Uptown Girl (2 page)

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 briefly 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.

“Can
you fix my car or not? It’s the exhaust I think.”

“We’ll
take a look at things.”

“I
use my car to get around for work so I’d like you to prioritise it. I’d like things finished by the end of the week. I’m willing to pay extra.”

“I’m
afraid you’ll be in a queue. I’ve got a number of other cars to attend to before I can start on yours.”

“How
much will it take? I know that it’s always a question of money with you people,” Emma asserted, whilst rolling her eyes and looking disdainful as she uttered “you people”. Her mood was now fouler than the weather.

The
insulted mechanic was about to answer back but he was interrupted.

“Will,
there’s a call for you. Want to take it now?” a youthful voice blasted out above the roar of the rain from the bowels of the garage.

“Not
unless it’s urgent. Take a message. Thanks Sam.”

Emma
would have tapped her foot to convey her impatience, but there was an acute danger of her losing her balance if she did so.

“I’m
afraid it’s not about the money.”

“It’s
always about the money.”

“Not
for me. I’ve given my word.”

Not
only was Emma slightly taken back by the answer – that someone would turn down the offer of earning some extra easy money – but she was also struck by the sincerity in the mechanic’s eyes and voice.

“I’ll
understand if you want to take your car to another garage.”

“Please,
I’m having a really bad day. I’d be grateful if you could look after me first,” Emma replied, deftly changing her approach towards the doubtless red-blooded mechanic. She smiled attractively and looked at him slightly doe-eyed. It was a rare thing for Emma not to get her own way when she batted her eyelashes and pouted at a man. Even though she was not looking her best this morning, she believed that her best wouldn’t be needed to win over the mechanic. Yet William Flynn appeared amused, rather than charmed, by Emma’s new approach and she was no nearer to getting her own way as she was before she flashed her smile at him. Perhaps he was married, Emma judged (although married men were often even less immune to her charms). Or he could have been the only gay mechanic in South London, she half-joked to herself.

“I’m
sorry you’re having such a bad day. I’d be happy to fix your car, but not by breaking my word.”

The
mechanic was interrupted again, by Sam, as he came out to talk to his boss. Sam was in his early twenties, but walked stiffly and limped like he was an old man. Emma surmised that he had probably had an accident in the garage. He was probably incompetent, if his boss was anything to go by. Sam could not help but gawp a little at the tall fashion model as he approached (and Emma knew instantly that she would have been able to twist him around her finger, if he was in charge).