“Where’s home?” she asked as she pushed the shop door open, her mind busily searching her wardrobe for possibilities. If only she had one of those little black dresses, the kind that took a girl anywhere. But the only black outfit she owned was the suit she wore to funerals. Besides being very tailored, black was not her colour.
“East Balmain,” he replied as he followed her inside the shop. “I bought a new apartment on the point there a few weeks ago.”
“Oh, right,” she said, not really listening to him. What on earth was she going to wear?
“I shouldn’t be late,” he went on, “but give me your number, just in case.”
“What? Oh, yes, my phone number.” She hurried over to the long table that served as a reception desk and work station, picking up one of the business cards from the stack that sat in a plastic stand on the corner.
“Jot down your cell-phone number on it as well,” he said before she could hand it to him. “You must have a cell phone,” he added when she lifted blank eyes to him.
“Yes, but…” She was about to say why would he want that when she wouldn’t be seeing him again after tonight. But then she thought, why be so negative? He might be at a loose end another night and think of her. Who knew?
“Okay,” she agreed, picking up a Biro off the table and writing the number on the back of the business card.
“See you at seven-thirty,” he said after she handed him the card.
“Could you make it closer to eight?”
He nodded. “Eight it is, then.” And he was gone.
Holly watched him stride past the shop window on his way up the hill, watched him and tried to come to terms with the fact that in two short hours Richard Crawford would return to take her out. Richard Crawford. Mrs Crawford’s son. The CEO of a bank. A man, not only of impeccable background and breeding, but impeccable dress sense.
“Oh, hell,” she squawked, and dashed for the stairs.
CHAPTER SIX
BY FIVE to eight, Holly’s nerves had reached lift-off.
She’d done the best she could with her appearance, but typically, when you were in a state, things went wrong from the start. She’d spent far too long trying to put together the semblance of a classy outfit, discarding everything in her wardrobe till finally she’d come across an outfit she’d bought for a wedding at least four years back, a three-piece number in pale blue.
It had a straight, calf-length skirt, a beaded camisole with a highish round neckline and a filmy over-jacket with three-quarter sleeves that shouted “wedding guest” at her when she put it on, but at least it didn’t look cheap. If she’d had the time, she might have taken the hem up on the skirt, but an hour had skipped by before she could blink. It had been seven by the time she’d jumped into the shower.
Putting her hair up, as she’d mentally planned, had been out of the question. She always took ages to do it that way. So she’d blow-dried it dead straight, then hurriedly put the sides up with some clear combs.
By then it had been seven thirty-five, leaving only twenty-five minutes to do her make-up and nails. Not nearly enough time to do a good job. In the end, she’d settled for a fairly natural look with her face. Fortunately, she could get away without foundation, having clear skin that always tanned to a nice honey colour by the end of summer. A hint of blue eye shadow, a few strokes of black mascara, some coral lipstick and her face was done.
Her nails had presented a real problem, however. You needed steady hands to do your nails properly. Hers had been shaking like a leaf. After a couple of attempts Holly had given up, wiping the smudged coral polish off and leaving her nails totally au naturel. Fortunately, she always took care of her nails. She had to, with her job, so they were always neat and clean and well filed to a nice shape.
But she wasn’t happy. She’d wanted to be perfect.
A swift glance at her bedside clock now showed two minutes to eight. She almost wished Richard would be late. She still had to put some perfume on, plus her earrings, if she could decide which ones looked best. The pearl drops, or the gold. She held a different one up against each ear but wasn’t sure. Neither looked quite right, perhaps because the camisole was beaded.
The shop doorbell ringing made up her mind for her. Neither.
“Oh, God,” she muttered as she shoved her feet into the ivory high heels that had been bought to go with the outfit, and which hadn’t seen the light of day since. The same with the ivory evening bag. Sweeping it up from her bed, she headed for the stairs, totally forgetting the perfume till she reached the bottom. Too late, then. She could see Richard standing outside the shop window, not wearing a dinner suit, but looking sensational all the same in a superbly tailored black suit with one of those collarless shirts underneath. A steely grey, it was, the same colour as his eyes.