Just the Way You Are Page 11

  “I drank a lot, even more than I do now. When I was with her it was better though, partly because I was just with her. You would have liked her… The disease may have ravaged her body, but it never killed off her spirit. She was always still Christina – compassionate, funny, smart – even at the end… When the cancer came back a second time I pretty much stopped working. We re-mortgaged the house. George and his family were kind and helped us stay afloat, in more ways than one…

  “After she died I felt drained of everything, a wrung-out cloth. Every last tear felt like it had been squeezed from me. I woke up most mornings and I couldn’t get out of bed. There was a giant weight on my chest, like a gravestone. The anger and depression clung to me, like a second skin. I lost my wife, my smile, my faith and my best friend.”

  Thomas couldn’t always look Gemma in the eye while he confessed what had happened to him. Gemma’s face softened with sympathy though. She moved closer to him, squeezed his hand. He squeezed hers back.

  “And then I met you Gemma – and I found something of myself again. Even before I met you I enjoyed reading your emails… That night, at dinner, I felt good, something like my old self, again. But there was a sense that I shouldn’t feel that way – partly because I hadn’t felt that way for so long. It may sound absurd but when I kissed you I felt guilty, as though I was being unfaithful to Christina. I’m sorry if I hurt you or if you felt that I was taking advantage of you.”

  “I wanted you to take advantage of me. I felt something too that night. I wanted you to kiss me and I wanted to kiss you back. You got inside my head and heart as well. You were an itch that I did and didn’t want to scratch.”

  “I want there to be an us. You’re a page-turner that I don’t want to stop reading and enjoying. But there’s a chance I may be damaged goods, you should know that. I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me. But do you want there to be an us too?” Thomas said, half asking and half pleading.

  Yes.

  “Yes,” Gemma replied, tears (of happiness) in her eyes. Nodding.

  For the first time, in a long time, Thomas smiled properly. They moved even closer to each other, squeezed each other’s hands more firmly and yet tenderly.

  “I don’t know what will become of us, but I’d like to find out. I think we’ve got something. There are just some things you know, you know?” Thomas brushed a few stray hairs out of Gemma’s eyes and cupped his hand on her cheek.

  “I do now. But I thought you were planning on going away. Hollywood is every writer’s idea of heaven.”

  “Heaven can wait. The director is a close friend of mine. I can get out of the contract. I’m not about to leave you having just found you Gemma.”

  Their knees and thighs were now touching. Their fingers were laced together too, like lovers. Their smiles made each other smile even more and their expressions glowed not just because of the burnished sunlight.

  “That’s good to hear. Hollywood might have changed you – and I like you just the way you are. If you weren’t already worried enough about what you’re giving up for me I should scare you some more. I could well lose my job in the next six months. My sister may either seduce you, or repulse you. My mother will drown you in affection and terrible elderflower wine and my dad will at best ignore you or at worst belittle you and make your life a misery. Things won’t always be perfect. But not all love stories need to be tragic. But ignore me. I don’t know what I’m saying. I feel like I’ve got sunstroke and this isn’t real. And I’ll wake up amidst a pile of unread manuscripts.”

  “Now you’re babbling,” Thomas sweetly said and gently put a finger to Gemma’s mouth – before replacing it with his lips.

  .

  Epilogue

  A month later.

  The air was laced with the sweet fragrances of the surrounding fruit trees and the jug of freshly pressed apple juice on the nearby table. The house in Normandy was akin to its owner, ageing but elegant. Amanda Williams made good on her promise to give Gemma a holiday – and the use of her home – as a reward for securing the book deal. The garden looked out over a valley, chequered in verdant green and brown fields. The golden dawns and fiery sunsets over the landscape were even more attractive than Charlize Theron. There wasn’t a soul within fifty miles who knew or cared about Lily Allen or Sindy Pearl (who had recently become pregnant by one of her gay entourage, for publicity reasons and to raise the offers on her prospective book deal and reality TV show). Thankfully there were few French people to be seen as well in the immediate area.

  The sun-kissed couple lay upon a large, cushioned steamer chair. Gemma was snuggled up to Thomas, her body slotting next to his, as they both read the books they had given each other as presents. Occasionally Thomas would gently move Gemma’s hair out of her eyes and kiss her on the forehead. Gemma hooked her leg around his and occasionally rested her head against his body.

  It had been a long but good month. Gemma and Thomas first went out to dinner a couple of times. As a thank you for paying for dinner Gemma invited Thomas over for a meal the following week. She also invited him to stay the night. That same week they had an evening out with Sara Sharpe and Adam Cooper, partly to toast finalising Thomas’ book deal with Falcon Publications. Sara and Adam – and the whole world – could see how smitten the new couple were. But even more importantly Gemma and Thomas appreciated their depth of feeling for one another. Gemma also spent a fair amount of time with her sister during this period – and spent more time talking about Victor Hugo than Hugo Boss, for a change.

  The weekend before their holiday to France Gemma introduced Thomas to her parents. Thomas won Margaret Miller over by asking for a re-fill of elderflower wine and, after chatting about the evils of the Third Reich and the European Union with Richard Miller for a couple of hours, Gemma’s father confided in her daughter that her new boyfriend “wasn’t entirely useless”, which was high praise indeed.

  “Do you want to go out for dinner this evening?” Gemma asked, putting down her book.

  “I thought that I’d cook you a meal. I picked up some lamb shanks and shallots at the supermarket.”

  “You can cook too? I’m starting to think that you may be too good for me.”

  “Nobody minds having what’s too good for them,” Thomas replied, quoting Jane Austen.

  Gemma laughed and then kissed him, halfway between sweetly and passionately. I love him. Thomas put his book down and held her in his arms. They had each just finished a chapter of their respective books – and would soon make love.

  “Do you think that they’ll be at lunch yet?” Gemma remarked, referring to her sister and her date with George Fuller. “God, I hope they like each other. My sister can be difficult. But that’s an improvement. I used to think her impossible.”

  “George will behave like a gentleman, out of fear of Doris if nothing else. Would you like a top up?”

  As Thomas poured Gemma out some more apple juice she noticed that he was no longer wearing his wedding ring. Thomas had taken it off that afternoon, after realising that he wanted to make room for a new one soon.

  A gentleman’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.

  If you enjoyed Just The Way You Are you might be interested in Uptown Girl by Holly Kinsella, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Uptown Girl by Holly Kinsella

  1.

  “If only Pippa’s IQ was as high as her heels. She doubtless thinks that Botticelli 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. Sh
e 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 lire.”

  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 Botticelli. 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,” Brigadier 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 w
ine 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.

  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).