Katie Oliver - Love And Liability

“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.

Relieved to see Alex and Camilla deep in conversation with her father across the room, she took a seat as far away from them as possible on the sofa.

As she made polite conversation with Lady Blandford, Holly took a small square of Cheddar skewered with a frilly toothpick and a very lengthy sip of Prosecco.

“I don’t know how you young people deal with that dreadful traffic every day!” the earl’s wife was saying. “It’s such a waste of one’s valuable time.”

“Yes, the traffic out of the city today was awful,” Holly agreed. “Do you go to London often?”

Her ladyship gave a shudder. “Oh, heavens, no. I make it a point to avoid London at all costs.”