Page 16 of All About Christmas

“Listen, you don’t really have to help, do you?” murmurs Olivier, whom I have propelled into the corner of the ladies’ room to carefully wipe away the stains I made on his jacket with a paper towel, some soap from the pump, and a bit of hot water.

“Oh, yes, I do,” I reply. “My bank account will not survive another receipt from your dry cleaners.” I walk over to the sink and wet a new towel. “Where did you get it cleaned in the first place?”

Olivier shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Where I always take my laundry.”

I lift my head. “Where you always take your laundry? You know there are washing machines these days, right?”

Olivier snorts. “My way is easier. My clothes stay clean longer and all the stains get out. And that’s damn convenient now that I have you as a colleague.”

I give him a dirty look, but I see that he has his eyes closed and is leaning his head against the wall. He has a persistent twitch about his jaw.

“Hm,” I say and turn my attention back to my chore. I bend back a little to survey my work. “I think I got all the...” My gaze falls on a stain on his right pants pocket. “Oh, no, you don’t.” I sink to my knees and pounce on the prominent blemish.

I feel him stiffen under my hands.

“Holly, what are you doing?”

With my tongue between my lips, I tackle the stain with concentration. “Helping you,” I mutter.

“Holly, you really don’t have to.”

“I’ve already started. Just give me a minute.”

“Holly...”

From behind me, I hear the door open, followed by a startled scream. I turn my head at lightning speed and find myself face to knees with Tina from HR. I look up to see her slam her hand in front of her mouth, her eyes widening dramatically.

“What are you—” She begins as she moves her hand from covering her mouth to her closed eyes. “You know what? Never mind. I, um... I’ll just use the men’s room.” She turns around even faster than a souped-up spinning top and disappears behind the door.

“Shit,” I mutter as I stare at the closed door. A wave of embarrassment washes over me. “What do you suppose she thought we were doing?”

“A game of bridge, I think.”

“Really?”

“No.”

I let out a deep sigh. “And now?”

“Now you get back up and we forget this ever happened.”

That sounds like music to my ears, and I push myself off the ground so I can stand again, but then my hair gets caught on something at a very awkward height. I curse inwardly.

“Are you coming?”

“I, um...” I bite my lip as I try to move my head. I can’t. “Ouch!” I shout. My hands clench tightly on Olivier’s thighs.

“What the...” Olivier curses loudly. “What the hell have you done now?”

I squeeze my eyes shut stiffly, hoping this is a bad dream. “I’m stuck,” I squeak.

“Yes, I can see you’re stuck. But how are you stuck?”

“I can’t really tell.”

Once again, I hear the door open, the sound of someone’s audible gasp, and then the thud of the door slamming shut.

Only the drip of a broken faucet fills the room. Olivier lets out a deep sigh. “Let’s go into a stall and sort this out there before any more people come in and end up thinking the worst.”

“Yes. Okay.” As best I can, I turn my head a little to the right and get a view of a stall door. “And how are we going to do this?”

“I shuffle a little to the left, and you to the right. Slowly.”

“Okay. Good plan.” I slide my feet inch by inch across the floor. My stiletto heels scuff across the marble tiles. “Ouch! Careful!” I hiss when Olivier steps just a little too fast, pulling a few hairs from my skull. “And I was so happy with my hairstyle tonight.”

Olivier makes a sound midway between a laugh and a groan. “I’ll count to three, okay? On three, we take a step sideways toward the toilet at the same time.”

I try to nod, which is silly for two reasons: first, because I unintentionally pull even more hair out of my head, and second, because Olivier can’t even see it.

I let out a painful moan after which I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes. Sounds good.”

“Okay—one, two, three.”

Like a North Sea crab with zero control of its legs, we scuttle over the tiles. My hands clench tightly on Olivier’s pants to keep myself from losing my balance and being forced to visit the wig store tomorrow.

When we finally reach the privacy of the stall, the mechanical click of the lock being turned sounds, and we both breathe a sigh of relief.

“Huh, huh,” puffs Olivier, and I feel his long fingers tickling my head. “Let’s see how it’s caught.”

He fiddles with his belt and, slowly but surely, I feel the tension that was on several hairs easing. “Yes!” he shouts triumphantly when I can move my head again. “You’re free!”

My legs tremble with exertion after maintaining such a deep squat. It takes effort to get up, something Olivier seems to have noticed, because I feel two big hands around my waist as he pulls me up until we’re at eye level. Suddenly, he is close. Very close.

“Much better now.” He swallows. “Right?”

He should have let go of my waist by now, but he doesn’t. In fact, his fingertips press deeper into my skin.

My front teeth scrape across my lower lip, and his gaze shoots to my mouth. His pupils dilate until only a thin rim of his dark brown irises is visible.

My heart hammers fanatically against my ribs, and my breathing quickens.

I feel something in my lower abdomen. An itch that somehow strangely tells me I’m not close enough to Olivier.

An itch that wants me to wrap my arms around his neck and pull him tightly against me so that I can taste how he tastes.

So that I can feel his smooth hair between my fingers when I open my mouth against his.

His Adam’s apple moves nervously up and down as he swallows.

“Holly?” he asks softly, his voice husky and a tad incredulous.

A shudder passes through my body as his right hand slowly slides up the side of my body and sweeps a stray strand of hair from my face.

He looks at me with a mixture of desire and confusion.

And I have my answer to the question of whether you can be attracted to someone you don’t like.

But at the same time, I also know that jumping on my competitor is far from convenient.

And since the champagne that really should have been in my stomach by now has been absorbed by paper towels I have yet to deposit in the trash, I am not sufficiently under the influence to make such a reckless decision.

Carefully, I place my hands on his chest, and I push him back a little.

A deep frown appears between his eyebrows, and he exhales heavily through his nose. He closes his eyes for a moment and then nods.

“Let’s go,” I say and turn to open the door.

The presentation of the Golden Televizier Ring proceeds in a haze of confetti, clapping, and praise.

Frankly, I don’t catch much of it. Because we were held up in the ladies’ room, there are only seats left in the back.

Apart from the fact that I’m sitting behind the Euromast’s twin brother, which means I can’t see much, I’m still reeling a little over the fact that I almost exchanged enzymes with Olivier just now.

My head is sufficiently present to realize that All About Love did not win any prizes.

Although Gabriel could be seen smiling broadly and clapping on the screen behind the stage when the results were announced, I know him well enough to know that, when he gets home, he will open all the kitchen cupboards and stuff himself with any sugary substance he can find in the hopes of tempering his disappointment somewhat.

As people trickle out of the room to get to the afterparty, I see Gabriel escaping through a side door with his head bowed.

“Hey, where were you?” chimes Noor’s voice suddenly from the right.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into the crowd.

I glance over my shoulder for a second, and my gaze hooks onto Olivier’s, who looks at me inscrutably, only to be startled out of it when his father’s girlfriend appears suddenly beside him.

She places a hand on his upper arm, and he gives it a look of revulsion that could land him a role in The Last of Us .

We follow the crowd into another room filled with upbeat music. From Nirvana to ABBA, anything goes.

I grab a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, figuring it would be better absorbed by my liver rather than a few paper towels.

“ Come on! Time to hit the dance floor!” shouts Noor above the crowd. I barely understand her, but by her enthusiastic nod in the direction of the huge disco ball, I get the gist of what she is saying.

We manoeuvre past people twisting their hips wildly.

I throw back my champagne in one gulp and enjoy the feeling.

My eyelids flutter closed, and my body moves to the rhythm of the music.

The bass pounds through my body, and I try to shake off everything from the past: from the news of finding out that I was up against Olivier for the promotion to the fact that I almost wanted to kiss him just now.

Noor leans toward me. “Handsome man at twelve o’clock who can’t take his eyes off you,” she hisses in my ear.

I follow her gaze and look straight into the eyes of Olivier, who is standing at the edge of the dance floor with a beer in his hand. He takes a sip but keeps looking at me in a way that makes my knees go weak. With a jerk, I turn back to Noor.

“That’s Olivier,” I say, slightly annoyed.

Noor shrugs her shoulders, smiling. “That doesn’t make what I just said any less true.”

I shake my head slightly, as if that could erase the thought of secretly liking the way he looks at me from my mind.

The champagne flows profusely and as I finish my fourth glass, I sense that someone has come up behind me.

Two hands close around my hips and move along to the beat of the music.

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and see a handsome man standing behind me.

I recognize him from some show whose name I can’t remember very well.

I think it was something about baboons. Or was it Bugattis? Something with a B, in any case.

I shake my head. For the moment, it all doesn’t really matter to me. Right now, I am enjoying dancing with a handsome man who doesn’t make stupid comments about me, who hasn’t made it his mission to snatch my promotion from under my nose. I turn around and put my arms loosely around his neck.

His eyes sparkle. He leans forward, and his warm breath brushes past my ear when he says, “You look beautiful. That dress looks great on you.”

I smile broadly. “Thank you.”

His hand slides down my arm to my hand; then he holds it above my head and makes me do a pirouette. I land with my back against his belly again, and so we move along to the beat of the music.

When I dare to venture a glance over at Olivier again, he is nowhere to be seen.