Free I Think I'll Just Curl Up and Die by Rosie Rushton Page A

sweater and pulled it on. He was obviously thinking what a fat slob she was. She clambered to her feet and
Weight Loss Without Worry
fell to the ground. Face up. She stamped her foot on it, grabbed it and stuffed it up her sweater.
    â€˜Oh I’m Rupert, by the way – Rupert Kentigan-Fry. Good book?’
    â€˜Just revision – really boring,’ said Jemma hastily. ‘I’m Jemma,’ she added, thankful to be anonymous inside her sweater, ‘and I think my dad is playing golf with yours – is your father Sir William?’ She had never met the son of a Sir before but Rupert seemed quite ordinary, except for the fact that he spoke like something out of a BBC period drama.
    â€˜Yes, that’s right – so is your father Andrew Farrant? The new chap at the General?’
    â€˜Mm,’ said Jemma, rubbing her shoulder which was beginning to throb rather badly.
    â€˜I say, look, I mean, I ought to do something about your shoulder and all that,’ said Rupert. ‘What say we go back to the club house and I’ll buy you a drink and we can get some plasters or something?’
    Jemma giggled. ‘I don’t think a Band Aid is going to have much effect,’ she said. ‘It’ll be OK, honestly. But a drink would be nice.’ At least she had someone to talk to. And someone male to tell her friends about.
    Jemma followed him down the pathway and then froze. Heading towards her, arms flapping like a windmill in a hurricane was her mother.
    â€˜There you are, petal – I was getting worried,’ Mrs Farrant chirruped. ‘Daddy’s nearly done, and then we can all have some lunch. Oh, er, and who is this?’ She looked at Rupert enquiringly, as if expecting him to hand her his credentials.
    â€˜This is Rupert,’ said Jemma hurriedly. ‘Dad’s playing with his father.’
    â€˜Oh well now, isn’t that nice!’ gushed Claire. ‘I told youthat you would make a friend if you came along, Jemma, didn’t I?’
    Jemma cringed.
    â€˜So you’re Sir William’s son.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s right, Mrs Farrant,’ said Rupert.
    â€˜I said to Jemma, the golf club is just the place for meeting a nice type of … ’
    Jemma interrupted hastily. ‘Mum, look – er – I think the twins are annoying that couple over by the barbecue,’ she improvised.
    â€˜Oh dear, naughty little boys,’ muttered Claire and dashed off. Jemma sighed.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Mothers. Do you live round here?’ asked Jemma as she and Rupert made their way to the bar. Stupid question, she thought. Of course he does or he wouldn’t be here.
    â€˜Yes, we live at Boughton Court,’ he said.
    â€˜Boughton Court? That huge stone house with the wrought iron gates?’ Jemma gasped.
    â€˜Yes, that’s the one,’ said Rupert in a matter of fact voice. ‘Oh look, there’s Father and your pa.’
    Jemma grinned to herself. She’d never thought of Dad as a pa.
    â€˜So you’ve met Rupert, I see,’ said Sir William, smiling and shaking Jemma’s hand. ‘Did you get in some practice, Rupert – hit a few birdies?’
    â€˜Oh, I hit a birdie, yes,’ Rupert looked at Jemma, gave her a dig in the ribs and giggled.
    Oh yuk, thought Jemma. Why did he have to touch my disgusting bulk?
    They walked in silence for a bit.
    â€˜You’re awfully pretty,’ said Rupert suddenly.
    Jemma stared at him.
    â€˜I was wondering,’ said Rupert, ‘I mean, could I have your phone number? I’d really like to see you again. Perhaps we could go out somewhere,’ he added.
    Jemma’s heart soared.
    â€˜Yes – yes, that would be nice,’ she stammered. He might not be David Beckham but he was male. And he seemed to like her. And he did have a very nice smile. And the sunburned nose would clear up soon.
    She’d done it. Jemma Farrant