Uptown Girl (4 page)

“
I
could
get
used
to
you
being
the
highlight
of
my
week
.
You’ve
become
a
victim
of
your
own
success
.
Would
love
to
see
you
again
.
xxx
”

Emma
smiled to herself and brought the phone to her lips, as if she were about to kiss it. Had she finally found her leading man, her prince? He was handsome, witty and gentlemanly. He was perfect.

7.

Emma
floated through most of the following day, her heart and mood seemingly wreathed in flowers. Despite the news that there would be a delay with her car being fixed and even though she received a particularly large credit card bill for the month, Emma still basked in a summery mood. She could not stop thinking about
him
. Her heart skipped a beat, or beat faster, when she recalled how they kissed. Just as she was day-dreaming about him once more, Jason called. He asked Emma if she was free to accompany him to a dinner with his godparents on Friday evening. He also asked if she was free on Thursday afternoon as well. He wanted to take her shopping to buy her a new dress to wear at the dinner.

A
grim cloud blotted out the blue skies of Emma’s mood in the evening however. She finally spoke to Celia over the phone. Her mother had passed away. Emma knew Celia’s mother and was fond of her. The friends grew teary on the phone and, although it was getting late, Emma still insisted on jumping in a taxi and going over to Celia’s flat in Wimbledon to help console her. Emma felt guilty that she had not been there for her friend earlier in the week. The news also brought back memories of her own mother’s death and Emma remembered how Celia had been there for her back then.

The
two women shared a bottle of white wine and some happy memories of Celia’s mother. Later in the evening Emma also shared her news regarding Jason. Celia wanted to be happy about her friend’s new relationship, but she had her reservations (which she prudently kept to herself). Celia had encountered Jason at a couple of parties which Emma had invited her to. She found him to be arrogant and over-privileged – ticking boxes of clichés in regards to London’s young, moneyed class. He had been made, or rather manufactured, in Chelsea. The gene pool was as shallow as his character. Perhaps Emma would be good for him though and temper his egotism and snobbery, Celia thought to herself (in hope more than expectation).

Thursday soon came along and her afternoon shopping trip in Bond St with Jason Rothschild was glorious. He was glorious – generous and funny. Emma couldn’t help but have a glow about her. Jason wore a white Valentino summer suit (Celia joked later that evening on the phone that he wore the suit as it matched his bleached teeth). He called them “the beautiful people” whilst they were out, with less irony than perhaps was healthy. Jason insisted that Emma should not worry about the cost when she protested about how much money he was spending on her (albeit the lady didn’t protest too much). “During the time that you have gone into the changing room to try the dress on I’ll have earned the money from the interest on my accounts. It’s fine. I just want you to be happy.” Out of gratitude Emma went with one of the outfits that, although she was not keen on, he preferred.

“It
might be difficult to iron,” she argued, screwing her face up a little in doubt as the outfit wasn’t entirely to her liking.

“Why,
are you looking forward to me helping you crease it?” he said with a wolfish smirk on his face. She beamed and blushed at the comment. He then insisted that he buy the dress for her. The outfit was more
The Only Way Is Essex
than
Downton Abbey
, but she relented. She wanted him to be happy.

The
attractive, flirtatious shop assistant simpered and laughed as Jason engaged her in conversation whilst paying for the dresses. It was unlike Emma – and she knew not if it was a good or bad thing – but she felt twinges of jealousy and possessiveness at the sight of them together. She watched the woman, subtly eye her man up appreciatively. Emma immediately went over and clung to Jason’s arm. She then thanked her “darling” and kissed him, sweetly and then more passionately, upon the lips – smiling at the sales assistant less than appreciatively after she did so. Emma wished to make a statement, to herself and to the world, that Jason Rothschild was her boyfriend.

Her
glorious day was topped off by her new iphone (the one Scarlett had just changed over to as well) being delivered. She also she received a voicemail that her car had finally been fixed.

8.

Somewhat annoyingly, for Emma, the mechanics were polite and professional towards her when she picked up her Audi. They had even cleaned and waxed the car as part of the service. She had half hoped that something would still be wrong with it, just so that she could sue them –
him
. William Flynn was thankfully absent, though she was half hoping that he would be there – just so that the barbed comments she had prepared for him would not go to waste. Yet Emma’s disappointment was offset by the fact that she would never have to deal with the disobliging mechanic and his establishment south of the river again.

As
much as Emma had enjoyed the sound of her Audi once again zipping along Chelsea Embankment she was even more enamoured with the sound of Jason’s Porsche, as they drove to dinner that evening. The tyres crunched upon the gravel driveway as they pulled up to the large house in St John’s Wood.

Emma
had attended numerous similar dinners before in ten million pound plus houses – and in grander company than who she was visiting – but this somehow felt different. She felt nervous, like an actress on opening night. Or like she was on an audition. She duly read the newspapers that afternoon, as if cramming for an exam, in case the conversation at dinner turned to current affairs. She didn’t want to let Jason or herself down.

Their
hosts were Sir Richard Shilling and his wife Penelope. As well as being his trust fund manager Richard was also Jason’s godfather. It would be just the four of them for dinner. Emma did not (could not) take to her host – but the actress in her deftly clicked in to gear and she smiled and nodded her head accordingly. Sir Richard was overweight and overbearing, bluffly believing in his own self-importance. Emma lost count the amount of times he talked down to his staff, or wife. Whether through excessive caffeine or nicotine his teeth were as yellow as old, stained piano keys. Half his conversation consisted of hums and grunts. Surprisingly Emma found out that Richard was a Labour peer, having purchased the position through his donations to the party during their time in power.

As
for his long-suffering, long-faced wife Emma felt occasional bouts of sympathy for her – but then she would open her mouth and drivel or disdain would pour out of it. Penelope Shilling had a bird-like figure, a beak of a nose and a hawkish glare. Whether it was down to surgery or not her skin was stretched across her face – to the point where a pained smile forever shaped her expression. Emma could not help but notice how the society wife name-dropped, as if it were a Victorian parlour game.

“Do
you not know the Bransons or Campbells my dear?” the hostess remarked, pursing her lips in disappointment and then arching an eyebrow as she looked over at her husband and godson. When Penelope was not being underwhelmed by Emma’s social set and lineage she often nervously fingered the stem of her wine glass, or drunk from it.

For
the most part however her husband dominated the table over dinner, his glass of wine barely visible in his chubby paw.

“...I
miss the Labour years, partly because it costs so much more to lobby and purchase influence with this current lot. Give me a man who goes into politics to make a bit on the side – and have a bit on the side – any day... God, the money we made on gold that day in the markets when old Gordon Brown, or “Midas Touch” as we nicknamed him, sold off the reserves for a pittance... Let them open up our borders is what I say. The more cheap labour we have the better, just as long as they stay in the various ghettos that the local councils have created for them – and us...”

Unfortunately
Emma was neither surprised nor shocked by most of the things that her host came out with. She was used to men who had more opinions than sense, regardless of their politics. Emma was however taken back by Jason’s behaviour. Rather than bridle and disagree with his godfather (on things she knew he was opposed to) he would hum and grunt in sympathy. She did not know whether to be worried – or impressed – by her new boyfriend’s acting skills.

Emma
hoped that an evening breeze would help cool her down when she left the house, but the night air was muggy and a storm was upon the horizon. She breathed out in a sigh of relief as soon as she stepped out onto the drive and her host closed the front door. The food, she would have to concede, had been excellent but having to constantly bite her tongue had spoiled the meal somewhat. As Jason kindly opened the car door for Emma she smiled at him, to convey how much she had enjoyed the evening. He smiled in return, to convey how happy he was to see her happy.

He
smiled too as Emma got into the car, either impressed by her poise and elegance in doing so – or because he caught a glimpse of her sun kissed thigh through the slit in her blue silk dress. Either way, Emma was pleased. He spoke, in a part patronising and part complimentary way, about how well she had handled herself at dinner. Emma was silent for the most part, but then remarked how differently Jason had behaved in the company of his godfather.

“I
only remember one Latin quote from my days at school, but it’s an apt one and has served me well babe.
Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur
. The world wants to be deceived, so let it,” Jason remarked, flashing a smile and gunning his car down an empty Kensington street, no doubt waking half the neighbourhood up.

He
kindly opened the car door for her outside the apartment block. She caught the scent of his aftershave, was captivated by his bright blue eyes and chiselled features – and they kissed passionately. Emma sighed again, but this time in pleasure. She was tempted at one point to invite him up to her apartment, but it didn’t wholly feel right. She wanted that particular chapter in their relationship to be special. Emma also felt tired; the evening’s performance had drained her.

9.

Unfortunately Jason had to attend a gala party – for the launch of a new perfume – on Saturday evening so he could not join Emma for dinner at her father’s house. Fortunately however Celia was free to come, so Emma had her as a wingman and someone to talk to. Celia met her Emma beforehand. She often lacked the confidence of her model friend, but her heart-shaped face housed pretty green eyes, a cute snub-nose and a sweet smile. Emma briefed Celia on the evening – and who also would be attending.

Being
one of only two women in a room full of red-blooded soldiers meant she would not be short of attention. But Emma warned that they would talk as much at her, rather than to her – and the topic of conversation would more often than not be about themselves too. They would subtly, or otherwise, guide the conversation towards their war stories from Afghanistan – dropping in the odd well crafted phrase to highlight their humility and humanity. Some would also drop hints about the extent of their family’s wealth or influence. They would drink heavily, with only half of them being able to hold their drink. The other half would be unable to hold a conversation too, should Celia talk about anything other than the regiment, cars, rugby and money.

Emma
had suffered many a similar encounter before. The glow from being the centre of attention at such gatherings had waned. Their compliments and humour could still sometimes bring a smile to her face, but she was also conscious and uncomfortable at the way they sometimes looked and spoke to her – as if she were a prize to be won. Emma would also catch them out of the corner of her eye, leering and sniggering in pairs or packs. She was more upset by them disrespecting her father however, than disrespecting her.

It
was not just due to the fact that Celia had a boyfriend (as much as she had mentioned that the relationship was on shaky ground) that Emma believed her friend would be capable of fending off any ill judged advances at the party. That said, she had still asked her father to seat Celia next to him at the dinner table.

A
half a dozen officers (and a few gentlemen) were already drinking and congregating in the drawing room when Emma and Celia arrived at the house. Robert Hastings had hired caterers for the evening and more than one of the guests were wide-eyed when taking in the trays of canapés – and the lissom figures carrying the trays.

Major
James Harrow was equally wide-eyed as he took in the figure of Emma and approached her. “I used to kill rag-heads in Helmand, but now I make a killing on the trading floors,” was how the officer often introduced himself. He was immaculately dressed, still in great shape and was as square-jawed as he was handsome. Emma had fancied him, to the point of swooning, when she was a teenager. But the more she had got to know him over the years, the more she thought how little she wanted to get to know him now.