Love And Liability

She picked up her fork and pretended to consider. “I think I’ll need a second date before I’m ready to give you a definitive answer.”

“Spoken,” he said with approval, “like a true politician.” He lifted his glass of water and waited until Holly did the same, then touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to a second date, Ms James,” he added huskily, “and quite possibly, a third.”

Chapter 11

“Have you ’eard, Jamie?” the delivery man called out as he backed his truck behind the restaurant and jumped down. “Your restaurant’s about to ’ave a bit of competition.”

Jamie Gordon wiped his hands on his apron. “Yep. I’ve heard.”

Opening a restaurant had been Jamie’s dream from the time he was a student at culinary school in Edinburgh. Seven years on, his dream was finally a reality. Thanks to his half-brother Rhys’s financial stake, Gordon Scots was open for business.

And now Marcus Russo, the popular, potty-mouthed television chef, was about to open a new brasserie right around the corner.

His mobile buzzed. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered as he saw Rhys’s name on the screen. “What’s up, bro?”

“I understand you have a competitor moving in.”

“Yeah. No worries. We’ve had great reviews and we’re busy as hell. Everyone loves the whisky bar.”

“Good. Nat wants you over for Sunday dinner soon. Oh, and she says to bring along one of your chocolate whisky cakes for afters.”

“Sure, let me know when. Give Nat my love. Talk soon.”

The deliveryman began unloading crates of fish from the truck. “That Marcus Russo may be one hell of a chef, but he’s a bastard to work for, and no mistake.”

Jamie glanced up from his inspection of a case of iced salmon. Russo, although notoriously abrasive and short-tempered, had half a dozen successful restaurants to his name, all boasting at least one Michelin star. He put aside the crate and reached for the next.

“I’m not bothered,” he said, and shrugged. “There’s room for both of us, I reckon.”

“Once I was five minutes late on a delivery,” the man said, and shook his head. “My truck was full up. He made me unload the lot, then refused to sign for the delivery. Had to load it all back on the truck. Right pissed off, I was.”

Jamie smiled slightly as he signed off on the delivery. “I bet you weren’t late again.”

“No,” he admitted, and handed down the last crate. “I wouldn’t hesitate to run ’im over with my truck, though,” he added. He slapped Jamie on the back. “See you Monday, mate.”

When Friday lunchtime rolled around, Holly pulled out her handbag and counted her money — barely eight pounds to her name; good thing she got paid tomorrow — and left her desk to run down to the corner shop. Her stomach rumbled as she emerged from the BritTEEN building.

Automatically her glance strayed to the bench across the street. Zoe had gone missing for the last couple of mornings. But today she was back, her rucksack under her feet and one arm stretched along the back of the bench, her face turned up to the sun. A skinny blonde with a neon-pink skunk stripe in her hair sat next to her, legs crossed, smoking.

If they noticed Holly, they gave no sign.

“Hey, Mr Singh,” Holly said to the tall, turbaned man behind the till as she grabbed three Cokes and a handful of chocolate bars and dumped them all on the counter. “Guess what? I might have my first feature interview soon. And I’ve got a mini-interview coming out in the next issue of BritTEEN.”

He rang up the items. “Congratulations.” He raised his brow as she added several Peperamis to the pile on the counter. “You’re very talented. And also very hungry today, I see.”

“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.

“Oh, I gave up lollies and pinafores ages ago.” She smiled politely and shook his hand, then turned to her father. “Dad — sorry to interrupt, but there’s something I need to ask you. It’s important.”

“Sounds like an imminent request for money, Alastair!” John said, and chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it. I need a top-up, at any rate. Nice to see you again, Holly.” He lifted his glass in salute and wandered off in search of the bar.

“Nice to see you,” she echoed. He really was rather sweet.

“Holly,” her father said in a low but firm voice as he drew her aside, “I’m not lending you any more money. I thought I made that abundantly clear.”

“You did. No, it’s my car. It’s been acting up, and I hoped you might take a look at it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s nothing specific; it’s just been acting a bit…wonky, lately.”

“Holly, you need to be more exact in your description than ‘a bit wonky’ if you want a mechanic to fix it. Of course, I’ll have a look under the bonnet…tomorrow.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Excuse me, but I need to rescue John from Lady Blandford’s clutches. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay,” she sighed. “Thanks, Dad.”

“That can’t be little Holly James, can it?”

Startled, Holly looked up as an older woman approached her and brayed, “What a lovely dress. Vintage, is it? Biba, or Ossie Clark?”

“Biba. You have a very good eye.” Impressed despite herself, Holly realized this must be Enid, the other half of John-and-Enid. “It’s been a long time. Are your sons here?” she enquired. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten their names.”

“I’m afraid William couldn’t make it. He’s married now, you know, with three boys. But my youngest is here…” Enid cast a vague glance around the drawing room. “At least, he was. He went outside with your father just a moment ago…ah!” She broke off as Alastair came back in through the French doors that led to the garden.

“Alastair,” Enid enquired, “is my son with you?”

“Yes, he’s just coming along. He and John and I slipped out to have a quick look at the Morgan.”

“-fantastic car,” the young man coming in after Holly’s father was saying. “Didn’t you have one, Dad, back in the day?”

“I did indeed!” John exclaimed, rosy-cheeked from the excursion and from his second bourbon on the rocks. “In my Cambridge days, I had a dark green Morgan. Loved that car — and so did the girls!”

“Before you men launch into your car talk,” Enid said, “Henry, darling, come here. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. You and she were playmates, years ago.”

Henry? Warning bells sounded in Holly’s head. Her startled gaze came to rest on the tall, broad-shouldered man who’d entered the drawing room behind her father. Her eyes widened in shock.

Oh, no. It couldn’t be…but it was. John-and-Enid’s oldest son was…

Henry. Alexander. Barrington.

Chapter 13

Or, to be more precise, it was Hank, the little boy next door who’d sometimes shared her sandbox and backyard wading pool. He’d particularly enjoyed digging up bits of petrified, sand-covered cat poop, flinging them like missiles at Holly with his plastic shovel.

She’d disliked cats — and Hank — ever since.

“Alex?” she blurted.

His smile froze. “Holly!”

“What are you doing here?” they both asked at once.

“Oh — you know each other?” Enid asked, puzzled. “You played together as children, but that was ages ago—”

“Yes.” Alex glanced at Holly, his expression unreadable. “She interviewed me recently for her magazine.”

A slim blonde appeared beside Alex and held out her hand to Holly. “Camilla Shawcross. Did I hear Alex say you work for a magazine?” she enquired. “Which one? Elle? Vogue?”

“Erm, neither. BritTEEN, actually. It’s a teen magazine.”

Her face fell. “Oh? How…nice.” She turned to Alex. “Would you be a lamb and fetch me a drink?”

Holly stared at her. Was Camilla Alex’s girlfriend? Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God — you’re Red Thong!” she blurted.

Camilla stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

Alex shot Holly a sharp glance.

So it’s true, she realized. Camilla Shawcross is the owner of the red thong that was tucked in Alex’s pocket.

“Did you just say ‘red thong’? What on earth are you talking about?” Camilla demanded.

Holly cleared her throat. “Oh! Nothing. I just bought a…a red thong the other day. Love it! Wish I’d gone…erm, Team Thong, a long time ago!”

Camilla looked at her as if she were a dead bug and turned away.

“‘Team Thong?’” Alex muttered as Camilla disappeared into the drawing room. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“Sorry,” she hissed back, “but it just came out! I’m right, though, aren’t I? She’s Red Thong!” she accused, eyeing Camilla Shawcross’s silk-clad back.

“Yes! No!” He scowled and ran a hand through his hair. “None of your bloody business!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Holly retorted.

“Don’t you dare to breathe a word of this to Camilla,” he warned. “Or I’ll tell your father that you carry a raspberry-flavoured condom at the ready in your handbag.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would,” he said grimly. “Quid pro quo, Ms James.”

“That was a consolation prize at a hen party! You don’t think I carry flavoured condoms around with me, do you?”

He eyed her. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“Alex?” Camilla paused in the drawing-room doorway and cast an expectant glance back at him. “Are you coming?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He gave Holly a last, warning glare and made his way to the drawing room.

Desperate to avoid Alex and Red Thong, Holly found her mother. “Is dinner nearly ready? I’m famished.”

“Mrs Henley assures me it’ll be just a few minutes more,” she promised. “Have a glass of something sparkly in the meantime, and mingle, darling.”

“Mingling is the last thing I want to do,” Holly muttered. But she grabbed a glass of Prosecco from a passing tray, took a deep breath, and dutifully made her way into the drawing room.