Uptown Girl
Holly Kinsella
© Holly Kinsella 2013
Holly Kinsella has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
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Extract from School Ties by Emma Lee-Potter
1.
“If only Pippa’s IQ was as high as her heels. She doubtless thinks that Boticelli 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 lira.”
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 Boticelli. 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,” Brigidier 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, speaking 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.
Emma would attend though, for her father’s sake. She also hoped that he would invite a lady friend. He needed someone in his life. Perhaps she should invite someone. Her agent perhaps? Penelope was the right age and she thought they might get on. Her father was a good catch, she believed. She also believed herself to be a good matchmaker. He was still handsome and in good shape for his age. He still possessed his wits and hair. His sense of humour was an acquired taste and his manner could sometimes be gruff – but he was also the kindest, most chivalrous man she had ever known. His bark was far worse than his bite – unless you were the Taliban!
“I will be Daddy, don’t worry. I might even threaten to come early and cook some healthy food for the dinner.”
“I’ll change the locks, just in case. Now I know you say you’ve got a lot of work on but are you okay for money?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, lying a little. Although modelling gave Emma a comfortable income she had expensive hobbies – shopping and holidaying with a set that possessed more money than sense (in some instances of the set they could have possessed little money and they’d still own an even tinier amount of sense, she mused).
Emma and her father continued to enjoy their lazy Sunday afternoon with one another, although there was always a moment in their time spent together when Emma would remember her mother and wish she was still with them. The sun would then pop behind a cloud. The air would be tinged with an unspoken grief. But the moment would pass and Emma would enjoy being with her father again. There was no one else she felt more comfortable with – or loved as dearly.
Emma always turned her phone off when she was with her father on a Sunday, but within a heartbeat of kissing her father on the cheek and him closing the door her heart beat even faster upon checking her phone and receiving a message from him.
“I have had the good sense and taste to miss you. How was your day? I have been entertaining my cousin and his ghastly girlfriend. She makes even the Middletons look middle-class. They also wouldn’t leave. There are terrorists due to be sent back to Jordan who’ve out-stayed their welcome less. The good news for you is that so far you do not seem to have much competition for being the highlight of my week. xxx Jason.”
Emma also noticed a missed call and voicemail from her best friend, Celia, but she went straight to replying to the text.
“Hopefully you’ll continue to be underwhelmed by things for the next few days. Do I get a prize for being the highlight of your week? xxx Emma.”
“Yes. You might get to un-wrap me. Xxx Jason.”
Emma fumbled her car keys and blushed as brightly as her cherry-red Audi TT upon reading the text – but she also beamed as brightly as the afternoon sun.
Her sunny mood was sullied a little however as she heard an unhealthy rattle and cough emanate from her car when driving home. She called her father to ask his advice on what to do. Could he take a look at it? Should she just take it to her local Audi dealer? Her father recommended a garage in Bermondsey though and although she was loath to go out of her way south of the river she would aim to take the car in tomorrow morning, before her photo-shoot.
Emma had a long bath and light supper, before watching a film. She read a little, swapped a few more texts with Jason and finally went to bed. She realised that she still needed to call Celia, but it was now too late. Not that the two of them had not spoken deep into the night before – usually about boyfriends. Celia and Emma had been friends since college. Celia had helped Emma improve her grades and Emma had helped Celia improve her dress sense. Emma listened to the voice message. Celia asked if she was free on Tuesday night for dinner, that it was important and could she call her back. Emma was a little worried for her friend, but not so much that she wanted to cancel her plans with Jason. She could see Celia anytime. But this might be her only chance to see him.
She drifted off to sleep with the waking image of Jason Rothschild stealing itself into her dreams, like a fox entering the hen house. Hi cheekbones were as high as his social status. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a navy blue blazer from Kenzo, white Hugo Boss polo shirt and mustard coloured cords from Paul Smith. He looked good enough to eat. Rich food agreed with her, Emma indulgently thought to herself.
3.
The day began badly for Emma. Her hair straighteners broke, as did one of her nails when she slammed the offending item upon the kitchen table. Added to which she received a call from her agent to say that her shoot on Thursday, which was going to pay for new Jimmy Choos, had been postponed indefinitely. Even a brace of flirtatious text messages from Jason could do little to improve her mood.
She consoled herself that one of the stylists at the shoot could fix her hair. Her first priority was to fix her car however, so under a slate-grey muggy sky she battled across London through the rush hour to get to Bermondsey and the garage that her father recommended she take her beloved Audi into. As soon as she crossed the river, as if the Gods were punishing or warning her, the heavens opened and rain lashed down upon the roof of the car, drowning out the sound of the ill-informed (but opinionated) DJ on the radio. The garage, “Flynn Autos”, was situated under some railway arches off Jamaica Rd. But for her sat-nav she would have never found the place. Upon finding the garage however, Emma wondered why her father had recommended such a grotty establishment – and she wished that her sat-nav, rather than hair straighteners, could have packed-in that morning to give her an excuse not to head south. Her mood really was as foul as the weather. The Audi spluttered to a halt and a mechanic, dressed in a baseball cap and oil-stained overalls, came out to greet her.
It was then that Emma Hasting’s bad day got worse. First Emma broke a heel upon a cracked paving stone as she rushed out from the car to take cover from the rain, getting completely drenched whilst doing so. Emma b
riefly painted the grey air blue in frustration.
“Hi, can I help you? I’m William Flynn,” the mechanic politely said. There was more than a tinge of South London in his accent. “Would you like me to get you a towel, or a cup of tea?”
Emma looked the mechanic up and down and could not help but turn her nose up a little. She would decline the offer of a towel. It probably contained more germs than an NHS hospital ward. She also could not discern whether his face or overalls appeared grimier. He was short, but firmly built. She could barely make out his features however beneath his cap and behind the grease. She was frustrated with her father for having sent her so far out of her way but Robert Hastings wasn’t around for her to take things out on. The mechanic was.
“Thank you. But I just need you to fix my car – and quickly. My name is Emma. For some strange reason your garage was recommended to me by someone,” Emma remarked haughtily, casting an underwhelmed glance over the establishment.
“You’re right, that is strange. We do our best to give a poor service to discourage any positive word of mouth,” the mechanic replied good-humouredly.
“I’m afraid that I do have any time for jokes. I have an important photo-shoot in an hour or so.”
“Indeed,” the mechanic remarked, thinking she already looked a picture, raising an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a good-natured smile as he gazed at Emma. Half of her hair was matted to her face and the other half looked as if it had been styled by a Channel 4 “expert”. Instead of seeing the humour of the situation however Emma tried to stand, lop-sided due to her broken heel, before the impertinent mechanic with dignity and an authoritative air. William Flynn hoped that his joke would help break the ice, but instead it left the woman even colder. Emma’s pinched expression conveyed how she was not amused. The morning reminded Emma why she hated coming south of the river. Bad restaurants, bad manners, bad everything. The people around here probably thought that Botticelli was the Chelsea goalkeeper.
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