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CHAPTER EIGHT
I have allowed myself to believe the playboy and I have something going on. How? Last night we got close—closer than I’m comfortable sharing in a public forum such as this.
Then he said his place was fixed and he’d be out of my hair shortly. Please don’t pity me! I can do that for myself. And he wasn’t proposing to turn the penthouse into a gilded cage where I can recline and paint my toenails until he finds time to visit, because as far as the playboy is concerned I am yesterday’s news. Better to have lusted and lost than never to have lusted at all? Maybe we’ve all thought that at one time or another. Maybe we’ve all been wrong.
And the playboy? He’s just the same—i.e. confident and busy, leaving me to get on with my life while he gets on with his. Which is ideal—or it should be, but I want someone to share things with, without getting laughed at or dismissed and he would never do that. I’d like to be part of his life—the private part that doesn’t get written about—little things like sharing glances and second-guessing each other that’s nothing and everything in the end. Maybe I deserve your pity after all …
SHE had got exactly what she deserved for allowing reality and fantasy to collide, Holly concluded, impatiently dashing away tears as she walked back to the penthouse after taking Bouncer for his early morning walk. She and Ruiz might have clung to each other and gazed into each other’s eyes, and in the throes of passion she might have believed anything was possible, but he was still going back to Argentina.
Leaving her to get on with her career. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted? What she should want? What it was safest to want? So, why did she feel as if the bottom had just dropped out of her world?
This was all grist to the publishing mill, Holly concluded as she opened the door on an empty apartment. She should make use of the angst and write something to entertain. No one read the ‘Living with a Playboy’ feature to hear her moaning. She’d make something funny out of it—
Really?
So the idea just hadn’t come to her yet, Holly reasoned, gazing out of the window at the frigid London street with its powdering of frost. But it would, she determined, stripping off her coat. Flinging her beanie and scarf onto a chair, she tossed out her hair. Ruiz was right about it being freezing outside. But why should he care if she was well wrapped up or not? Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of his dog-walker-in-chief getting sick—
Enough Ruiz.
Enough! Enough! Out of my head now!
There was something she wanted to do before she left for work, and it did run contrary to rule number one: rely on no one but yourself. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Most of the mail for the agony-aunt column came in anonymously—and who needed help more than she did? She hurried to her laptop and quickly created an e-mail address for this one, very special purpose, and then, typing in the message, she pressed Send before she had the chance to change her mind.
So this is what it feels like to be a dedicated career woman, Holly reflected, ready for work, having applied more make-up than usual. Were her lips supposed to feel as if they were superglued together? Grimacing as she peeled them apart, she removed the overdose of gloss with a tissue, then reclaimed her nightclothes from the floor where Ruiz had flung them the night before. Resolutely shutting her mind to thoughts of how they had come to be on the floor, she tossed them into the washing basket, but then she couldn’t resist plucking out the top again on the pretext of checking if it had more than one button missing. She held it briefly to her face and inhaled, as if Ruiz’s spicy scent might still linger in the brushed cotton folds.
What was she doing? She wanted no reminders of last night. Dropping the top into the basket, she picked up the cryptic note Ruiz had left her about the cold weather and aimed it at the bin. She was ready for anything now—and positively buzzing with ideas for the column. Last night was another learning experience in her new London life, and this morning was a reflection of the woman she had become, i.e. tough Holly—tougher, anyway. H
olly who could handle anything, Holly who had grown up overnight and who no one would ever accuse of being naïve again.
She carried that thought to the office, where she was relieved to be rushed off her feet. It gave her no time to think—except about Ruiz, who coloured all her thoughts. They were so busy on the agony-aunt column it looked as if they might have to recruit more people to handle the level of traffic the web site was attracting, not to mention the circulation boost the magazine had received.
All thanks to your column, Holly was told to her embarrassment. ‘We’re a team,’ she insisted as everyone from the neighbouring offices gathered round her.
‘And the team loves reading about your disastrous love life,’ someone commented, which made everyone else laugh.
‘Who doesn’t love to sit knitting at the foot of the guillotine?’ another colleague added with brutal honesty and an ironic laugh.
But it was just that bad, Holly thought, wishing she could write her own happy ending. Then one of the men from marketing distracted her by brandishing a copy of the magazine. ‘Your private life’s not your own any more, Holly. It belongs to all of us now.’
‘Great.’ She forced a laugh.
‘Listen up, everyone,’ one of the girls announced, reading from the monitor. ‘You won’t believe what some idiot has written.’
Holly knew. She knew immediately and only wished she could disappear in a puff of smoke, but it was too late as her colleagues had already rounded her up and were shepherding her towards the screen.
The girl started reading Holly’s message: ‘“I’ve just met a really hot guy, which is great. What’s not so great is that I slept with him on practically the first night when I know the relationship isn’t going anywhere. It certainly can’t now as he just told me he’s moving on. I know you’ll say I should forget him and move on myself. And I would. I really would, but I think I’ve fallen for him …” Can you believe anyone would be that stupid?’ the girl demanded, directing the question at Holly.
‘Don’t be harsh,’ Holly blurted, blushing furiously.
‘No, you’re right,’ the girl agreed when everyone had finally calmed down and stopped laughing. ‘That was bitchy of me. And we’ve all been there, haven’t we?’
When Holly’s colleagues finally calmed down and agreed with this, their team leader, who was in the best of moods for once, called for silence. ‘I’ve got some really good news for all of us. Since the playboy told our beloved redhead Holly that they were splitting, hits to the web site are threatening to crash the system.’
‘Hasn’t the “Living with a Playboy” feature almost run its course?’ Holly suggested desperately, not wanting to go any deeper into this. ‘Should we be thinking of going out on a high? Maybe trying to come up with a new idea for a fresh column?’ She was clutching at straws, Holly realised when she saw the disapproval on her team leader’s face.
‘Are you mad?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t even think about finishing it. Most of the hits are on your page. Your love life is such a mess everyone feels confident writing to you.’
‘Oh, good. My life is a disaster, so everyone’s happy—’
