Katie Oliver - Manolos In Manhattan

Holly tossed them down on her bed in irritation. “Well, what do you suggest, then, Mr Mizrahi?”

“Hey, you asked for my help,” he reminded her. “I could be at home watching The Princess Diaries , thank you very much.”

“No need to throw a hissy. Just take a look in the closet and pick something out. I’ll need accessories, too. And hurry. I have to start getting ready soon.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” he retorted, but threw the door to the hotel closet open and began rummaging through the contents, his face set in concentration. Choosing an outfit was a very serious business.

Five minutes later, he emerged. “I’ve found it,” he announced, triumphant. “I’ve found the perfect outfit for your date with Ciaran.”

“It’s not a date,” she told him again. Holly rose from her perch on the end of the bed, anxious to see what he’d chosen. He held out a beige sheath dress overlaid with lace, nude heels, and a leopard-print clutch.

“That?” she said uncertainly. “I don’t know. It’s so...beige. It looks like something Mum would wear.”

“It’s classic,” he informed her, “but sexy, in a ladylike way. Very Mad Men . You don’t want to look like a hootchie, do you?”

“No...”

“Then shut up and try it on.”

Dutifully she did as he asked, thrusting her feet into the heels and smoothing the silk dress over her hips as she stood before the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. And as she studied her reflection, she had to admit that, once again, Chaz was right.

The nude heels elongated her legs; the dress was fitted and flattering, emphasizing her small waist and slim build; and the leopard clutch provided the perfect pop of contrast.

“We’ll put your hair up in a chignon,” Chaz decided. “Like Tippi Hedrin. It’ll give you that sixties chic.”

“Put my hair up? I don’t know...”

“Sit,” he commanded, and motioned to her dressing table. “I’ll do your hair before I go. All you need,” he mused as he began to brush her hair, “is one of those big, black cartwheel hats, like the one Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s .”

“Sorry,” Holly said firmly, “I love this outfit, but I draw the line at cartwheel hats.” She looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled. “You’re right...it’s absolutely, perfectly…perfect.”

An hour later, bathed and perfumed and dressed in the beige sheath, Holly was almost ready. Jamie had left, off to get his new restaurant ready to open its doors; so Chaz had agreed to stay and let Ciaran in while she got ready.

“Keep him waiting,” he informed her. “It’s never good to appear too soon. Take your time.”

“Right,” she agreed, and lifted her brow. “Leaving you to chat – alone ‒ with the object of your affection in the meantime.”

“Whatever. Go get ready.”

Ten minutes after Ciaran arrived, Holly took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door. The sound of Chaz’s voice drifted down the hall from the tiny hotel sitting room.

“‒ so pleased to meet you last night,” he gushed. “Like I said, I’ve seen all your movies, except that last one about the veterinarian. It didn’t do so well at the box office, did it?”

“No,” Ciaran said a trifle stiffly, “but it earned me a BAFTA nomination. Rather proud of that.”

“As well you should be.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to pry, but...do you and Holly live together?” the actor asked, puzzled.

Chaz let out a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “God, no! I just offered to stick around and let you in while she gets ready. Her fiancé’s normally here,” he added, pointedly, “but he’s working.”

Chaz glanced up as Holly appeared in the doorway. “Holly – there you are. Mr Duncan’s been waiting, and very patiently, I might add.”

Ciaran stood up, and his eyes swept over Holly from her ladylike heels to her upswept blonde hair. He blinked. “You look stunning, Miss James. And very grown-up.”

“Thank you,” Holly said. She could barely form a coherent sentence at the sight of Ciaran, so handsome in his impeccably tailored suit. “Shall we go?”

“By all means,” he agreed, and held out his arm. “First, we’re off to have lunch at The Russian Tea Room.”

“Excellent choice,” Chaz approved, “if a bit...touristy. But that’s the point, isn’t it?” he added hastily as Ciaran cast him a flinty look. “Have a blini for me. And enjoy yourselves!”

“Thank you,” Ciaran replied. “I solemnly promise to have her back before midnight, Mr Williams.”

Chaz shook a finger playfully. “See that you do.”

They emerged from the Midtown Hotel and onto the busy sidewalk five minutes later. “What’s this?” Holly asked as Ciaran drew her towards a black Lincoln Town Car waiting at the curb. A chauffer in a peaked cap and gloves slid out from behind the wheel and held the rear door open for Holly.

“Our limo,” he replied. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

“And generating the most publicity possible at the same time,” Holly couldn’t help adding. She glanced at the gleaming black vehicle and back at Ciaran, who was already attracting a knot of onlookers. “This should definitely do it.”

Without another word, she slid onto the back seat and made room for Ciaran, and they were off.

Chapter Eight

“I thought we’d go for a carriage ride around Central Park. After we have lunch,” he added firmly. “I’m really hungry.”

She looked over at him and smiled. “I’m impressed. The Russian Tea Room...a chauffeured car...”

“And the pleasure of my company,” he finished as he grinned at her. “What more could a girl want?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Holly said as she settled back and the car glided into the stream of traffic headed towards West 57th Street. “A little humility, maybe?”

“Humility is vastly overrated, Miss James. Spend enough time with me, and you’ll soon agree.”

Well , Holly couldn’t help thinking, if this is a typical day out with a film star...I could certainly get used to it .

The Russian Tea Room was as rich and opulent as the inside of a Fabergé egg. They were escorted to a quiet table in the back, where Ciaran ordered appetizers of caviar and salmon gravlax; for their main course they had the most amazing Chicken Kiev. Dessert was a shared plate of cheese and cherry blinis topped with vanilla ice cream.

“That was incredible, Ciaran,” Holly said with a sigh as she pushed her plate away. “Thank you.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” he assured her as he stood up and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

New Yorkers – being New Yorkers – noticed the famous British actor and his date, but pretended they didn’t. Holly saw the covert glances cast their way as they left, and the excited whispers behind hands. She suppressed a smile. Thank goodness she’d listened to Chaz and worn this outfit. As always, he was right – otherwise, she would’ve looked like an over-dressed teenager in the publicity photos their outing would generate.

“Where will we go after our carriage ride?” Ciaran inquired as he slid in next to her on the back seat. “We’ve all of Manhattan at our disposal.” He nodded imperceptibly at the driver, and the car glided forward.

“Well,” Holly said, studying the colorful blur of taxis as they flashed past the Town Car’s tinted windows, “we could take a walk through Times Square.”

“We could,” he agreed. “But I’d be mobbed. Perhaps instead,” he added as he leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers as he took her hand, “we could go back to my hotel room, and get to know each another better.”