Transplanting Holly Oakwood Read Online Free Page A

stream of traffic raced by like a Formula One loop, and she drove out, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She went slowly round the block, looking for the familiar green of Starbucks, which she’d spotted earlier. An empty car park was right out front and she edged past it, indicated, put the car into reverse and touched the pedal. She backed carefully, but went in too wide. She moved out, lined up the car up again but this time came in too close, bumping the kerb. A compact? What rubbish. This car was about as compact as her arse.
    “Hey, lady, need a hand?” A group of youths laughed raucously from the sidewalk.
    She bit her lip, put the car into drive and pulled out into the steam of traffic without looking. A horn blared loudly and she waved apologetically, then recircled the block. Round and round she went, hoping each time the youths had moved on. After five circuits she pulled into a side street where she found a space big enough to drive straight into. She got out of the car, grimacing when she saw she was spanning two spaces. She wasn’t game to try again, so she pulled her oversized sunglasses on before turning the corner and walking back to Starbucks, resolving that next time she’d find a drive-through.
    Twenty minutes later she left Starbucks sipping her second Caramel Macchiato, the brew sweet and syrupy on her tongue. Wide eyed and alert, her confidence rising, she circled back to Wilshire Boulevard, travelling along the ribbon-like road at a steady sixty.
    “Jesus.” She slammed on the brakes, and came to a screeching halt metres from a pedestrian. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?” she yelled though the window, her pulse beating erratically. “Have you got a death wish or something?”
    “You stupid woman, you nearly ran me over.” The man’s fists beat the bonnet in a staccato frenzy. “You could’ve killed me.” He moved to the window, his face inches from hers. His stubble was stark against his pallor and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been on the turps all morning. “You blind or something?”
    “No, I’m not blind. You jumped out and I didn’t have time to stop. Have you been drinking?”
    His eyes bulged, his skin flushed puce and the veins on his neck pulsed. “The sign. Didn’t you see the sign?” He waved at something behind him.
    As she looked in the direction he was waving, another pedestrian stepped jauntily into the road and a car came to a controlled stop beside her. She stared at the pedestrian, then at the car, and understanding dawned.
    “Stupid bitch. Watch where you’re going. You’re gonna kill someone.” He kicked her door and flipped her the bird before continuing on his way.
    She slumped over the steering wheel, aghast that a pedestrian crossing would be placed somewhere it was barely visible to drivers. She’d have to be on her toes, and more importantly the brakes, at all times. Thoughtfully she restarted the car. If she was stressed out about driving in America, imagine how the poor bugger she’d almost killed must be feeling.
    Safely back at the Shangri-La she backed into an empty space, pleased for an opportunity to practice her parking without stares and catcalls. In first time, compact intact. She locked the car and walked to her apartment, her footsteps echoing eerily in the deserted corridors.
     
     
    She woke with a grumbling stomach and cursed herself for forgetting to shop. It was Sunday and if she remembered correctly, free brunch day at the Shangri-La. If she was the only person there, at least she’d be able to eat loads.
    The smell of warm pastries and coffee wafted from the dining room. She stood in the doorway, hesitant and awkward. Groups of people were laughing and chatting companionably, their plates piled high from the buffet table. It was loaded with platters of bacon and cold cuts, fried eggs, scrambled eggs and boiled eggs. Donuts, breads, and bagels. Muffins, Danish pastries and donuts. Donuts, donuts, donuts.