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.
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.”