When Rosie returned home from her work Sara finally got the chance to pour her feelings out, along with pouring out a large glass of wine. Rosie sat open-mouthed, popping a Malteser into it every now and then, as her flatmate told her about her day. Rosie looked on in awe and disbelief almost at the chair that Victoria Glass had sat in, imagining perhaps that she was still present. She could still smell her criminally expensive perfume. She was even tempted to pitch a story to her editor, “Victoria Glass Comes To Clapham”, but rightly thought better of it.
After being somewhat dumbfounded by her friend’s eventful afternoon Rosie did provide some potential answers to questions Sara had.
“How comes he hasn’t told me about how he feels?” Sara asked, wrinkling up her face and squeezing her hands into two small fists in frustration and confusion.
“From what you’ve said it seems that he’s quite old-fashioned. Maybe he wants to speak to you face to face.”
“But it’s now been well over a week since I’ve last heard from him. What’s changed?”
Sara here came up with an answer to her own question. Around a fortnight ago she had set up a Facebook and Twitter page for her author – programming things so that he could follow her pages and news too. Had Adam checked his feeds and discovered that Sara was single again?
“The question you should really be asking yourself is not how comes things have changed, but what are you going now to do about? Do you like him?”
“He could be the best thing that ever, or never, happens to me Rosie... He makes me feel that anything is possible... I’m not sure if I would be applying for jobs, writing a novel or getting in touch with Carly again without him... I can’t sleep properly, thinking about what could happen between us and what I might have missed out on... But the person I want to get close to is three thousand miles away... Adam knows everyone. Nigh on everyone he meets likes him. But I know he’s lonely. He needs someone and I want to be that someone, who kisses the tears away... He saw and did things in Afghanistan that still haunt him, I think... This is not just about giving him a chance. It’s about giving me, us, a chance... We’re forever reading magazine articles or watching TV programmes telling us how important money and sex are... Adam reminds me of how important friendship and decency are... And in being sweet I think he’s as sexy as hell, or chocolate... But what do you think?” Sara finally asked her friend, drawing breath and reaching for the last but one Malteser in the box.
“I think that every time you say his name your face lights up. And sooner or later you’re going to have to find someone else to play Scrabble with, because I’m getting tired of you beating me all the time. I also think you should invite him over as quickly as you can, while the flat still looks as tidy as it does. But most of all Sara you shouldn’t be telling me about how you feel. Tell him about it!”
And she did.
21.
Two weeks later.
Morning. Petals of golden sunlight sparkled all across Lake Windermere. Gleaming white sailboats glided over the cool blue water beneath a serene, cloudless sky. Rich greens and browns, from the trees and grasslands, framed the landscape.
Sara soaked up the picturesque scene outside her hotel window. The birdsong from the balcony had woken her. She breathed in the scent of wildflowers and sighed in pleasure, or rather contentment.
The only thing between them now was the material of her silk pyjamas as Sara lay next to a sleeping Adam, her leg entwined with his beneath the covers. They had a day planned, of sailing, visiting Dove Cottage and buying presents for friends and family. Sara already knew what she wanted to buy her sister and her imminent niece or nephew. But Sara wanted nothing more now that to just stay in bed with the man she loved.
Yes, loved.
*
The morning after Sara’s unexpected encounter with Victoria Glass she had been determined to speak to Adam. To tell him how she felt. Sara called Polly to find out from her contact at Adam’s literary agency when he was due to fly in from New York. Before Polly could get back to Sara however Adam had called her from Heathrow. He had been nervous, but equally determined to speak to her. Adam had asked if Sara was free to meet that afternoon.
They met in Battersea Park, by the bandstand. Adam asked if Sara would like to take a turn around the park. They walked and talked. Adam explained how he had not kept in touch because he had recently been the victim of infidelity – and did not wish to be the cause of it also. He said that she seemed to be happy with her boyfriend, when she spoke about him when they were on tour. Sara replied that, if she seemed happy, it was because she was with him rather than thinking about Simon. By the end of their first circuit of the park they were holding hands.
It was only after reading the message which had come up on his author’s Facebook page that Adam had dared to hope. Sara here told Adam about his visit from his ex-wife, which he had been unaware of. On another day Adam would have been upset with Victoria for interfering, but he realised that she may have acted as an unwitting, or witting, matchmaker. Besides, Victoria was his past. He had the future to look forward to, with her.
“But what about New York?”
“I’m moving back to London. There was always something missing in my life there.”
“What was it?”
“You... How about we both try and make a leap of faith – and catch each other?”
By the end of their second circuit of the park they were kissing.
*
Sara rested her palm on Adam’s bare chest as he slept, and she snuggled up to him. She smiled, as if sharing a joke with herself, as she realised that their heartbeats were in sync.
Sometimes sad songs turn in to love songs.
Part of her wanted to wake him up, hear his voice, kiss him, caress him and make love. But he looked so content sleeping that she let him rest. They had been up late last night – not playing Scrabble. She reached over to the bedside table and switched on her iPad, which was sitting on top of her copy of Lyrical Ballads.
She checked her messages. She had just been sent her first batch of submissions, which she would need to read over before starting her new job as an editorial assistant at Falcon Publications next month. Polly had sent her an email to say that she had arranged her leaving drinks for next Friday. Sara received an email from Charlotte Hurst congratulating her on her new job. Charlotte added that she knew that Sara had it in her to flourish, which meant a lot to the soon to be editorial assistant. After dropping the bombshell that she was leaving Bradley House even Margaret Duvall called her into her office and wished Sara well, in as sincere and heartfelt manner as the gnarled publicity director could manage. Mercifully (for both of them) the exit interview didn’t last too long, as Cruella was dying for a cigarette at the time. Julian Smythe was nowhere to be seen on the day that Sara announced she was leaving. He had been called into a long meeting with Martin Tweed, for some unofficial re-training. Her sister sent her a quick message to say that she and her husband Gordon were fine with the proposed date for her and Adam to come around for supper.
“I’ve just seen a picture of him online and read one of his books. He’s a keeper. If you let him go though, I’ll have him. Gordon won’t mind, or even notice...”
Sara’s final email was from Rosie, who said she and Eddie would make sure they’d come along to her leaving drinks. Having been inspired by Sara telling a man about how she felt – and the said man not running a mile – she asked her friend to fix her up on a date with Eddie Woolly. Their night out was a success. They clicked. Already Rosie was having a good effect on Eddie, Sara fancied. He had shaved off his beard and he was even using the Kindle that Rosie had bought him as a thank you for taking her to dinner and the theatre. She wanted to see a musical, rather than Ibsen, next time they went out to the West End though.
Adam began to stir. Sara put the iPad back on the table. Work and everything else could wait.
“Morning. Look at the beautiful view,” Sara said, pointing out o
f the window.
“I am,” he replied, not taking his eyes off her – cherishing her.
Adam drew Sara close and kissed her. She held him, whilst letting go of herself. She breathed in his scent.
He tastes even better than Maltesers.
“I thought we might have breakfast in bed,” Sara proposed, after finally coming up for air. “How do you feel about muffins to start off the day with?”
“They’re not really my thing.”
Well, nobody’s perfect.
If you enjoyed Tell Him About It you might be interested in Uptown Girl by Holly Kinsella, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Uptown Girl by Holly Kinsella
1.
“If only Pippa’s IQ was as high as her heels. She doubtless thinks that Botticelli is a type of pasta. Thank you for rescuing me from her this evening. You were comfortably the highlight of my evening Emma. As a thank you can I take you out to dinner one evening next week? Jason xxx”
So ran the text, written by Jason Rothschild, sent to Emma Hastings. Emma read over the message again. And again. She smiled once more – grinning like a cat that had got the cream as she lay curled up upon her bed – feasting upon his comment about Pippa; one of her friends and Jason’s ex-girlfriend. She giggled, fizzing still from the champagne and from being with him. She felt a tiny bit uncomfortable laughing at Pippa behind her back, but Pippa was very dim. Even Emma’s father, who was used to blissfully ignoring all of her friends, had said that he had known yogurts more cultured than Pippa.
Jason Rothschild. Emma all but said his name out loud and sighed. He turned as many heads as she did, Emma thought to herself. He had been a male model for a while, but had stopped when he feared it was becoming too much like work. “The trouble with a having a job is that it eats into your day too much,” she had once overheard him wittily say. His trust fund was as big as his ego – perhaps the two were linked Emma briefly posited – but he was not showy with his money. Well, not overly so. She pictured them walking into a restaurant together, basking in the attention and envy. Pippa might be envious and resentful should they start dating so soon after the break-up but missing her conversation would be a small price to pay. All was fair in love and war, in Kensington.
Three kisses! One kiss at the end of the text was mere politeness and habit. Two was sweet. But three meant something more. Four plus kisses in the text would have meant he was drunk. But it was not the drink talking. Jason Rothschild was asking Emma Hastings out to dinner.
Emma picked up her kindle from the bedside table but it was soon resting upon her stomach as she lapsed into thinking – daydreaming – about the evening and him again. The party had been a launch for a new art exhibition off Bond St. The usual crowd had attended. Emma fancied that such was the exodus of people from Notting Hill towards Bond St that the line of black taxis carrying them along Oxford St could have been seen from space.
It was towards the beginning of the evening when she caught Jason’s eye – and vice-versa. Pippa had cornered him. Her voice was becoming raised. She was swaying to the point of spilling some of her wine (Jason had joked later in the evening that such was the year and grape that the wine was worth spilling). He spotted Emma over Pippa’s shoulder and waved his hand to say hi. He then extricated himself from a glowering ex and came over to speak to her. He first mentioned how lovely she looked. Emma was wearing a black Valentino cocktail dress (a short leather skirt with a pretty lace blouse), along with black Prada heels, which were as uncomfortable as they were stylish. Her tanned skin, along with her earrings (diamonds and yellow sapphire from the Asprey’s Daisy Heritage collection – a birthday present from a former boyfriend) shone in the dimly lit gallery.
“You look like a million dollars. As opposed to some of the other girls at this party, who unfortunately look like a million lire.”
He asked about her father, Brigadier Hastings, and said how much he had admired the work that he had done out in Afghanistan, before he had retired. He said how he had a number of contemporaries from Oxford who had gone to Sandhurst. The army was not for him though. “If nothing else the cut of the uniform would not suit my figure,” he joked. Emma pictured Jason in uniform however and thought differently. She felt both comfortable and confident when chatting to him, as if they were closer than just mere passing acquaintances.
Of course she did not have him all to herself throughout the evening. He seemed to have as many friends as nicknames (“Jay-Jay”, “Rothers”, “Argo”) and he frequently held court, with men and women alike hanging upon his varied conversation.
“People say that ethanol was so last year. But, trust me, it will be so this year and so next year too... Unfortunately so much of the working class have become the benefit class... In his pomp Lampard was both the anchor and spearhead of the Chelsea midfield. I would say that age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety – but I’d be lying... State run capitalism will be a footnote rather than chapter in history, trust me...”
Emma found herself nodding and pretending to be interested, or informed, about a number of things Jason mentioned – but she wasn’t alone in doing so, she suspected. Emma was a fashion model, but half the time she felt more like an actress upon a stage.
Yet she had perhaps now found her leading man. He didn’t stare at her breasts all evening. Tick. He asked about how her week had been, instead of endlessly talking about himself. Tick. He drove a Porsche. Tick. He was funny and decent. Tick and tick. He was approached to appear in the television programme Made in Chelsea but he turned them down, saying he did not want to appear in such “plebeian trash”. Tick. He was gorgeous. Tick. He wrote proper text messages, without using slang or shortening words. Tick. He was well groomed – Pippa had once mentioned how his walk-in wardrobe was as big as her apartment. Tick.
Emma was neither follyful nor tipsy enough though to believe that her prospective leading man was perfect. He said “Yah” instead of “Yes” and even she had more discipline in walking by a mirror without checking out how she looked. She was also certain that her father would not approve of him. But she had yet to meet a man who she had dated who her father genuinely approved of.
Although Emma promised herself that she would play things cool and wait until the morning to reply to the text she could not help herself and drafted several messages before settling upon the following:
“Dinner next week would be great. I’m free on Tuesday evening if that works for you? How about Italian? I promise not to order the Botticelli. Emma xxx”
The phone buzzed immediately with his reply.
“Perfect. Am duly looking forward to you being the highlight of my week. Jason xxx”
Perfect.
Emma eventually drifted off to sleep – still wearing the satisfied smile on her sun-kissed face, her kindle still resting upon her stomach and her phone clasped to her chest as if it were a teddy bear.
2.
“We may be both civilians now, but I’ll bloody order you if I have to Shakes. You’re coming to dinner and that’s final,” Brigadier Robert Hastings barked down the phone, albeit in good humour. He smiled triumphantly as he said goodbye.
“Who was that Daddy?” Emma asked, as her father put down the phone and she came out into the garden to give him his lunch. The June sun was tempered by a cooling breeze. A rainbow of floral colour bordered an immaculate lawn. Emma had visited her father every Sunday, ever since her mother had died three years ago. The house was in Chiswick. Despite having lived in her flat in Kensington for half a dozen years she still called her father’s house “home”.
“Oh, just someone from the regiment. Shakes. He was my driver out in Helmand for a few months. What’s this rot?!” Emma’s father then exclaimed, his face screwed up in both confusion and derision, as Emma gave him his lunch.
“Salmon and rocket salad. You need to eat more healthily – and cut down on your drinking. You’ll pickle your liver at this rate,” Emma remarked, spe
aking to him more like a mother than a daughter.
“Firstly, I need to eat. There’s barely anything on this plate. And let me worry about my drinking. I’ve taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me, as the old man once said,” Robert Hastings exclaimed, quoting Winston Churchill. “Besides, if I pickle my liver with alcohol then I’ll be preserving it.
“Daddy, you shouldn’t joke about your health.”
“Why not? I thought that laughter was the best medicine. But this food won’t give me enough energy to argue darling. Tell me, is there any new news from you?” Robert Hastings asked, displaying more enthusiasm for idle gossip than for his meal.
Emma briefly thought of Jason and bit her bottom lip and smirked, but resisted the urge to say anything on that front.
“I have quite a bit of work on this week. The change of agent has worked out.”
Emma’s father pursed his lips and rolled his eyes upon hearing his daughter mention her “work.” Modelling to him was, or should be, but a hobby. He had perhaps more chance of changing his diet than his daughter’s career choice however. Emma could be as stubborn as her mother in some things, he thought to himself with mixed feelings. To help resist the urge to say something he shouldn’t, he concentrated upon filling up his wine glass.
“I hope you’ll still be free to come to dinner Saturday evening.”
It was Emma’s turn to purse her lips and roll her eyes. Thankfully her father was begrudgingly tucking into his lunch as she did this. She envisioned the scene. Half a dozen officers from his regiment would be there and she would spend half the evening fending off the advances, subtle or otherwise, from single – or otherwise – men. Half would have barrelled chests, with empty heads. The other half would have double-barrelled names, with empty bank accounts. They all would think that they were God’s gift to women though. If they were she would like them to keep the receipts – so she could send them back to Him.
Tell Him About It Page 9