Love and Liability (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 2) (6 page)

Yes, there it was. She’d sent the interview to Sasha late on Friday evening. Twice.

Holly frowned. Odd, that; she’d sent it once, not twice. Oh, well — her email must be acting wonky again. Or she’d hit ‘send’ twice. That was what drinking two vodka-and-grapefruits while you worked did to you, she supposed…

“Make me some tea, love, eh?”

She looked up to see Mick leaning against the doorway in his boxers. He usually didn’t stir before mid-afternoon.

“You’re up early. Rehearsal today?”

Blearily he nodded and followed her back into the kitchen. He sat slumped at the table as she found a mug and fixed his tea.

“You didn’t come to bed,” she added, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

“I passed out on the sofa when I came in this morning. I didn’t want to wake you.” He wrapped his hands round the mug she handed him. “I thought you’d come down the pub last night.”

Holly finished her tea and set the cup in the sink. “I told you, I couldn’t. I had to work.”

“Oh, yeah, work. Right. That’s all you ever do, innit, putting in all those hours for that stupid teen rag.”

“
BritTEEN
isn’t stupid,” she said defensively, having had this argument before. “We have a high pass-along rate, and our readership is second only to
Bliss
—”

He thrust his chair back. “I’ve heard it all before, haven’t I? I got things to do. I’ll see you later.”

Holly turned from the sink to face him. “No, you won’t.” She was suddenly furious, fed up with Mick and his dismissive attitude. He’d never taken her job at
BritTEEN
seriously; he’d never taken
her
seriously. “Go ahead and leave. But don’t bother coming back.”

He stood there in his boxers, his blue hair standing straight up like a rooster’s comb, and stared at her in bafflement.

“What are you on about? That time of the month, is it?”

As quickly as it came, her anger left.
You have to care to be angry,
Holly reflected guiltily, and she didn’t care enough about Mick any more to be bothered.

She grabbed her bag, feeling sad and deflated.
Another relationship bites the dust
. What she desperately needed was some retail therapy. “Look, I’m going out. Please be gone by the time I get back.”

“Right, then,” Mick said, and scowled. “Fine. It’s past time I moved out, anyway.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She brushed past him and went out of the door.

And she didn’t say goodbye.

When Holly returned to the flat that afternoon, her arms laden with shopping bags, Mick, along with his lads’ magazines, amplifiers, and bass guitars, was gone, and so was Kate. An extravagant bouquet of white roses sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The flowers smelled heavenly and must’ve cost a fortune.

She picked up the tiny envelope with a frown. Had Mick sent them? She snorted. Not likely. He hadn’t a romantic bone in his body. Besides, he only ever spent money on motorcycle parts and bass guitars. Holly lifted the envelope flap with her newly French-manicured fingertip and slid out the card.

By way of apology for being such a rude git,

Alex

P.S. — Found one semi-squashed packet of Mentos under my desk. Believe it belongs to you. Will return soonest.

Holly smiled.

The front door banged open and Kate came in. “Ooh, they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?” she breathed as she heaved a bag of groceries from her hip onto the counter. “Bloke delivered them just before I went out. Good thing I was here. Who’re they from, anyway?”

Before Holly could answer, her mobile rang. The number was unfamiliar. “Hello,” she said cautiously.

“Did you get the flowers?” Alex asked.

“Yes, thanks. They’re beautiful.” She walked into her bedroom — Kate was unabashedly eavesdropping — and shut the door. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I did. I was inexcusably rude.”

“Well…yes.”

“And I acted like a pretentious tosser.”

“You did,” Holly agreed, “but I’ll forgive you. This time.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “For my penance, I’ll take you to the OXO Brasserie for lunch on Tuesday.”

“I see. So taking me to lunch is your punishment — is that what you’re saying?” Holly countered.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I can’t think of anything more mind-numbingly awful than spending lunch seated across a table from you. I’m dreading it already.”

“It’ll be excruciating.”

“I’ll pick you up at noon on Tuesday.”

“No need.” If Alex so much as set foot in the
BritTEEN
offices, there’d be no end of speculation from her co-workers, not to mention Kate. Alex Barrington was gorgeous, and he was hers — well, at least for the duration of Tuesday lunch — and she wanted to keep it that way. “I can meet you there.”

“No, I insist on doing this properly. I look forward to seeing you again. Oh, and by the way, Ms James — I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

“What’s that? My Mentos?”

“No. A pink feather, actually. It came off your sweater the other day. I thought you might want it back.”

“I wondered what happened to it,” Holly murmured, and rang off. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“So, who sent the bouquet?” Kate enquired the moment Holly emerged from her bedroom. “Don’t tell me it was Mick.”

Holly snorted. “As if he’d ever send me flowers! No. Besides, we’re officially over.”

“Good,” she approved. “He’s a knob. By the way, Holly,” she called out as she disappeared into the kitchen, “you never
did
tell me who sent you those flowers.”

“No, I didn’t, did I?” Holly replied tartly, and went into her room and shut the door.

Chapter 9

At nine-thirty, Sasha called the weekly staff meeting to order. “We’ve come under fire from the Teen Magazine Arbitration Panel for having, and I quote—” she paused “—‘an increasingly sexually oriented ethos’. The TMA want us to publish more responsible, age-appropriate content.”

“But teen girls want to read articles about sex, and interviews with shirtless boy-band celebs,” one of the beauty sub-editors protested. “The feature on Trevor Wilde was our biggest-selling issue.”

Violet, a middle-aged woman who wrote the magazine’s monthly agony aunt column, leaned in next to Holly and whispered, “Excuse me, dear…but who’s Trevor Wilde?”

“He’s a footie player,” Holly whispered back. “Really hot, married for about ten minutes to that pop singer, Keeley—”

“Ms James.” Sasha turned and focused her gaze on Holly. “Would you care to share your conversation with the rest of us?”

“Oh. Sorry,” Holly said quickly. “I was just explaining to Violet who Trevor Wilde is.”

“Violet should
know
who Trevor is.” Sasha glared at the older woman. “It’s her job to know these things.”

“But I offer advice,” Violet said, “not celebrity gossip.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sasha shot back. “I expect every one of you to keep up with the latest news, fashion, and celebrity doings. Is that clear?”

Violet reddened. “Yes.”

“Excellent.” Sasha returned her attention to the staff seated on both sides of the conference table. “Does anyone have any suggestions for suitable articles?”

“I do,” Holly offered, and raised her hand.

A deep sigh escaped Sasha’s lips. “Yes, Holly, let’s hear it. I know I speak for everyone when I say we can hardly wait.”

“Well,” Holly said, ignoring the collective titters around the table, “lately I’ve noticed a homeless girl sleeping on the bench outside our offices.”

“Oh, yes!” Zara, the accessories editor, chimed in. “I’ve seen her, too. Isn’t there somewhere else she could go? After all, emergency accommodation is available.”

Holly looked at her. “That’s true. But I’ve done some research, and the night shelters are crowded, plus there aren’t nearly enough to go around. And with budgeting cuts—”

“Oh, you read something besides
Heat
?” Mark, staff illustrator and the king of snark, asked her. “Fancy that.”

Holly ignored him and returned her attention to Sasha. “I’d like to talk to her, maybe write a feature on homeless teens in central London. I thought I might shadow her for a couple of days, see what it’s like to sleep on the street and eat out of rubbish bins—”

“Ugh! That’s disgusting,” Padma, the assistant beauty editor, said with a shudder. “No teenage girl wants to read about something like that.”

“I don’t agree,” Holly retorted. “Why shouldn’t the story of a girl living on the streets of London be as compelling to read as — as Rihanna’s latest hair colour?”

“You’re missing the point, Holly,” Padma informed her. “We’re a teen entertainment magazine, not
The Guardian
.”

“I think it’s a fabulous idea, Holly,” Sasha pronounced. “It’s got edge. Let’s go with it.”

“Er…thanks.” Holly blinked. Although Sasha glared at her like a cat who’d just swallowed a hairball, at least she’d given her approval. Holly had expected a full-on battle with Sasha, not this bloodless capitulation.

“Does anyone else have anything to add?” Sasha asked.

She scanned the faces around the table, but no further suggestions were forthcoming. “Good. Holly’s pitch fits in nicely with the arbitration panel’s demand for more responsible content.” She smiled tightly and added, “Well done, Holly.”

When Holly finally escaped the building, it was just after two o’clock and the bowl of cereal she’d had for breakfast was a distant memory. After volunteering to help one of the interns unpack several trunks from a recent accessories shoot, she’d missed lunch, and now she was ravenous.

She glanced across the street. The homeless girl was slouched on her bench. Holly waved and made her way to the Starbucks next door, where she joined the queue and ordered two coffees with extra cream and sugar on the side and a muffin, studded with currants and dusted liberally with sugar.

Juggling the cardboard tray of coffees and the bagged muffin, Holly crossed the busy road.

“Got you a Venti,” Holly said as she handed over the bag and the tray, “and a muffin. What’s your name, by the way?”

The girl hesitated. “Zoe.” She took the bag and a coffee. “Thanks.” She took a cautious sip. “You work in that office building over there, don’t you?”

Holly took the other cup and nodded. “I write articles for
BritTEEN
magazine.”

“Articles? Like what?”

“Well,” she said as she perched — cautiously — on one end of the bench, “things of interest to the average teenage girl. Like where to find cool clothes without spending a fortune, boy-band interviews, that sort of thing.”

Zoe snorted. “Girly crap.”

“Some of it,” Holly admitted, and took another sip of coffee. “But we do some harder-hitting stuff, too.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Holly chose her words carefully. “For instance, I pitched an idea just this morning to do a story about teen homelessness in London.”

“No one cares about
that
,” Zoe retorted. “Especially not the ‘average teenage girl’.”

Annoyed that Zoe was echoing Padma’s sentiments, Holly bristled. “You’re wrong. I think it’s exactly what girls want to know about. What it’s like to live on the streets, how does one manage—”

“One learns to skip-dive,” Zoe interrupted, affecting a posh accent, “and one sleeps on a shelter cot.” She shook her head in disgust. “God, you’re a right prize, you are.”

“What do you mean?” Holly demanded, incensed.

“I mean, what do
you
know about living on the streets, eh? Your idea of a hardship is probably carrying last season’s bag.”

“That’s not true—”

“And there’s your posh accent, and your clothes.”

Holly stiffened. “What about my clothes?” She glanced down at her paisley-patterned, empire-waist dress.

“You look like you shop at Oxfam. All careless and artsy and ‘I-can-afford-Harvey-Nicks-but-I-buy-second-hand’.”

“Enjoy the coffee,” Holly said tightly, and got to her feet to leave. “And thanks
so
much for the fashion critique.”

“Don’t get mad,” Zoe said, and shrugged. “I like it, actually. It’s bohemian, mixed-up. Very Alexa Chung.”

“Thanks.” Only slightly mollified, Holly eyed the girl and added, “You seem to know a bit about fashion.”

Again, she shrugged. “I read the magazines sometimes,” she admitted grudgingly. “I study all the designers’ stuff. I know what I like and what I don’t. One day, I want to go to Central Saint Martins and get my degree.”

“Wow,” Holly said, impressed. “That’s quite a goal. Do you want to design clothes? Or do sketch art?”

“Design clothes,” she answered. She glanced down at the safety-pinned T-shirt under her worn leather jacket and back up at Holly, her expression defiant. “This is my homage to the Sex Pistols.”

Holly eyed it and nodded. “It’s good. It’d fetch fifty quid in a boutique. So, tell me, how’d you land here? Why are you sleeping on this bench?”

“Well, I checked, and wouldn’t you know it? Buckingham Palace was booked right up last night.”

Holly pressed her lips together. “There’s a night shelter right round the corner—”

“Yeah, and there’s a queue to get in, and then you risk having your stuff nicked while you sleep. No, thanks.”

“But it has to be better than sleeping here,” Holly persisted.

“Look, thanks for the coffee, okay? I’m fine. I can sleep anywhere.”

Holly set her cup down and reached into her handbag, searching until she unearthed her business card. “I work just there.” She nodded her head at the office tower across the street. “Here’s my card. I’d like to talk to you again. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Brill. We’ll have a chinwag and a shop at Harvey Nicks,” Zoe said, and smirked. But she took the card Holly held out to her and thrust it into her rucksack.

That was exactly the sort of smart-arse thing her sister Hannah would say. She turned to go.

Zoe lifted her coffee cup in farewell. “Ta.”

As Holly made her way across the street and back up the steps to her office building she couldn’t resist a glance back. Zoe — if that was her real name — had taken the muffin out, and, after looking furtively around, crammed it hurriedly in her mouth…