Love And Liability. Katie Oliver

breakfast tomorrow.”

      Cherie turned to her daughter. “We’ll talk later, darling. Drinks in the drawing room at seven, mind, don’t be late. Mrs Henley,” she called out briskly as she headed back to the house, “surely we can send someone to the village to get some eggs…”

      “But the market’s closed, and I can’t spare anyone—”

      “I’ll send Alastair to Tesco,” Cherie told her. “Problem sorted.”

      Holly skirted past the two of them into the house and headed up the stairs to her old room. Once inside her bedroom — its pale pink and green striped walls still plastered with childhood posters of pop stars, shirtless footballers, and horses — she shut the door and threw her duffel bag on a chair.

      She’d tossed the latest issue of BritTEEN in her duffel at the last minute but hadn’t had time to look at it yet. Her “One Outrageous Question” interview with Alex Barrington was inside, and she was dying to read it.

      It was only five-thirty…plenty of time to shower and change before seven. Holly grabbed the magazine, belly-flopped down on the bed, and flipped eagerly to page thirty-seven.

      There was the photo of Alex she’d submitted, showing him bare-chested at the helm — bow? she could never keep it straight — of a sailboat. He looked, as always, deliciously gorgeous. She dragged her eyes away from his photo and read the interview.

      Financial solicitor…QSRs…a few sentences dealing with dead-boring monetary stuff…and — hold on! What was this?

      Holly sat bolt upright, the magazine clutched in her hands.

      It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be…

      When Alex had objected to her original Outrageous Question, Sasha let Holly email him a different question following the interview. He hadn’t much liked that one either.

      But he’d answered the question — boxers, or briefs? — in typical Alex fashion — “Boxers. Briefs are naff, as are Speedos. And I fail to see the relevance of this ridiculous question” — and that was that.

      Or so she’d thought. Yet here it was, Alex’s off-the-record, I-can-say-it-but-you-can’t-print-it comment, in all its black and white glory:

      BritTEEN: Sex on the first date? Yes or no?

      AB: I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely.

      “Oh, no,” Holly groaned. “No, no, no!” How was this possible? She’d submitted the article with the second question, not the first. She knew she had. Yet there it was, along with Alex’s answer, for the entire world to see!

      Where was the bit Alex said just before he threw her out, about the couple being responsible and consenting adults, and not ‘spotty-faced teenagers with raging hormones’? Her eyes raced over the text.

      It wasn’t in the interview. Anywhere.

      Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

      Even worse, Alex’s remark that he might stand for MP — also off the record — had been included as well.

      How in hell had that happened?

      Holly thought back to that night, typing away on her laptop. She’d emailed the first draft to Sasha, and asked to make changes before it went to Valery, but Sasha hadn’t listened. Annoyed, she’d had a vodka and grapefruit to drink — well, two, actually — and then Alex had called.

      Holly racked her brain. She vaguely remembered running the interview through spell check, but the rest was a blank.

      She scrambled off the bed and pulled out her laptop. It only took a moment to confirm that the document she’d emailed to Sasha and Valery contained no off-the-record remarks.

      She frowned, perplexed. Had she sent another, second email? Her fingertips raced over the keyboard as she checked the ‘sent’ mail folder, and she froze.

      There was a second email, sent an hour after the first, to Sasha.

      She opened the email and saw, to her horror, another version of her interview…

      A version that included all of Alex’s comments.

      Oh, shit.

      Holly grabbed her mobile. Damage control was needed, and right away. Frantically she searched for Alex’s number. He’d called her just a few days ago…where was his bloody number…?

      Ah, here it was. Last Friday night, elevenish — bingo.

      After two rings, the line clicked. “Barrington here. Leave a message.”

      “Alex,” Holly blurted, “it’s Holly James. There’s been a bit of a…mix-up, and your off-the-record’s been published in BritTEEN. I’m terribly, horribly sorry. Call me as soon as you get this!”

      She pressed ‘End Call’ and scrolled to Sasha Davis’s number.

      “Hello,” Sasha’s cool, plummy voice intoned, “you’ve reached voicemail for Sasha Davis. Please leave a brief message.”

      “Sasha,” Holly said in rush, “there’s been a massive mistake. My interview with Alex is in the new issue…and his off-the-record comments are in there, too. Call me, please.”

      With a trembling finger she rang off. Sasha would be livid. Valery would be livid. And Alex Barrington would be the most livid of all.

      He’d never, ever forgive her for this.

      It was nearly half-past six, time to get ready for the drinks party. At the thought of getting through an interminable evening of polite chit-chat with her parents’ neighbours while her career imploded around her, Holly groaned. She could always make her excuses and leave…

      But she didn’t want to disappoint her father. Besides, she needed him to take a look at the Skoda’s engine. The red fault light had come on again. And she certainly didn’t have the money to pay for car repairs — or next month’s rent…

      Resignedly Holly stepped out of her clothes and went into the en-suite bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the upcoming evening’s ordeal.

      The muted sound of jazz and murmured conversation drifted up to Holly as she descended the stairs to the drawing room.

      Tugging at the hem of her dress, a brown pinstriped Biba she’d found in the Camden market, Holly fixed a smile on her face and clicked across the foyer in her t-strap heels. Right, then, let’s get this over with…

      “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