Tell Him About It

Tell Him About It

Holly Kinsella

© Holly Kinsella 2014

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 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

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Extract from
Uptown Girl
by Holly Kinsella

“
To be beloved is all I need,

And whom I love, I love indeed
.”

S.T. Coleridge.

1.

“I thought I’d put the sparkle back into our relationship,” Simon Keegan said charmingly as Sara Sharpe opened the box from Selfridge’s and the sapphire earrings glinted in the candlelight. Sara’s face lit up and her gasp voiced her gratitude and happiness. It could be argued however that some of her happiness and gratitude was down to the box not containing an engagement ring. Sara began to blush as she noticed how her reaction had turned a number of heads in the Mayfair restaurant.

Simon smiled at her, although Sara sensed just as much self-satisfaction as affection in his smirk. But perhaps she was being a little unfair in such a judgement.

Sara had met Simon around six months ago at a book launch she had helped arrange, as a publicity assistant for one of her authors. After working the room for most of the evening, carrying a tray of canapés in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other (whilst constantly blowing her fringe out of her eyes as she did so), Sara was able to draw breath and speak to one or two of the guests in earnest. The author introduced Simon as being a friend from their days at Oxford. He was well dressed and well mannered. He complimented her on her outfit – a red floral tea dress that she had recently bought in a House of Fraser sale – which brought a smile to her face. And then he kindly poured her a glass of wine and brought a tray of canapés over, which made her smile even more.

“You seem to forever be looking after someone else this evening. It’s high time someone looked after you.”

“Thank you.”

She immediately enjoyed his company. He took in what she was saying, as opposed to just taking in the lines of her figure. At the end of the evening he also generously offered to pay the bar tab for the party.

“Now let’s not have our first argument – let’s save that for when we chat about religion or politics – but I’d like to pay for the drinks this evening Sara.”

“No, you mustn’t. My publishers have agreed to pay.”

“No, I insist. Without me leaning over to copy the essays of our clever author friend over there I would have never have graduated. I’d like to do something nice for him to celebrate the publication of the book.”

Simon won the argument and picked up the drinks bill. Sara was nervous about telling her publicity director, Margaret Duvall, about accepting payment from someone else the next day but, for once, her boss praised her. “Darling, whatever dress you wore to the event wear it to the next one. See what happens when you show some leg.” Sara realised that with the budget freed up from not paying for the party Margaret Duvall (or
Cruella
as she nicknamed her) could afford to take even more people out for long lunches in Kensington.

“Can I send you a book as a thank you?” Sara asked Simon at the end of the night.

“Unfortunately I don’t have time to read books. But I’d like to make time to take you out to dinner Sara. I’ve the good sense and taste to want to get to know you more.”

They dated and she got to know him more too. He worked as a financial consultant. Simon was good looking and clean cut, as much as he tried to occasionally give himself the swagger of a “city boy” and “mockney”. He was decent and smart, if a little too po-faced sometimes. He was also hardworking, but perhaps too much so. She half-joked to her flatmate, Rosie, that there were three in the relationship – him, her and his Blackberry.

He invited her to expensive restaurants and exclusive parties. Although Sara had spent time in that world before when she had been a model (and had dated an actor and also a top football agent) she pretended to be wowed and impressed. She was soon spending more time with him than anyone else. They went away for the weekend together, to Venice and then to New York. She asked him if he wanted to travel to the Lake District for a week (she’d always wanted to go since reading Wordsworth and Coleridge at university) but he said that he couldn’t get the time off work.

Sara was soon spending a large portion of her time at his apartment in Baron’s Court. She began to care about him. He had recently sent her a text message saying “
I love you
”. It had been late at night. He had no doubt had a drink, Sara thought, and she hoped that he thought she wasn’t replying because she had fallen asleep. She met his parents several times. Sara liked Simon’s mother, Valerie. She was less impressed with his father, Gordon, however. He was a reactionary Tory who considered that it should be a woman’s ambition in life to become a “Domestic Goddess”. Rosie and other friends – and her own family who had met and liked Simon – had started to ask of late whether she was going to get engaged. “You make a good couple,” her mother had said.

Good, but not great.

Something was missing. Simon had joked that he wanted to put the sparkle back into their relationship, but how much was he being serious too? And had the sparkle ever been there in the first place? Was she still with him because he had just become a habit, part of her routine? But was he not a good habit? He wasn’t overly vain or selfish – like a number of her ex-boyfriends. But yet, increasingly, Sara realised that he wasn’t overly fun or selfless either. She felt safe with him, but didn’t she also occasionally feel bored when in his company? She sometimes felt like she was just there to be the trophy ex-model girlfriend when she was with him. But she liked it when she made him happy. Was she experiencing a fear of commitment, or was she just fearful of committing to him? Was there something wrong with Simon, or something wrong with her? Rosie had half-jokingly said the previous evening how she was doomed if she wanted to find Mr Perfect.

“Mr Perfect is also Mr No One,” she added, her arm disappearing down the tube of crisps to fish out the last one. Rosie was her oldest friend – a sarcastic and sweet-natured journalist, who worked for their local newspaper.

“I’m not looking for somebody who’s perfect. I’m just looking for someone who can stop my heart, or start it. Someone who can make me laugh and who has a love of Jane Austen, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Billy Joel and muffins for breakfast,” Sara had half-jokingly replied, her arm disappearing behind the fridge door, as she grabbed another bottle of wine.

But tonight was going to be the night, Sara thought, as she sat in the taxi on the way to the restaurant. They needed to talk... but what should they talk about? Should she talk about ending things, or possibly starting a life together? What did Simon want? Did she even know what
she
wanted? The gift of the earrings had rendered Sara even more speechless and hesitant about confronting the two dozen questions she had often asked herself of late.

“They’re lovely. You’re lovely,” she finally said.

What Sara was unable to say, however, were the words “I love you.”

2.

Simon asked her – again – to stay the night with him just before their desserts were served. Sara had already explained that she had some work to catch up on that evening, due to having to meet a new author the next day. The varnished smile fell from his face and he pursed his lips in disappointment. He tried again just after paying the bill.

“Please, I could use the company tonight babe. I’ve had a long week,” he said, reaching over the table and lacing his fingers into hers.

Sara had believed him for the first few times when he wore a puppy-dog expression and said that he needed company during the night. But what he really wanted was sex. She didn’t mind though, most of the time. He was a good lover.

Good, but not great.

Sara repeated that she had some important work to do, although Simon seldom understood or cared when she spoke about her work nowadays. Managing financial portfolios and pension funds was important, he considered. Arranging a book signing or an author interview with the
Yorkshire Post
wasn’t. Aside from when she spoke about how much money certain authors received in advances he often had a disinterested look on his face, or changed the subject, when talk of publishing came up. He used his tablet for checking the football scores, or playing a game, rather than reading, she had noticed.

Simon coiled his arm around Sara and kissed her, amorously, when they left the restaurant. It was a sultry June evening. The brightest stars shone through the hazy London sky. Shepherd Market was lively with half-drunk hedge fund managers and curious (or lost) tourists. Smokers lined the pavement outside the bars and restaurants. Half the men wore Italian or Savile Row suits, whilst the other half wore designer jeans with Ralf Lauren polo shirts. The women wore smart business suits, or skimpy summer tops and short skirts (or less). Cab drivers rolled their eyes as middle-aged men and their secretaries stumbled into the back seats of their taxis.

“You really do look beautiful tonight,” Simon suddenly remarked, stopping to admire his girlfriend. Behind the sweetness in his voice though was horniness, Sara thought. They were approaching Green Park, where they would catch cabs in opposite directions. The compliment and look in his eye was borne more from desperation than genuine affection, as he tried for the last time to get her to stay the night with him.

Simon had been right though. Sara did look beautiful. A blonde bob framed a pretty face and sun-kissed complexion. Her blue eyes shone with intelligence, kindness and humour. She wore make-up, but not much. She was naturally beautiful – and donning too much make-up reminded her of the rituals and regimes of when she was a fashion model in her teens. Even in flats Sara was tall – and when she wore heels it unfortunately gave men the perfect excuse to stare at her breasts at their eye level.

In regards to her modelling career Sara retired herself years ago. The money was good, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“You have the cheek bones my dear, but not the determination to make it to the top,” one agent had said to her.

The industry wanted to possess her, body and soul. There was an oppressive, nasty culture of needing to constantly diet. “There are plenty of Estonian girls I can get to lose the weight – and gain the look – if you won’t,” she was told on more than one occasion by a photographer or someone in a fashion house. Sara couldn’t remember the amount of times she had been pinched by a dresser and then told to “lose it”. Drugs were freely given out at parties, partly to make guests dependant on the scene – and partly girls were encouraged to take (some) drugs because they were “wonderful appetite suppressants”. Photographers were often misogynistic, whether gay or straight, male or female. Modelling agencies, either subtly or blatantly, threatened models with dropping them if they did not accept every job. The industry was far from all glamour. There was a culture of sadism, rather than a sorority, between the models themselves which Sara didn’t like. Everyone smiled when in front of someone, but then bitched about them as soon as their back was turned – as if to behave in any other way would be unnatural.

With the money Sara made from modelling she put herself through university and bought a two bedroom flat in Clapham. She loved reading and books – and wishing to write a book one day herself she decided she wanted to work in publishing. She gained an internship with Bradley House, a major publisher based in Hammersmith. Sara impressed the publicity department enough for them to give her a temporary position covering for someone on maternity leave. They soon took her on permanently as a publicity assistant for their commercial fiction list. Although Sara neither liked nor respected her boss she did enjoy her job. She met lots of interesting people and was pleased when certain books took off, or when she arranged a publicity coup. Most, though certainly not all, of the authors she worked with were nice and grateful for the extra hours she put in. It wasn’t just Simon who worked hard.