some harder-hitting stuff, too.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Holly chose her words carefully. “For instance, I pitched an idea just this morning to do a story about teen homelessness in London.”
“No one cares about that,” Zoe retorted. “Especially not the ‘average teenage girl’.”
Annoyed that Zoe was echoing Padma’s sentiments, Holly bristled. “You’re wrong. I think it’s exactly what girls want to know about. What it’s like to live on the streets, how does one manage—”
“One learns to skip-dive,” Zoe interrupted, affecting a posh accent, “and one sleeps on a shelter cot.” She shook her head in disgust. “God, you’re a right prize, you are.”
“What do you mean?” Holly demanded, incensed.
“I mean, what do you know about living on the streets, eh? Your idea of a hardship is probably carrying last season’s bag.”
“That’s not true—”
“And there’s your posh accent, and your clothes.”
Holly stiffened. “What about my clothes?” She glanced down at her paisley-patterned, empire-waist dress.
“You look like you shop at Oxfam. All careless and artsy and ‘I-can-afford-Harvey-Nicks-but-I-buy-second-hand’.”
“Enjoy the coffee,” Holly said tightly, and got to her feet to leave. “And thanks so much for the fashion critique.”
“Don’t get mad,” Zoe said, and shrugged. “I like it, actually. It’s bohemian, mixed-up. Very Alexa Chung.”
“Thanks.” Only slightly mollified, Holly eyed the girl and added, “You seem to know a bit about fashion.”
Again, she shrugged. “I read the magazines sometimes,” she admitted grudgingly. “I study all the designers’ stuff. I know what I like and what I don’t. One day, I want to go to Central Saint Martins and get my degree.”
“Wow,” Holly said, impressed. “That’s quite a goal. Do you want to design clothes? Or do sketch art?”
“Design clothes,” she answered. She glanced down at the safety-pinned T-shirt under her worn leather jacket and back up at Holly, her expression defiant. “This is my homage to the Sex Pistols.”
Holly eyed it and nodded. “It’s good. It’d fetch fifty quid in a boutique. So, tell me, how’d you land here? Why are you sleeping on this bench?”
“Well, I checked, and wouldn’t you know it? Buckingham Palace was booked right up last night.”
Holly pressed her lips together. “There’s a night shelter right round the corner—”
“Yeah, and there’s a queue to get in, and then you risk having your stuff nicked while you sleep. No, thanks.”
“But it has to be better than sleeping here,” Holly persisted.
“Look, thanks for the coffee, okay? I’m fine. I can sleep anywhere.”
Holly set her cup down and reached into her handbag, searching until she unearthed her business card. “I work just there.” She nodded her head at the office tower across the street. “Here’s my card. I’d like to talk to you again. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Brill. We’ll have a chinwag and a shop at Harvey Nicks,” Zoe said, and smirked. But she took the card Holly held out to her and thrust it into her rucksack.
That was exactly the sort of smart-arse thing her sister Hannah would say. She turned to go.
Zoe lifted her coffee cup in farewell. “Ta.”
As Holly made her way across the street and back up the steps to her office building she couldn’t resist a glance back. Zoe — if that was her real name — had taken the muffin out, and, after looking furtively around, crammed it hurriedly in her mouth…
For all the world as if she was afraid Holly might come back and snatch it away again.
A stack of mail waited in the slot when Holly returned home that evening. She withdrew the envelopes and flicked through them with mounting dismay. British Gas. Student Loan Association. Car payment. Car insurance…
Which reminded her, the Skoda was acting wonky. Which meant it probably needed repairs, she reflected grimly, which meant spending more money she didn’t have.
It was sad, really — she used to look forward to getting the mail. The post was always full of pleasant surprises like magazines and free samples and college catalogues. Now, with her finances in a tailspin and her father refusing to bail her out, going through her correspondence was an ordeal.
All the Royal Mail brought her these days was bills.
Holly let herself into the flat and tossed the post down on the hall table. She needed a second job…and fast.
A noxious smell greeted her.
“I’m making us dinner, Hols,” Kate called out from the kitchen. “My tofu stir-fry and homemade tzatziki are coming right up.”
Holly winced. ‘Coming right up’ was apt, in more ways than one. The last time Kate made Tzatziki, it was a curdled mess. She had no illusions that tonight’s would be any better.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Holly said. “I suppose I should stockpile the falafel, though — since I won’t be able to afford to eat soon, much less pay my share of the rent.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
She popped a cucumber slice in her mouth. “I’ve got too little incoming, and too much outgoing.”
“What about your dad? He usually helps you out.”
“He told me in no uncertain terms that my free ride is over. I’ll have to get another job.”
Kate turned to stare at her. “Quit BritTEEN, you mean?”
“No, of course not. I mean, I’ll need a second job.”
“Sasha doesn’t allow moonlighting,” Kate reminded her. “If she finds out, she’ll sack you.”
“I know. And I can’t afford to lose my job.” She looked up with a frown. “You won’t tell her, will you?”
Kate turned back to her tzatziki. “Of course not,” she said cheerily. “We’re mates, after all, aren’t we?”
Just before noon, Alex Barrington arrived at BritTEEN’s reception desk.
“Hello,” he said to one of the three girls behind the counter. “I’m here to see Ms Holly James.”
Her
