by Di Jones
He placed a cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and took a long drag. “Want a drink?”
“Yes please, it’ll help me wind down and sleep. A glass of white if you’ve got a bottle open.”
“Sure you’re alright, love?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She paused. “Freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional.”
Charlie laughed. “Did you enjoy the party?”
“It was nice. You and Tessa have a great bunch of friends. Apart from you-know-who.”
“Takes a while to get to know people in this town, but we’ve been here awhile now.”
“Do you ever miss home?” she asked him.
He nodded. “The older I get the more I miss Old Blighty. Strange, as I haven’t lived there for years, but somehow I don’t feel part of LA.”
“You seem happy and settled. Wonder if I’ll ever feel the same way.”
“I think you’ll end up loving this city.”
“I don’t know. I feel as if I’ve made a big mistake. Maybe I should’ve stayed in London. Or gone back to Auckland. At least I have family there.”
“No, you did the right thing.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Your ex would have had you running round in circles.”
“You’re probably right.” She hesitated. “But to be honest I still miss him terribly.”
“Of course you do. But you have a new job, new friends, and a new apartment. You’ve come a long way in a short space of time.”
“You’re good for me, Charlie.” Impulsively she leaned towards him and he wrapped his arms around her. Their lips were only a breath apart.
“Hi. We met before,” said a voice behind her.
She froze, then swivelled around. Candace stood in the bedroom doorway, dressed only in Charlie’s bathrobe.
TWENTY-ONE
Charlie
With a mischievous smile, lustrous red hair and legs like a Moulin Rouge dancer, she was exactly Charlie’s type. Moving to the bar, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill.
“A whisky and water, and a bottle of your best champagne.”
From the way she kept glancing in his direction he knew he didn’t need to buy her a drink, but it never hurt to act like a gentleman. Men in LA were short on manners, but money and connections were in plentiful supply. The majority of women wanted a man with both, and Charlie had perfected his approach around that principle.
If a quick bonk was all he wanted he only needed to phone Candace, who’d been practically begging for it with her persistent calls and texts. But it was less complicated to cruise the Strip looking for someone new; someone who’d take his mind off what, and who, he really wanted.
“I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said, deepening his voice theatrically. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”
“Thanks,” she simpered, trailing her hand through her hair and twining the ends around her fingers.
“I’m Charles. For you and your friends,” he said, depositing the champagne on the table.
“Wow, thanks. Why don’t you join us?”
“I’d be delighted to join you. I’m new to Los Angeles.”
“Are you on holiday or have you moved to LA?” asked the redhead. “You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Yes, British. I come to Los Angeles now and again to work for a friend of mine.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in the sports field. I’m a coach and physiotherapist, and I come over to treat a client.”
“How fascinating,” she said, batting her heavily mascaraed lashes at him. “Your client must be pretty rich to bring you all the way over here.”
He glanced around, then lowered his voice, forcing her to move closer to hear him. “He’s a soccer player. We grew up together, played in the same team as kids. He’s become extremely successful.” He paused for maximum effect. “Likes to have people around him he trusts.”
Her eyes widened and he could see the seed he’d planted taking root. Soccer wasn’t a big game in the United States, but celebrity was, and he knew one name would be top of her mind.
“You don’t work for David Beckham do you?”
“Ssshh,” he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. “I don’t like trading on his celebrity.”
“Of course not,” she whispered back. “You know Victoria Beckham too?” Her voice increased in pitch and she squirmed with excitement. “I’d give anything to meet them.”
He refilled her glass. “Yes, Posh is like a sister to me. Keeps telling me I need to find an American girl and settle down here in Los Angeles.”
She giggled and nestled against him. “Are you staying with the Beckhams?”
“I’m in a hotel this time. I’m only here for a couple of days and I like my privacy.”
“What an exciting lifestyle. Do you come over regularly?” A shrewd look settled in her eyes and he knew he’d all but scored.
“Once a month. Of course Posh and Becks visit England and Milan regularly and we catch up there too.”
“I must give you my phone number,” she said, rummaging in her bag. “This can be a lonely city and you should look me up next time you come over.”
“I will, but in the meantime, I’m hoping to get to know you better now. Would you like to dance?”
On the dance floor she moved against him sensuously, her hips gyrating promisingly and her breasts jiggling against her tight top. Christ, she was gorgeous with her softly bronzed skin, full mouth and fiery hair. His erection throbbed, and he pulled her closer to him, testing the waters. She pressed back, moving suggestively.
“Why don’t we go back to your place?”
“Is your hotel close to the Beckham’s? Shall we go there?”
“No, I’m staying in Santa Monica but I’m sick of my hotel room. Let’s go back to yours.”
They left the dance floor and she huddled with her girlfriends, excitedly explaining his credentials while he stood waiting, confident his story was entirely plausible. Any night you could be in a club standing next to a star, or strike up a conversation with someone who knew one. One of the attractions of this city was feeling close to celebrity and he used this psychology to his advantage, making women feel their lives were more exciting and less routine. What was wrong with that? It was a win-win situation, wasn’t it?
She came back with her purse, basking in the collective envy of her girlfriends. “Come on, Charles, let’s grab a taxi, my apartment’s nearby.”
Outside the club an unusually large crowd was congregating and Charlie was roughly shouldered by a burly man rushing past.
“What’s happening, mate?” he asked the doorman.
“See the paps over there,” the man replied, gesturing to pack of photographers. “They’ve been tipped the Beckhams are coming.”
The redhead flushed pink with excitement. “The Beckhams?” she shrieked. “Let’s wait and have a drink with them.” She bounced up and down. “Pretty please.”
“Won’t be them, love,” he said smoothly, maintaining a neutral expression as he steered her towards a waiting taxi. “They flew out to New York today.”
“Oh,” she said deflated. “Let’s go then.”
The doorman looked at him strangely and opened his mouth. Shit, the guy was going to blow his cover. Before he could, Charlie winked at him, pulled out his wallet and slipped the doorman a tenner. The guy grabbed it, closed his mouth and smirked as the redhead slid into the back of the cab, exposing toned thighs and a tiny triangle of white g-string.
As he jumped in beside her a limousine pulled up to the curb and out of the corner of his eye he saw the paparazzi racing towards it. Christ, better get a move on in case it was the Beckhams. He slammed the door as a volley of flashes exploded into the night and moved over to the redhead, kissing her hungrily. As the car sped off the crowd raised its collective voice, screaming adulation for the couple he most wanted to avoid.
A short ride to Melrose took them to
her apartment and once inside they moved straight to the bedroom. He took her quickly, with little attempt at foreplay, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. High on her connection with a close association of the Beckhams, she laid herself out enthusiastically for his invasion. After several minutes of cursory thrusting he hesitated on the point of ejaculation, but only momentarily. Normally a tempered and considerate lover who pleasured his partner, he was beyond caring, and with a final deep thrust, he came with a grunt.
“Was that good, baby?” she cooed minutes later. Her voice was as intrusive as her hand, which was tracing its way down his torso to his limp dick.
If he drifted off to sleep now he’d wake in her bed the next morning and be obliged to repeat the performance. A shag was better than a wank when you woke up; but on balance a solitary hand job was preferable to a post-coital chat over orange juice and toast with an attractive airhead. Mind made up, he raised himself on one arm, and kissed her on the tip of her upturned nose.
“I’ve got to go now, love, but I’ll give you a call as soon as I get back to London. Can’t wait to catch up next time I’m in town.”
He jumped out of bed and pulled on his crumpled clothes, let himself out of her apartment, and walked down the street without a backward glance.
Charlie checked his watch for the tenth time, then rubbed his hand across his parched skin. His eyes were gritty, and his whole body blanketed in lethargy. Despite the morning remedy of a bracing shower followed by several black coffees, he didn’t know how he’d get through the afternoon. The late night, the booze, and the uninspiring coupling with the redhead had depleted him, and the heat of the blow dryers and the thump of the music in the salon was enough to make his head ache.
He was emotionally as well as physically exhausted. How much longer could he battle his feelings? For the first time in years he was falling in love and his attempts to deny it were wearing him down. The last time he’d fallen this hard he’d been hurt beyond belief and he’d promised himself he’d never go through it again.
At eighteen he’d fallen for a girl from a middle-class family, who was taste and breeding personified. Within months they’d married but soon after, his wife acknowledged she preferred the company of her middle-class friends who kept her entertained while he worked late shifts at the salon. She enjoyed her freedom and independence while taking advantage of the security marriage offered. She always said marriage suited her, and this proved to be true. Four months after divorcing Charlie she married the middle-class ‘friend’ with whom she’d been having an affair.
He didn’t think about her often these days, but the pattern he’d established after she left, of hard drinking and indiscriminate sex, were her legacy. Creating personas, weaving stories and avoiding absolutes were behaviours he’d practised to perfection, and were now second nature to him. If he’d been asked why he did these things, why he told lies to women, he would never have spoken of his hurt or betrayal. He would have said because he valued his privacy, or that they were tools to help him to make conquests. But those explanations would have been excuses, because he didn’t need lies to seduce. He was an attractive articulate man that women were drawn to, and in a world where single men are a currency of value, he was always in demand.
His conquest the night before had been worse than empty, it had been sordid, unfulfilling and unkind. It was time to dispel the fog of loneliness which surrounded him since his wife left; time to be in a stable relationship; and time to acknowledge his true feelings.
Why was he so attracted to Holly? Her apparent lack of worldliness was refreshing in this city of sophistry, as was her vulnerability and eagerness to rely on him. He sensed she wasn’t driven by desire for him, but by genuine friendship, and the truth was that he was like an island. In this most American of cities, he played on his uniqueness, yet it kept him isolated and apart. It was surprising that this girl from New Zealand, who had come to call London home, tied him to his roots, grounded him as an Englishman abroad, and made him realise he could be vulnerable too.
TWENTY-TWO
Holly
As she drove down the private lane in the exclusive suburb of Pacific Palisades, Holly drew in her breath at the sight of six million dollars worth of upmarket metal parked outside the Consular Residence. It was clearly a big party, with lots of important, rich people. Thank heaven she’d taken such care with her appearance.
She drove up and down the lane several times looking for a gap big enough to drive straight into. While her parking skills had improved, her pulse beat erratically at the prospect of parallel parking between the gleaming pedigrees. The alternative was to look for a car park on the main road five minutes away, which meant walking too far in her towering heels, and that wasn’t a good option either. Quickly she decided on the lesser of two evils, and carefully manoeuvred the car into a tiny space. It took four attempts, but by a stroke of good fortune no one drove by to witness it, which she took as an omen tonight would be a good night.
A path ran up the expansive front lawn to the imposing black double doors of the Consular Residence. Two uniformed waiters stood inside, greeting guests with glasses of champagne. She picked one up and took a small sip, resolving to show unusual caution and drink moderately. No way was she going to have to order a taxi to take her home.
She followed the chatter of guests through a long hallway and into the doorway of the living area, where she paused momentarily, searching for someone she knew. After several hesitant steps she meandered through the light airy room, admiring the patina of the rich oak floors and expanse of floor to ceiling glass framing the garden beyond. Stark white walls were the backdrop for an impressive collection of art of differing colours, textures and styles, yet wholly sympathetic to each other’s provenance. Carved statues of stone and wood guarded the paintings with inscrutable expressions. Were they part of the Consular collection, or did they belong to Guy?
“Glad you could make it.” He stood in front of her, handsome and trim in his dark suit. “Do you like the art?”
“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked, caught unawares. She silently chided herself for the fantasy flicking through her mind. If she could achieve Guy’s respect, that would be enough. “The art, yes, it’s fantastic, and your home is beautiful. Thanks for inviting me.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, and yes, the house is beautiful. I can’t complain, but I’ll be leaving in two years.”
“Leaving? What do you mean?”
“I’m a career diplomat and we move to a new post every couple of years. I’ve been here longer than usual as I’m doing a double term.” A shadow crossed his face, and she guessed the double term was because of his wife’s death. “Let me introduce you to a few people,” he said and led her to a group of clients.
She chatted with them happily, keeping an eye out for someone she knew. After some time she noticed Ann, Brittany and Tina deep in conversation, and she excused herself to join them.
“Holly, lovely to see you,” said Tina enthusiastically. “I didn’t realise you were coming.”
“No, I didn’t realise you were coming either,” said Brittany in a sharp voice. “You weren’t on the guest list.”
“I, um, was–”
“Invited by Guy.” As Ann finished the sentence for her, Brittany’s expression changed to one of dismay.
“Guy invited you? When? He hasn’t been in the office.” Her eyes narrowed to slits and Holly imagined her tongue snaking out and stinging her.
“I ran into Guy at the Gift Fair.”
Brittany glared at her but addressed Ann. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention this to me.”
“Didn’t think it was important. It’s Guy’s party after all.”
Brittany shook her head in disgust and made a beeline for Guy, who stood chatting to a group of men. She placed her hand on his arm in a possessive fashion, then looked back at them in triumph when he moved to allow her in to the conversation.
“Thank God she
’s gone,” mumbled Tina, grabbing an hor d’oeuvre from a passing waiter. “Stuck up bitch, who does she think she is?”
“The next Mrs Guy Cutler from the looks of it,” said Ann, shaking her head. “Don’t let her ruin your evening, Holly.”
“Are you enjoying LA?” Tina asked as they made their way towards a sumptuous buffet.
“I’m settling, thanks. But I still get terribly homesick.”
“It takes a while. I was the same the first two or three years.”
“Aren’t you American?”
Tina giggled. “Strewth no, I’m from Wellington.”
“I can hear the Kiwi accent now, but I always assumed you were LA born and bred.”
“No, I married an American seventeen years ago. Met him in Wellington and he convinced me the climate was better here. On that note, let’s go outside.” Tina led the way out to a patio. “Isn’t it beautiful out here?”
“It’s gorgeous. Guy’s lucky to live here. I’d never want to go to work.”
Tina looked thoughtful. “Me too, but not Guy. He’s a workaholic. Work’s his escape from grief.”
“It must be awful to lose your partner.”
“He hasn’t been himself since Sarah died. He doesn’t have the same joy and enthusiasm he used to. He should be getting over it by now, but he’s not moving on.” She laughed without humour. “Lucky for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen Brittany in action. She wants him badly and as you can see she doesn’t stand for any competition.”
“I’d hardly call myself competition.” She blushed furiously as she realised what she’d said. “If you’re meaning me.”
“Yes I did mean you. Guy likes you and any woman he likes is a rival in Brittany’s eyes.”