Uptown Girl (3 page)

“That
was Legs on the phone Will. He’s in trouble again.”

“Okay,
thanks. I’ll deal with it. If you start work on the Jag.”

Sam
limped back inside, all the while craning his neck to take in the model. His eyes were nearly popping out of his head, like a cartoon character.

“Maybe
if your staff didn’t have so many accidents and could walk properly then you might be able to fix more cars and not have a backlog,” Emma waspishly remarked, still smarting from not getting her own way. Whereas the mechanic had been amused by or immune from the woman’s haughty comments before, a storm here came over his brow. He breathed in deeply and was about to say – or bellow – something but then bit his tongue and merely replied, “If you would like to go inside, a chap with glasses called Dave will go through some paperwork with you.”

“I’ll
also need someone to call me a cab.”

“He
can do that too. I suggest you be polite whilst dealing with him, otherwise he might call you something else.”

Emma
filled out the paperwork and a cab was called for her. She shot the squat mechanic one last sour look before getting into the taxi; her thoughts were even less hospitable towards him.

“She’s
got better curves than an Aston,” a still wide-eyed Sam remarked as the cab turned around the corner.

“And
she’s probably just as expensive to maintain,” William Flynn replied.

“You
should’ve made more of an effort with her. She could have been your date for the weekend.”

“Ha.
You’re having a laugh. Life’s not some rom-com Sam. No. She’s far too proud – and prejudiced – for me.”

4.

Emma
finally stopped cursing William Flynn – and replaying their encounter over in her head, with certain scenarios where she got the better of the irksome mechanic – when she crossed back over the river. Once within the realms of Chelsea again she also swapped a couple of text messages with Jason, to help take her mind off the frustrating morning. He restored a smile to her face and the colour to her cheeks (as a couple of his compliments duly made her blush).

Emma
quickly took off her sodden clothes and showered when she returned home, wishing to wash all traces of South London out of her day. After swiftly blending and drinking a blueberry smoothie (a spot of which marked her cream blouse and she had to change her top again, as curses rebounded off the walls of her bedroom) Emma flagged down a taxi and she made her way over to Maida Vale for her photo-shoot. The shoot went well. Thankfully the photographer was gay and he was more interested in taking photos than taking phone numbers from her and the other models. Although tired after the shoot Emma still forced herself to go to the gym on her way home. She often felt a little uncomfortable there however, believing that the other women were sniping at her behind her back – or worse the men often ogled her and felt she was fair game to be chatted up, as if it were a form of exercise for them in a rotation.

She
noticed she had another missed call and voice message from Celia as she left the gym. She also had a message from her father, reminding her about the dinner on the weekend and to keep herself free. After relaxing in the bath for an hour once home she picked up the phone to finally return Celia’s call, but as she did so Jason rang.

“I
needed a highlight to my Monday evening, as well as my week in general, so I thought I’d give you a call. How was your day?”

After
here recounting his day (shopping, having lunch with his sister, going to the gym and tanning salon) Jason thoughtfully went back to asking Emma how her day was again. Emma proceeded to tell her (almost) boyfriend about her episode at the garage that morning. Jason was sympathetic and duly joined in condemning the obstinate mechanic. Flynn was a “Cockney Ape”. He should have been sterilised at birth, along with the rest of his pack of chavs, Jason sneeringly asserted. Emma considered that he was being a little harsh, but laughed along with him anyway. She also considered how Jason was worth a hundred William Flynns, both in terms of boyfriend material and also net worth. They spoke on the phone for over an hour, to the point where it was too late again to call Celia once she hung up.

Once
in bed Emma started reading. She had downloaded
Our
Mutual
Friend
, by Charles Dickens, onto her kindle. It was her mother’s favourite novel. Emma thought how she wanted to write a new chapter into her life. Would Jason be her hero? Her Eugene Wrayburn? She thought to herself how the current villain was William Flynn. She pictured the ugly look he gave her when she mentioned how his garage would have been more productive if his workers did not have so many accidents and limp everywhere. She paused also upon reading the following line, as if Bella Wilfore had uttered the cry from her own heart.

“
I
want
to
be
something
so
much
worthier
than
the
doll
in
the
doll’s
house
.”

5.

Emma
tried to call Celia in the morning, but as she suspected her calls went through to voicemail. Celia worked as a primary school teacher and it was always difficult getting through to her during the day. Jason sent a text to say that he had booked a table at
The
Alcove
that evening, a new restaurant in South Kensington that she heard had a three month waiting list to dine there. Yet Jason had been able to arrange things within a morning. Emma’s faith was restored in the maxim that money was the answer to everything. She also called the garage in the morning to check up on when her car would be ready. Thankfully William Flynn didn’t pick up the phone; one of his minions took the call – speaking through a cup of tea, which he slurped, and the crunch of biscuits as he did so.

Emma
treated herself to a burst of online shopping before midday, before meeting a friend and fellow model, Scarlett Silver, for a light lunch. There were times when even Emma felt inadequate – or plain – when in the company of Scarlett. Her hair was blonder than Emma’s, her lips fuller and her figure even more toned and elegant. She was a lingerie model who regularly appeared upon billboards and the sides of buses; she had probably caused more car crashes, from men craning their heads to look at her rather than the road, than arrogant cyclists jumping red lights. Scarlett was gorgeous and was the unofficial princess – or queen – of Emma’s Kensington sorority. There was a coldness to her beauty though, Emma often thought. The sheen of her skin was akin to coloured glass. When she smiled it was the same smile she gave to the camera on a shoot. She had dated a number of high-profile men, including an Arab prince, an Arsenal left back (who Scarlett suspected of being bi-sexual), a politician’s son (who was as odious and rapacious as his MP father) and a member of a one-hit-wonder boy band (who spent half his time flicking his hair and the other half trying and failing to grasp the concept of gross and net income; Scarlett duly dropped him when the second single failed to chart). Emma did not kid herself that most of the men turning their heads towards their table in the restaurant – either in a subtle or overt way – were doing so because of her, as opposed to her friend. Scarlett was all too aware of the effect that she had on men and it both amused and intoxicated the lingerie model. As well as being stunning, Scarlett was intelligent too, although she confided in Emma how she often hid how clever she was – as “men don’t like women who are more intelligent than they are”. A couple of other mantras that Emma heard over her green salad included “those who think that money can’t buy you happiness are just shopping in the wrong places” and “men only ever think about one thing – at the very most”.

Emma
caught up on various bits of gossip – and some of Scarlett’s bitchy comments were as sharp as her vinaigrette dressing – but she went home from lunch feeling somehow dissatisfied. She always felt deferent, or inferior, in Scarlett’s company as though she needed to follow her opinions, sense of style and who or what she should like. Again she was an actress, playing a part, at lunch – a doll, in the giant doll’s house of Chelsea. Emma hoped that she wasn’t too much like Scarlett, but feared she was. She wanted to be more like her mother; someone who gave rather than took, whose glow didn’t come from spending hours in the mirror – and who married a friend as well as a lover.

6.

Pippa
had always worn her hair up when Emma had seen her out with Jason in the past, so she decided to wear it up too, although she did not necessarily prefer it styled that way herself. A selection of three dresses hung upon her wardrobe door but she decided upon her little black Nicole Farhi number, which “hugged a figure worth hugging”, an ex-boyfriend had once remarked. The neckline was high, but Jason would find compensation in the hemline being high too on the skirt.

Such
was the polished glass and steel decor of
The
Alcove
that Emma squinted upon entering. The restaurant and diners dripped with money. It oozed off them, often unattractively. Jason sent a brief text to apologise that he was running late. He was worth the wait Emma thought to herself, as she worked her way through an elaborately designed bottle of mineral water. Jason finally arrived after half an hour. It appeared he was late from painstakingly mussing up his hair, a la David Beckham. He apologised profusely however, in between complimenting Emma on how lovely she looked.

“I’m
not out of breath from rushing over here - I’m out of breath because I’m wowed.”

The
comment was music to her ears.

Emma
ordered the lamb in redcurrant jus. Jason chose the wine, conversing with the waiter in French. After ordering Jason started from where he left off and complimented Emma on how she looked again.

“That’s
not a dress, that’s an Emily Blunt movie. Most men like to undress women with their eyes. I like to dress them up too... I should take you out shopping.”

This
was more music to her ears. There was a veritable symphony playing in her heart.

After
a glass or two of wine Jason opened up a little more, Emma thought. He briefly spoke about Pippa and how unhappy he was with her.

“I’ve
grown tired of meaningless affairs... The trouble with the flames of passion is that they burn out too quickly, I’ve learned. I want something – someone – real and meaningful. Which is not to say that meaningful can’t be fun also.”

Emma
shared a few stories about her own past and confessed that it was her – rather than her boyfriends – who had had problems with commitment. Just as Emma was about to open up more though the waiter approached them with their main courses. The conversation somehow turned to Jason talking about some of the profitable investments he had made over the past year.

“Money
makes money. I tend to ignore anyone who says that there are no opportunities out there. People should get on their bike and get a job. If they do, then they may one day be able to get in their Porsche.”

Emma
let out a laugh (tossing her head and smiling flirtatiously) although she did not wholly sympathise with Jason’s point and joke. However, the mood soon grew serious again as Jason confessed how it had not been easy for him, becoming a success.

“It
was hard living up to the high expectations of my parents. They spent everything – but their own time – on me in regards to my education. For all of the staff we had, no one genuinely cared for me. I sometimes felt like an orphan,” Jason confessed, in almost a whisper.

Emma
thought he glowed with attractiveness in the candlelight at the beginning of the meal, but now he looked vulnerable – and she found him equally attractive as a result of his vulnerability. Despite all of Jason Rothschild’s wealth, intelligence and confidence he still needed understanding and someone to care for him.

The
food, as well as the company, was rich and delicious. The gold card that Jason paid with was as burnished as his complexion, Emma thought to herself – cheered by the red wine and how well the evening was going. She declined the offer of a dessert but they ended the meal with an Armagnac and coffee, holding hands across the table. The restaurant called a taxi for Emma. Jason walked her out, holding the door open for her. The first kiss was out of politeness almost – but the second, third and fourth were tender, passionate and then Wow! Tick!

Emma
glowed as much as the restaurant’s elegant candles as the taxi took her home. Her heart was singing, to the music that was playing in her ears as she re-lived how he looked at her and what he had said. Out of all the actresses, socialites and models that Jason Rothschild could have been with, he had spent the evening with her.

She
received a text message from him as she opened the door to her apartment.