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    Rich Girl
    Rich Girl
    Rich Girl
    Ebook91 pages1 hour

    Rich Girl

    By Joan Arling

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Once upon a time, there was a rich girl who got kicked out of her father's mansion because she couldn't care less about knights on white horses. Instead, she wants her happily ever after with another woman—with Dawn, a cashier at the local supermarket, to be more exact.

    "Rich Girl" is a fairy tale without fairies, but with a villain, not one but two damsels in distress, and a helpful sprite. No princes, no dragons, but cash registers and guitars.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherYlva Publishing
    Release dateSep 5, 2013
    ISBN9783955331177
    Rich Girl
    Author

    Joan Arling

    Joan Arling is a little hard to localize: She lives on German bread, French wine, Irish beer, and Dutch tobacco.When she can afford it, she also likes whiskies from the southern coast of Islay. She’s been a truck driver, a teacher, a drug courier, a rock musician. Her favourite pastimes are mistreating her guitar and spoiling her best friend’s three tabbies.Oh yes, reading and writing, too.So far, she has published two short stories and one novella.

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      Book preview

      Rich Girl - Joan Arling

      Rich Girl

      by Joan Arling

      Published by Ylva Publishing, legal entity of Ylva Verlag, e.Kfr.

      http://www.ylva-publishing.com

      Copyright 2013 Joan Arling

      Smashwords Edition

      First Edition: September 2013

      Edited by Sandra Gerth

      Cover Design by Amanda Chron

      Cover Photo: © 001001100dt | Dreamstime.com

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Table of Contents

      Authoress’s Note

      Rich Girl

      About Joan Arling

      Excerpt from Walking the Labyrinth by Lois Cloarec Hart

      Other books from Ylva Publishing

      Coming from Ylva Publishing in fall and winter 2013

      Rich Girl

      by Joan Arling

      Authoress’s note

      Three people have been very influential to this story:

      Gwen, by threatening to hold her breath until I continued beyond what is now basically chapter one.

      Astrid, by being a beta reader authors usually can only dream of.

      Sandra, editor sans frontiers, by sternly, but lovingly kicking my backside to make me produce better quality.

      Thank you, each and every one.

      Rich Girl

      Joan Arling

      CHAPTER 1

      Once upon a time, there was a rich girl.

      She was standing in front of the buffet, and even from the distance, I could tell that she had class. Her clothes weren’t some exclusive brand; no, they’d been tailored for her. Her hair looked as if she had just raked through it with her hands, but not a single strand was out of place. It must have taken the artist hours. Hardly any jewellery, but the tiny earrings and modest pendant were probably worth more than the car I was saving for. She seemed to hardly notice the wealth present in the room. Water to fish, I guessed.

      Now, when I think of luxury, it is something like a cup of hot cocoa. Handmade. Not chips of Swiss chocolate melting in a pot of simmering milk, but a spoonful of cocoa powder, two spoons of sugar, a dash of condensed milk (but ten percent fat, I insist on that!), stir, then fill up with boiling water. Not haute cuisine, just what I’d got when I was a little kid. On Sundays.

      Would she even know the taste, or was this too working-class for her?

      Young lady, would you mind fetching me another glass of champagne?

      An elderly female voice behind me tore me from my contemplations.

      Why, did I look like a menial? I turned around and looked at the person who had asked—an old hag, if you’ll pardon my French, even though she was a stylish old hag. She had probably sunk a fortune into appearing younger than she really was. The tone of her voice indicated an order rather than a polite request, so I told her, You’re joking, right? I am the guest of honour, and I will be reading from my latest bestseller this evening. I wished. I had never even dared to submit one of my stories to a publisher. See those men in livery? They’ll be happy to provide you with the bubbly.

      She glared at me before turning away, muttering about servants not knowing their place.

      I wondered who she was, perhaps the mayor’s wife? I grinned at the thought of my flatmate Maggie pulling at her hair because I would not recognise a celebrity if he or she jumped into my face.

      But I could not blame the old lady: my outfit—jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers—contrasted rather sharply with the elegant attires all around but was much more practical for the physical work I had done, helping to prepare the venue for the occasion. That was also the reason for my being there; it was a charity affair, and the workers had been invited to sample the world of the rich in lieu of being paid.

      I tapped my foot to music from the 70’s and 80’s while watching the guests. One in particular, to be honest. The one with the rakish hairdo. I guestimated her to be a year or two younger than I, so that would make her around twenty-three. To go by her expression and her aimless glances, she seemed quite bored, and I thought of a few ways to make her eyes shine. My gaydar pinged softly. Would she be as impressive between the sheets? Right, in my dreams. This is clearly look-don’t-touch. I returned my attention to the combo who had just started an upbeat number.

      Just when the musicians were about to begin their next piece, someone beside me asked, Would you like to dance?

      I turned around, not certain that the question was aimed at me, and there she stood, smiling into my face. I almost dropped my glass.

      Me? I looked behind me, just to make certain she was not addressing somebody else, and mentally hit myself, because I had clean forgotten that I was standing next to the wall. I, ah, well…

      An expression of disappointment crept onto her face.

      I bit my tongue. I mean, here I am, swaying to the music—it’s kind of obvious that I want to. I felt my face become warm, then warmer still as I realized that the polite thing to do would have been to say ‘Thank you’. I

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