Page 15 of All About Christmas

The red carpet is filled with famous people, each looking stunning and being briefly interviewed by journalists. Some faces I recognize from the soap opera Good Times, Bad Times, others from Dutch public broadcasting shows.

The television world is small, and so I am greeted from all sides by people I’ve met before. I give the host of the show Talking with Petra a quick hug and continue walking down the runner.

The cameras of RTL Boulevard and Shownieuws , another entertainment news show, find me—and all those others working behind the scenes—of little interest. I don’t mind that at all.

What I do regret is that, as a result, there is significantly less evidence of the fact that I—Holly Winters—was present at the Golden Televizier-Ring Gala.

Something I could only dream of during my school days.

And which my teacher thought would never happen.

Although she might have been justified in her judgement when I miraculously managed to book an interview with One Direction, only to find out afterwards that I had forgotten to take the cap off the video camera lens.

To have some memento of tonight, Noor and I pose for the camera hired by tonight’s organizers.

Noor has slipped her long legs into green pants and wears a matching blazer. Her red hair balances in an elegant bun on her head.

I am wearing the dress I chose with Maggie a week ago. The fabric sticks to my body like a second skin and the hem rustles across the floor with every step I take. The sequins glitter in the camera’s flash.

I went to the hairdresser yesterday, refreshing my pink hair, and I spent an hour in front of the mirror this afternoon doing my makeup for tonight.

I don’t believe perfection exists, but the winged eyeliner I drew on my eyelids comes pretty close.

It’s rare that I manage to apply it so symmetrically.

When the photographer has clicked the button so many times that there must be a successful picture among them, we go inside.

In the centre of the reception hall stands a pyramid of coupe glasses filled with champagne.

From the high, decorated ceiling hangs a huge chandelier equipped with even more crystals than the king had during the coronation.

“Oh, this is so much fun!” says Noor gleefully. She walks toward a waiter who carefully plucks glasses of champagne from the tower and hands them to people. “Hey, there’s Olivier!”

I slowly turn around and see Olivier walking in our direction. He is wearing a black tailored suit again with a dark blue bow tie. His hair is neatly styled and seems slightly shorter.

He’s not alone. Of course he’s not alone.

John Wolfs, who has placed his hand on the lower back of a beautiful blonde, walks beside him. Although Olivier does his best to maintain the confident gait he has made his own, he looks a lot more tense than usual. His jaw is tight, and he seems wary.

While in the company of his father, the Wolfs last name does not suit Olivier very well.

Next to him, he is more of a cub than a wolf.

John Wolfs, on the contrary, is the embodiment of his name.

You could even put “big bad” in front of it.

He exudes a form of self-assurance that makes others feel small.

As if he could swallow you up like some beast after which a hunter would have to cut you out of his belly to save you.

I try my best not to smile too sheepishly when they come to a stop in front of us and he looks at me piercingly.

I feel Noor shuffling back and forth uncomfortably.

I don’t really know what to do either. If I also had red hair on my head, I would be even more uncomfortable with the man standing across from us.

We all know what happens to Little Red Riding Hood when she asks her “grandmother” why she has such a big mouth.

There’s a very strange atmosphere in the air. Finally, I decide to hold out my hand.

John looks at it for a few moments, then lowers his big claw into mine.

“Holly Winters. Pleasure to meet you,” I say.

Something changes in John’s gaze, something that makes the uneasy feeling in my stomach grow. “Ah. So, you’re the one my son is competing with for the position of editor.”

“The one and only,” I say, smiling nervously.

“Hm. Nice to meet you,” he says in a tone that somehow makes me feel like he doesn’t mean it. As if he doesn’t believe in wasting his precious time talking to the rabble.

He then looks at the woman standing next to him.

If I didn’t know better, I would think she was Olivier’s sister.

The fact that I do know better is not only because I saw her in that picture with John Wolfs on the beach, but also because, every so often, she looks longingly at Olivier, who seems to do his utmost to ignore her gaze.

He straightens his bow tie and instead of paying attention to his father’s girlfriend, he turns to me. His gaze slips slowly from my feet, along my hips to finally linger just a little too long at my breasts. Then he looks straight into my eyes.

While normally he would have a mocking twitch around his mouth, that is not the case now. Something simmers in his gaze that causes a warm flush in my lower abdomen. Somehow, I can’t manage to look away.

“Hey, there’s Chantal,” John says then. “I’m going to say a quick hello.” He turns to his girlfriend and Olivier. “Are you coming?”

The brunette nods, but Olivier shakes his head. “No, I’ll stay with my colleagues. I’ll see you in a minute.”

“Fine. See you soon.” John places his hand back on the lower back of the blonde and guides her toward the hall.

As soon as they are out of earshot, Olivier’s shoulders visibly relax, and a nonchalant grin reappears on his face. He grabs a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and immediately takes a big gulp.

“Hm. Nice stuff.” He smacks his lips a little, as if to get another taste, and nods to Noor. “Nice outfit.”

“Oh, um... thank you,” she says, surprised by the unexpected compliment.

“Holly...” He gives me a crooked smile, and for a moment I think he’ll say something about my outfit too.

Something like “Nice dress” or “Good God, how can you walk in those heels!” But Olivier wouldn’t be Olivier if he did.

Instead, he says: “Nice to see you in a festive outfit for once without being three sheets to the wind.”

I snort loudly, shake my head, and make to walk away.

I take a step forward, but I forget to lift my dress a bit.

The tip of my pump gets caught behind the hem, and before I realize what’s happening, I tumble forward.

Noor screams and Olivier’s eyes widen with surprise.

My glass shoots out of my hand and flies through the air, after which it clatters with its contents against Olivier’s blazer.

Because the glass was still full and I have better command of my reflexes, I move like a trained alley cat and manage to stay balanced. When I stand upright again, I inspect the damage: the fabric of my dress is still completely intact and dry.

Olivier, on the other hand, is less fortunate.

“Damn,” he curses softly as he watches the champagne drip off his clothes. He raises his head, his nostrils twitching. “You definitely have something against this jacket, don’t you?”