Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (8 page)

“No, it’s for someone else. Could you put everything but the Coke and the Peperami in a separate sack, please?”

Bags in hand, Holly waved goodbye and made her way across the street to join the two girls on the bench.

“Well, if it isn’t the boho queen,” Zoe remarked as her eyes swept over Holly’s outfit of a blue-striped Oxford shirt tucked into a butterfly-print skirt. “I like your bangles. Nice,” she approved. “Come from one of them posh shops?”

“No,” Holly said, admiring her armful of colourful wooden bangles as she held out a bag, “Camden market, two for five quid.” She turned to the blonde. “Hi, I’m Holly.”

She exhaled, releasing a plume of smoke. “Sharon. Ta.”

“We’re mates, Sha and me.” Zoe took the bag from Holly and rummaged inside. She withdrew a Coke and a Crunchie and offered the rest to her friend. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Listen,” Holly ventured as she sat down between the two girls, “how’d you like to be in a magazine?”

As she licked chocolate from her fingers — half of the Crunchie was already gone — Zoe snorted. “Who’d want to see the likes of us in a magazine?” she scoffed. “We’re not models or pop stars.”

“You don’t work for one of them lads’ mags, do you?” Sharon wondered.

“No!” Holly shuddered. “I work for a teen magazine.”

Sharon eyed her curiously. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Well, I write about things that interest teenage girls — interviews with boy bands, stories about back-stabbing friends who steal your guy — stuff like that.”

“Meet many celebs, then?” Sharon asked avidly.

“Well, I interviewed Dominic Heath last summer…but not usually, no. Anyway,” Holly forged on, “I pitched a story idea at the staff meeting.” She turned to Zoe. “I want to write about what it’s like to be a homeless teen in London. I thought I might interview you. Maybe shadow you for a day or two.”

“No!” Zoe’s answer was sudden and fierce. “No fucking way.” Abruptly she stood up, Crunchie wrapper falling to the ground, and grabbed her rucksack. “Come on, Sha, let’s go.”

“Wait!” Sharon said, confused. “Zo — why don’t you want to do it? At least think about it—”

“I said no. Let Holly’s teen rag find someone else to write about.” Zoe shoved the rest of the chocolate and crisp packets in her rucksack, swung it over her shoulder, and stalked away, leaving Holly and Sharon behind.

She didn’t slow her pace until she reached Piccadilly Circus. If she saw the curious looks cast her way, she gave no sign. Fury propelled her forward, and she scarcely registered the people she brushed past, so lost in black thoughts she was.

“Zoe! Hold up!”

She turned to see Sharon, breathless and flushed, running after her. “Sha? What are you doing here? I thought you were still back there, talking to the boho queen.”

“Why are you so hard on her?” Sharon asked. “She’s only trying to help.”

“I don’t need her help.” She began walking again.

“Shit, Zoe, why are you always so tetchy?”

She rounded on Sharon. “Why? Because if it wasn’t for my mum, I wouldn’t be in this fix. That’s why.”

“What happened, then? Tell me.”

They fell into step together, and after a moment Zoe began, haltingly, to talk. “My parents split up a few months ago. At first, I thought Mum’s new boyfriend was cool, you know? He had that Scandi thing going on — tall, eyes like blue ice, blond hair — and a car like something out of a Bond film.”

“Came on to you, did he?” Sharon observed knowingly. “When your mum wasn’t there?”

“Worse. He tried to rape me.” Zoe spoke flatly. “It started off okay — we messed around a bit when Mum wasn’t there. She wouldn’t let me go to Glasto with my girlfriends. I was pissed off.”

“So what happened?”

“What d’you mean, what happened? He wanted sex.”

Sharon shrugged. “So?”

Zoe glanced at her and away again. “I was a virgin, okay? I was scared. Didn’t wanna tell him that, though, did I? So I told him no and asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He’d been drinking…a lot. I got away, locked myself in my bathroom until he left. He said Mum would never believe me, and that he’d tell her I came on to him, that I wanted it.” She shook her head. “And the thing was, he was right. Mum
would’ve
believed him over me.”

“And so you ran away.”

“Yeah. I ran away. End of story,” Zoe finished.

“Are they looking for you? Your parents, I mean.”

“No. My dad’s so busy, I doubt he’ll even notice I’m gone,” she said, her words bitter. “He’s not home much. But Erik…he’s already looking for me.”

She’d thrown some clothes into a rucksack, along with fifty quid — birthday and Christmas money. Halfway out of the door, she’d realized she didn’t have her mobile.

“So, why’s Erik after you?” Sharon persisted. “If you ran away, why would he even care where you went?”

“I have his mobile,” Zoe retorted, “that’s why. He must’ve left it behind, and I grabbed it by mistake. And it’s got…things, on it. He’s involved in some pretty dogdy stuff, Sha. I think…” she hesitated “…I think he might be a sex trafficker.”

“Bloody hell,” the other girl breathed, and came to a stop. “You’ve landed right in the shit, haven’t you?”

Zoe’s hand tightened on the rucksack strap. “Yeah. Right in it.”

Chapter 12

Traffic out of London on Friday afternoon was epic. Holly resisted the impulse to turn around and go back home as she inched the Skoda along the Euston Road. Good thing she’d brought along some cheese and onion crisps and a Diet Pepsi. At least that red ‘check engine’ light wasn’t showing up today.

Holly sighed.
Just get me to Oxfordshire
, she silently urged the car. At this rate, she might not make it onto the A40 until tomorrow.

But once onto the exit at Oxford/Cheltenham, she quickly made up for lost time. She reached Chipping Norton just after five and turned up a dirt road edged haphazardly with foxgloves and nettles. As she braked in front of the seventeenth-century house, made of Cotswold stone and half obscured by ivy, she climbed out of the car and breathed in the scent of honeysuckle.

Holly retrieved her duffel bag from the back seat, noticing as she did the sleek Audi sedan and Range Rover parked nearby. Must belong to John and Enid Whatsit…

“Holly!”

Suddenly Mum was there, enveloping her in a Guerlain-scented hug, clucking over the empty crisp and Peparami wrappers strewn on the seat, asking her when she’d left London.

“Two hours ago,” Holly told her as she pulled her duffel out. “Traffic was murder, but—” her gaze swept over the fields, running riot with ox-eyed daisies and bluebells “—it’s good to get away, even if it’s only for the weekend. Where’s Dad?”

“He’s in the study with the dogs, reading
The
Guardian
.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “Some things never change. Oh, and your sister’s coming back home tomorrow, for a few weeks.”

“Good. We text sometimes, but I haven’t seen her since she left for uni.”

Hannah, much to their mother’s dismay, had sailed off to a fine arts university in Norwich, following a tumultuous relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Jago.

“Well, come along inside. John and Enid are here, and I’ve had your old room tidied—”

“Mrs James!” Mrs Henley, the part-time cook, stood on the doorstep, arms crossed belligerently against her large bosom. “We haven’t any eggs. All them soufflés you wanted have used up every blessed one, and there’s naught to be had for your guests’ breakfast tomorrow.”

Cherie turned to her daughter. “We’ll talk later, darling. Drinks in the drawing room at seven, mind, don’t be late. Mrs Henley,” she called out briskly as she headed back to the house, “surely we can send someone to the village to get some eggs…”

“But the market’s closed, and I can’t spare anyone—”

“I’ll send Alastair to Tesco,” Cherie told her. “Problem sorted.”

Holly skirted past the two of them into the house and headed up the stairs to her old room. Once inside her bedroom — its pale pink and green striped walls still plastered with childhood posters of pop stars, shirtless footballers, and horses — she shut the door and threw her duffel bag on a chair.

She’d tossed the latest issue of
BritTEEN
in her duffel at the last minute but hadn’t had time to look at it yet. Her “One Outrageous Question” interview with Alex Barrington was inside, and she was dying to read it.

It was only five-thirty…plenty of time to shower and change before seven. Holly grabbed the magazine, belly-flopped down on the bed, and flipped eagerly to page thirty-seven.

There was the photo of Alex she’d submitted, showing him bare-chested at the helm — bow? she could never keep it straight — of a sailboat. He looked, as always, deliciously gorgeous. She dragged her eyes away from his photo and read the interview.

Financial solicitor…QSRs…a few sentences dealing with dead-boring monetary stuff…and — hold on! What was
this
?

Holly sat bolt upright, the magazine clutched in her hands.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t
possibly
be…

When Alex had objected to her original Outrageous Question, Sasha let Holly email him a different question following the interview. He hadn’t much liked that one either.

But he’d answered the question — boxers, or briefs? — in typical Alex fashion — “Boxers. Briefs are naff, as are Speedos. And I fail to see the relevance of this ridiculous question” — and that was that.

Or so she’d thought. Yet here it was, Alex’s off-the-record, I-can-say-it-but-you-can’t-print-it comment, in all its black and white glory:

BritTEEN
: Sex on the first date? Yes or no?

AB
: I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely.

“Oh, no,” Holly groaned. “No, no,
no
!” How was this possible? She’d submitted the article with the second question, not the first. She knew she had. Yet there it was, along with Alex’s answer, for the entire world to see!

Where was the bit Alex said just before he threw her out, about the couple being responsible and consenting
adults
, and not ‘spotty-faced teenagers with raging hormones’? Her eyes raced over the text.

It wasn’t in the interview. Anywhere.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit,
shit
.

Even worse, Alex’s remark that he might stand for MP — also off the record — had been included as well.

How in
hell
had that happened?

Holly thought back to that night, typing away on her laptop. She’d emailed the first draft to Sasha, and asked to make changes before it went to Valery, but Sasha hadn’t listened. Annoyed, she’d had a vodka and grapefruit to drink — well, two, actually — and then Alex had called.

Holly racked her brain. She vaguely remembered running the interview through spell check, but the rest was a blank.

She scrambled off the bed and pulled out her laptop. It only took a moment to confirm that the document she’d emailed to Sasha and Valery contained no off-the-record remarks.

She frowned, perplexed. Had she sent another, second email? Her fingertips raced over the keyboard as she checked the ‘sent’ mail folder, and she froze.

There was a second email, sent an hour after the first, to Sasha.

She opened the email and saw, to her horror, another version of her interview…

A version that included
all
of Alex’s comments.

Oh, shit.

Holly grabbed her mobile. Damage control was needed, and right away. Frantically she searched for Alex’s number. He’d called her just a few days ago…where
was
his bloody number…?

Ah, here it was. Last Friday night, elevenish — bingo.

After two rings, the line clicked. “Barrington here. Leave a message.”

“Alex,” Holly blurted, “it’s Holly James. There’s been a bit of a…mix-up, and your off-the-record’s been published in
BritTEEN
. I’m terribly, horribly sorry. Call me as soon as you get this!”

She pressed ‘End Call’ and scrolled to Sasha Davis’s number.

“Hello,” Sasha’s cool, plummy voice intoned, “you’ve reached voicemail for Sasha Davis. Please leave a brief message.”

“Sasha,” Holly said in rush, “there’s been a massive mistake. My interview with Alex is in the new issue…and his off-the-record comments are in there, too. Call me, please.”

With a trembling finger she rang off. Sasha would be livid. Valery would be livid. And Alex Barrington would be the most livid of all.

He’d never, ever forgive her for this.

It was nearly half-past six, time to get ready for the drinks party. At the thought of getting through an interminable evening of polite chit-chat with her parents’ neighbours while her career imploded around her, Holly groaned. She could always make her excuses and leave…

But she didn’t want to disappoint her father. Besides, she needed him to take a look at the Skoda’s engine. The red fault light had come on again. And she certainly didn’t have the money to pay for car repairs — or next month’s rent…

Resignedly Holly stepped out of her clothes and went into the en-suite bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the upcoming evening’s ordeal.

The muted sound of jazz and murmured conversation drifted up to Holly as she descended the stairs to the drawing room.

Tugging at the hem of her dress, a brown pinstriped Biba she’d found in the Camden market, Holly fixed a smile on her face and clicked across the foyer in her t-strap heels.
Right, then, let’s get this over with
…

“Holly, there you are!” her mother, looking chic in a black trouser suit, swooped forward and took her daughter by the arm. “You look lovely. Come and meet everyone.”

Holly spotted her father, looking dapper in a dark grey suit and navy tie, in conversation with an older man — John, of John-and-Enid fame, she supposed — and excused herself.

“Holly.” Her father came forward and regarded her with approval, then brushed his lips briefly against her cheek. “You look very grown-up.” He indicated the man standing beside him. “You remember John.”

“Well, well, Holly!” He extended his hand. “The last time I saw you, you were wearing a pinafore and clutching a lolly,” he said, and beamed.