Uptown Girl
Authors: Holly Kinsella
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
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.
