary D across her forehead with her index finger. D for dimwit. She drew her index finger over her forehead again, this time tracing the letter F on her smooth unlined skin. F for fuckwit. Either way, she’d stuffed up big time. She used to be self-assured and adept in any social situation, but it was as if she’d lost her savvy when she’d broken up with Tom and regressed to the gauche, awkward and disaster-prone young girl from Auckland.
Charlie was pacing outside the Ladies when she came out, worry clouding his usually relaxed features.
“Who was that guy you were talking to? Did he say something to upset you?” He fired questions at her, without pausing to let her answer.
“It’s a long story. Let’s go outside. I need a cigarette.”
“A cigarette? Didn’t think you smoked.”
“Gave up ages ago, but I need one badly. Come on, I’ll tell you the whole story.”
To Charlie’s credit he didn’t laugh out loud, but as she told him the story the corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily. “Oh, Holly, everything’s hard for you at the moment, isn’t it?” he asked, pulling her towards him.
She leaned into him in response, drinking in the mingling notes of spice and musk in his aftershave. Her head was spinning from the cigarette and the wine, and bile was burning the back of her throat. His tenderness was a soothing balm, and she cried large, hot tears into his collar. She pulled away, and wiped her hand across her eyes, trying to stem the flow.
“Oh, dear love, you’re making it worse,” he said, dabbing his white linen handkerchief over her swollen eyes. It came away streaked with black mascara. “Better get you home.”
“I’m an idiot, inept and unsophisticated. A fai
lure, a lush, and a total loser.” Her voice rose in despair. “What must he think of me?”
“Who cares? You’ll never see him again anyway. It’s bizarre you’ve run into him twice but the chance of it happening again is twenty million to one.”
“You’re right. Hopefully I’ll never see any of the people at the table again either. They must think I’m horrible.”
“They felt sorry for you,” Charlie said tactfully. He paused and she knew he was crafting a lie. “I told them your cat had died and your doctor had put you on strong medication, which reacted badly with the wine.”
She giggled through her tears.
“The man you spilt the drink on, what’s his name?” Charlie asked.
“Don’t know.”
“He looked like a total tosser in that penguin suit.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, then tamped it out forcefully. “This city’s full of smooth types like him, and it’s best to steer clear of all of them. You probably did yourself a favour.” He pulled her towards him and she leaned in again, grateful to have such a loyal friend.
“You think?”
“Yes I do, and like I said, you’ll never see him again, so you can put tonight behind you.” He got up, and reached for her hand. “Let’s go home. Believe me, you’ll laugh about this tomorrow.”
Holly woke abruptly, with a sense of foreboding she couldn’t shake. Squeezing her eyes together she tried to fall back asleep, but the attempt was useless and she lay in bed tense and tired. After checking the alarm clock six times in an hour, she got up, fighting an overwhelming urge to climb back into bed. She had a big day ahead, and she’d better get moving.
First she had to see if she could get some results for her flower grower client. She’d tried a few more calls, but not one person had returned her message, despite her upbeat tone and convincing pitch. She’d decided maybe Charlie’s suggestion wasn’t such a bad idea after all, so today she had a list of four flower importers she was going to see, as well as directions to find them. She wouldn’t let a lack of a pre-arranged appointment stop her chances of success.