One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon (18 page)

‘Not for him!’ said Penny. ‘Really, Emma, it’s not as if we were on a date. He drove me to A & E. He was being kind, that’s all.’

‘But you didn’t even have the decency to ask him in for a drink?’

Penny sighed. ‘Like I told you—’

‘Oh, forget it!’ snapped Emma. ‘You are
so
selfish. It doesn’t occur to you that maybe
I
might like to see him. Or that
he
might want to see
me
? He probably only bothered to drive you because he knows that you’re my mother and he wanted an excuse to drop by.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Seb stood up. ‘Do you ever listen to yourself? You are so unbelievably obnoxious.’

‘Children,
please
…’ Penny clutched her head, longing for nothing more than a cup of cocoa and her bed. Just as the fight between brother and sister was about to escalate into full-scale nuclear war, there was a loud knock on the front door.

‘Aha! That’ll be him,’ said Emma, pulling the elastic band out of her hair to let it tumble loose around her shoulder, and shamelessly undoing the top button of her pyjama shirt. ‘I’ll get it.’

Pulling open the door, she could barely contain her disappointment.

‘Hi,’ Will said nervously. ‘I know it’s a bit late. But I … er … I wondered if you’d like to come and have a drink, before closing time.’

He’d obviously had a couple of drinks himself, presumably in order to work up enough courage to walk over to Woodside Hall and ask Emma out. Swaying on the doorstep, his red hair looking silver in the moonlight, he seemed shyer and more awkward than ever. Catching sight of him through the drawing-room window, Penny felt her heart lurch.
Poor boy.

‘I missed you at practice the other night,’ he stammered.

‘Sorry.’ Emma yawned dramatically. ‘I got a bit caught up.’

Will tried not to wonder with whom. It was cold out on the doorstep, but she hadn’t asked him in, and he didn’t want to be rude by asking himself. Belatedly he noticed that Emma was already in her pyjamas.

‘You’re ready for bed.’ He blushed. ‘I’m an idiot. I should have come earlier.’

‘Or called,’ said Emma meanly. Her mother spending the entire evening with Santiago de la Cruz had put her in a foul mood.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ mumbled Will.

‘I’m not really up for a drink tonight,’ said Emma. ‘But thank you for asking.’

She was about to close the door on him. Taking his courage in his hands, Will put an arm out to stop her.

‘Tomorrow, then. Spend the day with me.’

‘Don’t you have practice?’ Emma asked. ‘Tomorrow’s Friday. The day before the big match.’

‘We’re meeting at the nets at eight, then we have an hour on the pitch at ten. But George wants us all to relax in the afternoon. Too much pressure won’t help us, he says.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Emma, her eyes glazing over. Few things in life bored her more than cricket.

‘So will you? Spend the afternoon with me?’ Will asked hopefully.

Emma hesitated. She did enjoy being with Will, and the constant, steady ego massage he provided. A day with Will Nutley was the romantic equivalent of curling up by the fire with a blanket and a good book. Unexciting, but at the same time deeply satisfying. And it wasn’t as if she had any firm plans – although she had thought about shopping for a dress in Chichester with her friend Lucy Taylor, picking up something new and sexy for Saturday’s match …

‘We can go for a picnic at Wilmington, by the Long Man,’ said Will. ‘Come on. It’ll be fun.’

Oh, what the hell!

‘OK,’ said Emma. ‘Sure. You can pick me up at noon, once you’re finished on the green.’ And with that she did close the door, returning to the drawing room looking marginally happier.

Penny was on her feet, being helped up to bed by Seb. The phone rang just as she reached the hallway.

‘Good grief!’ she sighed. This was turning into one of the longest nights of her life. ‘Who can that be, calling so late?’

‘Leave it,’ said Seb. ‘Whoever it is, they can wait till morning.’

‘I’ll get it,’ trilled Emma. Oddly, she was starting to feel excited about her picnic plan with Will.

‘If it’s Piers, tell him I’m fine and I’ll ring him in the morning,’ Penny called back over her shoulder.

‘Eeugh! Piers,’ muttered Emma. ‘He’s such a pest.’ Then, picking up the receiver, she answered the phone with a brusqueness that bordered on the outright rude. ‘Hello. Who is it?’

Seconds later, all the hostility drained from her face, replaced by a beatific smile.

‘Oh, hi! How are you?’ From upstairs on the landing, Penny heard Emma’s voice change. ‘I hear you were quite the hero of the hour with my mother tonight. Yes, yes, she’s fine.’

So Santiago had called. Clearly he had no intention of leaving Emma alone. Penny was depressed but not surprised. He’d shown her a lot of kindness today, but a leopard didn’t change its spots. At least not because the gazelle’s mother asked it to.

‘Do you want me to help you into bed?’ Seb asked her. ‘Or bring you anything? Maybe a Nurofen?’

‘No, thank you, my darling. I’m fine.’ Penny kissed him on the cheek.

She crawled under the covers of her former marital bed, still the most comfortable in the world, and turned out the lamp. Through the floor, she could hear the muffled sound of Emma’s voice.

‘Dinner tomorrow sounds great,’ she was saying. ‘No, no. I’m totally free.’

‘Poor Will,’ Penny whispered out loud, half delirious with tiredness. Then at last she fell into a troubled, fitful sleep.

About twelve miles from Fittlescombe, the Long Man of Wilmington was probably the South Downs’ most famous landmark. For generations the two-hundred-foot-tall figure of a man carved into the chalk hillside was believed to be profoundly ancient, of Iron Age or even Neolithic origin. Recently, however, scientists had discovered that the man was probably first carved out in the seventeenth century, a mere four hundred and fifty years ago. The discovery had done little to deter the droves of tourists and walkers who flocked to Wilmington, especially in summer. Luckily, being a local boy, Will knew all the best off-the-beaten-track picnic spots in the area. Laying out his grandmother’s huge old tartan blanket in the shade of an ancient, wizened oak, he knew he had found the perfect, private position for his perfect, private afternoon with Emma, without a Lycra-clad walker in sight.

For once it seemed as if everything was in his favour. The weather was glorious, warm but not too hot, with the gentlest of breezes rustling through the tall grass around them as they lay back and gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. Fifty feet down the hill, a tiny brook, one of the many tributaries of the River Swell, rippled away merrily, its fast-running water providing a backing track to the birdsong that filled the air. Emma, of course, looked perfect in a white-crocheted sundress that barely skimmed the tops of her brown thighs, with her long blonde hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back like poured buttermilk. Better yet, she appeared to be in an unusually good mood, complimenting Will on everything from his aftershave to the food, a veritable feast of pork pies, salad, white Kentish cherries, ham and Gruyère quiche and delicious chilled champagne.

‘I’m glad we did this,’ Emma sighed, rolling over onto her stomach and reaching out for another handful of cherries.

‘Me too,’ said Will.

‘Lying here like this, it’s hard to believe we’ll both have to be back at work in London on Monday, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, God!’ Will groaned. ‘Please let’s not think about that.’

He poured them both more champagne, then lay back against the hillside, watching a monarch butterfly swoop gracefully past them. There would never be a better moment to do what he’d come here to do – to tell Emma truthfully how he felt about her, how he’d always felt about her. And yet, even with the buzz of the champagne, he was so nervous that his heart threatened to leap out of his chest.

‘How was practice?’ Emma asked idly. ‘Are you confident about tomorrow?’

I don’t care about tomorrow
, Will felt like saying.
All I care about is you
.

Aloud he said, ‘We’re as prepared as we can be. From what I hear, Brockhurst have barely practised at all since they brought de la Cruz into the team. We’re hoping pride may come before a fall.’

Emma closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. She had dinner with Santiago tonight, a real date, and had butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it, although of course she hadn’t mentioned this to Will. She’d been worried at first that she might have come on too strong with Santiago in the beginning, and furious when her mother had monopolized him yesterday, drawing attention to herself as she always did. It was the same with all Emma’s boyfriends, even Will. They all adored Penny, and banged on and on about how lucky Emma was to have her for a mother. When Santiago had telephoned yesterday to ask how Penny was, Emma had been sure that it was happening again. But then he’d asked her out, and she’d realized that the whole show of concern for her mother had been no more than a ruse to get close to
her
. The relief was immense, and in a strange way it took the pressure off everything, enabling her to enjoy her afternoon with Will far more than she would have done otherwise.

‘Listen, Emma. There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.’

Emma’s eyes were still closed. She felt Will’s hand creep onto her belly and stroke her gently there. It was a possessive gesture, intimate and bizarrely erotic. Combined with the buzz from the champagne, and the soporific warmth of the sun, it felt wonderful. Her pulse quickened.

‘I know a lot has changed. And I know it’s been years. But the truth is, I love you. I never stopped loving you.’

‘Oh, Will.’ Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. Unable to hold back any longer, Will leaned down and kissed her on the lips, softly at first, then harder and more hungrily when he felt her respond. Slipping one arm beneath the small of her back, he supported her as she arched up to meet him, returning his kiss with a passion and intensity that was more than he’d hoped for. Did she – could she – feel the same way as he did? Had she been whipsawed these past few days with the same regret, the same longing?

‘You know I adore you,’ she said, pulling away at last and sitting up, pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘What we had was so special. It was first love.’

Will felt as if someone had dropped an anvil into his chest, not so much breaking his heart, as flattening it to nothing at all.

Had. Was.
Emma was using the past tense. Anything that her words left unsaid was eloquently and devastatingly communicated in the expression on her face: sad, loving, nostalgic.
She feels sorry for me.

‘We could have that again,’ he pleaded, wishing he didn’t sound so desperate.

Emma shook her head. ‘We can’t, Will. You know that as well as I do. Don’t make me the bad guy for saying it. We can’t go back.’

‘Why not? We’re going back now, aren’t we? Here. Today.’

‘Yes, but this isn’t reality,’ said Emma. ‘This is one lovely, magical week out of our lives. On Monday you go back to work in the City. I fly to Milan for a four-day job with Gucci. The next week I’m in New York. Our lives are moving at such … different paces.’

She was trying to be tactful but it was clear what she meant. She was a success. Will was a nobody. She’d outgrown him.

A million comebacks ran through Will’s head, a million answers to all her objections:

Milan, New York, London; that was just geography.

They could have their careers and still be together.

They were happier here, in this valley, together, than in any of those places alone.

But of course, Emma wasn’t alone. Emma was never alone. There was a queue of rich, handsome, successful men waiting to be with her. It was over. And yet … that kiss, the kiss they’d just shared. Surely
that
was real?

Without saying anything, Will kissed her again. And she kissed him back again, just as fervently as before.

‘You still want me,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I know you do.’

Emma sighed and got to her feet. It was lovely, kissing Will, hearing him reaffirm his love for her. It made her feel safe and happy. But the pleasure was bittersweet. Everything she’d told him was true. A playboy like Santiago de la Cruz, for example, would fit easily into Emma’s glamorous, jet-set, fast-paced world. She could bring Santiago to New York. She could never bring Will. Just trying to picture him sipping Cristalle at a VIP table at Pacha NYC or Soho House was like trying to picture Pope Francis stage-side at Spearmint Rhino or her mother rocking out at a Pete Doherty concert. It didn’t compute.

‘I do love you, Will. But I think we should go home now.’ There was a decisiveness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘Will you drive me back?’

*****

Penny looked up from her sewing table when the front door opened.

‘What are you doing back?’ she asked Emma, surprised. ‘I thought you and Will were spending the afternoon together.’

‘We were,’ Emma said tersely. ‘We had a picnic and then Will dropped me back.’

‘So soon?’

Emma shrugged. She didn’t look happy.

‘Did you have a row?’ Penny probed.

‘For God’s sake! What is this, the Spanish fucking Inquisition?’ snapped Emma. ‘No, we did not have a row, OK? I’m tired. I have a date with Santiago tonight and I want to take a nap before I start getting ready.’

‘No, you don’t.’ Seb had wandered through from the kitchen, loudly crunching an apple. ‘He called earlier. He can’t make it.’

‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ Emma gave her brother a sarcastic glare.

‘I’m not joking,’ said Seb between bites of his Braeburn. ‘Brockhurst are having a team meeting tonight after practice. It’s a three-line whip, apparently. Call him yourself if you don’t believe me.’

‘I will.’ Emma smiled thinly. ‘You’re so pathetic, Sebby. Really. Don’t you think you’re too old for these sorts of prank?’ Marching over to the phone, she dialled Santiago’s number theatrically. Penny noticed that she already knew it by heart.

‘Hi.’ Her voice took on a thick, sultry tone the moment Santiago answered, which made both Penny and Seb wince. ‘It’s Emma. I forgot what time you said you were picking me up tonight.’