Free Transplanting Holly Oakwood by Di Jones

a different style?”
    Holly looked back into the mirror at the half stone of flabby white flesh she needed to shed, wrapped in tight pink jersey. “No. Thanks.”
    Back on the boardwalk she stomped along, unhappier than she’d been when she started out this morning. The crowds thickened as she neared Venice, the atmosphere loud and congenial. Musicians, comics, magicians, and religious zealots grandstanded for the attention of passersby, and the smell of hamburgers and fried onions wafted in the breeze. It wasn’t unlike Camden Market on a Sunday morning, except for the beautiful weather, beach and palm trees.
    She wriggled through a knot of people who were watching a group of Roman-God-like bodybuilders, oiled and pumped to perfection, flexing and preening for the crowd. A tall, tanned living statue with flowing dreadlocks moved in front of her, curling a lethal looking barbell like it was a toothbrush. He winked, twisted, then bowed, his taut cheeks bursting out of his fluorescent g-string.
    “Ooh, look at him, isn’t he gorgeous?” A woman beside her drew in her breath in admiration.
    “He’s a poofter. Probably dresses in drag at night,” scoffed the woman’s burly companion, sucking in his belly.
    “Hey, watch what you’re doing,” someone shouted as a group of youths rushed towards Holly. In the next instant she stumbled to the pavement. A sharp pain shot up her arm.
    “Let me help you up,” said the burly man, squatting beside her. “Young thugs.” He gestured, but they’d run off. “Are you hurt?”
    She got up slowly, and felt her elbow. “I landed in a funny position, but I’m fine. Thanks for your help.”
    She watched him and his partner walk away, wishing she’d asked them to have coffee with her. Too late, but she could murder one herself, and a bite to eat.
    A small unpretentious lunch bar was ahead and she walked in and stood in the queue.
    “Seven dollars, please,” said the girl behind the till.
    “My wallet’s gone,” she said, frantically patting her pockets. “I was knocked over outside. Must have dropped it.”
    The girl gave her a sympathetic look. “Pickpockets. They’re all over the place and they’re good. Got to be careful out there.” She nodded towards the beach.
    “I’ll have to put this back,” she said, picking up the sandwich from her tray.
    “Let me,” said a familiar voice. The hairdresser from Santa Monica extended a ten dollar bill to the cashier.
    She searched her memory for his name. “Charlie? Thanks.”
    “Glad I can be of help. Mind if I join you?”
    “You’re not working in the salon today?”
    “Day off. I love Venice, always something happening here, as you’ve discovered. Are you staying locally?”
    “Yes, down the beach at the Shangri-La. I can’t remember where you said you lived.”
    “Not far from the salon. Got the bus over here.” A wide grin split his face in two. “As you know, I don’t drive, but I’m not a car thief either. If you let me buy you lunch, I’ll tell you about that.”
    They took a table and he recounted the story. Before long they were chatting like old friends, discussing her break up with Tom, and last night’s phone call.
    “I don’t know what to do.” She frowned. “Should I stay or should I go?”
    “That’d make a great song.” He hummed the first bars then belted out the words with gusto, tapping the table in accompaniment. “Should I stay or should I go?” His voice was seriously off key but what he lacked in technique he made up for in confidence.
    “Part of me wants to pack up and get the first plane home.”
    “Don’t. You’ve only been here a couple of months. Not long enough to settle in and stop missing him.”
    “You’re right. Be a mistake to rush back to a bastard who cheated on me. I’d lose all my self respect and my friends would disown me.”
    “You have to do what’s best for you,” he said kindly. “It doesn’t matter what your friends think.”
    “If I’m