Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams (6 page)

‘Hi, Rob!' Emma cringed as Harriet waved frantically in an attempt to attract his attention. For a second, Rob looked up, coloured and turned away.

‘He didn't see me,' Harriet began.

‘I think he did,' Emma said, grabbing her arm before she could wave again. ‘He's working. Come on, let's go.'

Sadly, at that very moment, the cluster of children began to disperse and Rob, having put the lobster and starfish gently back into the pool, spoke briefly to a tall man with a clipboard and then turned and beckoned surreptitiously to Harriet.

‘Coming!' Harriet broke into a run and dashed over to him.

Emma hung back but, when she realised she couldn't hear a word they were saying, she began to drift towards them, feigning huge interest in a tank of stingrays and an exhibit marked
The Romance of the Rock Pool.

‘I can't, Harriet, not now, I'll get into trouble,' she heard Rob say.

Harriet looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Emma watched as Rob glanced at his watch.

‘But next Thursday – I've got a day off . . .' he began.

She caught the words ‘job' and ‘Donwell with Emma'
from Harriet, and edged nearer. She wondered just what it was that her friend found attractive about the guy: he was only an inch or so taller than Harriet, had the sort of nose that looked as if it had lost out to the All Blacks, and, whereas Harriet had a very attractive voice, Rob's accent was very definitely South London.

‘This is my friend, Emma,' Harriet told him. ‘She's the one who got me the job.'

‘Hey, that's cool,' Rob replied, smiling broadly at Emma. ‘So you're the one to get Harry time off on Thursday, right?'

‘Wrong,' Emma cut in quickly, wincing at the nickname while smiling sweetly through clenched teeth. ‘It's a really full-on job; there won't be any time off for at least a week.'

And by then, I'll have made sure that Harriet has far more exciting things to do than spend time with a guy who wears cords and smells of gone-off herring, she thought.

‘No probs,' he shrugged, turning back to Harriet. ‘Tell you what, babe, I'll call you, OK? Got to go – the big boss says I can have a go at the penguin feeding.'

‘Really?' Emma murmured, trying for Harriet's sake to sound interested.

‘Oh yes, it's fascinating,' Rob replied eagerly. ‘They have these spiny tongues and, of course, they have this distinct hierarchy – even in captivity, the older ones get to feed first.'

‘Oh my goodness, is that the time? My parking ticket runs out in five minutes!' Emma exclaimed. Politeness was one thing; dying of boredom quite another.

Much as she thought Rob was a loser, Emma couldn't help feeling sorry for Harriet, whose lips were still puckered in anticipation of a kiss as he disappeared through the door with an airy wave and no backward glance.

‘He's lovely, isn't he?' Harriet asked eagerly as they walked back to Emma's car.

Rather than lie, Emma found herself assailed by a fit of sneezing, hoping that Harriet would take the jerking of her head as a nod.

CHAPTER 4

‘EMMA! OH MY GOD, EMMA – LOOK!'

As Emma manoeuvred her bright red Daihatsu Charade into the drive on Saturday afternoon, and pulled up outside her own front door she smiled, just a little wearily, at yet another of Harriet's verbal explosions. She had been ooh-ing and aah-ing ever since Emma had picked her up from her friend's rather rundown semi in Hollyhill, one of Brighton's less attractive areas. First, it was the ‘amazing' and ‘dinky' little car that had been Emma's seventeenth birthday present from her father (when Emma switched on the ignition and the message ‘Hello, Happy' appeared on the instrument display, Harriet went into paroxysms of unrestrained glee); this was followed by a seemingly endless reading and re-reading of two text messages from Rob both of which, as Harriet kept telling her, had three x's at the end and that must mean he loves her right? – and now there was another exclamation of astonishment, the source of which Emma couldn't fathom.

‘That man, Emma – over there. It's him!'

Emma glanced to the left where a figure in ill-fitting trousers and a pork-pie hat was striding purposefully along the gravel path towards the orchard.

‘So? What about it?'

‘What about it?' Harriet repeated. ‘Emma, are you blind? That's Tarquin Tee – the guy off the telly. The one who does
Going Green,
the one with —'

‘OK, OK, I don't need a potted biography of my own father,' Emma said, pulling up outside the front door.

‘Your . . . you mean . . . but he can't . . .' Harriet stammered and then turned and glared at Emma accusingly. ‘He's your
dad?
How come you never told me?'

Emma shrugged. ‘I never thought,' she admitted, switching off the ignition and releasing her seat belt. ‘All my mates know and I guess I just – well, I assumed you did too.'

By now, Harriet's nose was glued to the car window.

‘Will I get to talk to him?' she asked in breathy tones.

‘Oh no,' Emma replied sarcastically. ‘You'll be staying in our house but, of course, a word won't pass his lips! Of course you'll get to talk to him, silly. Although whether he'll have anything riveting to say is quite another matter.'

As if he had heard her, Tarquin turned, put a hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, and began beckoning wildly.

‘Looks as if your moment has come,' Emma teased, opening the car door. ‘Only please, don't drool for too long; it's bad for his ego and, besides, we're going to
dump your stuff and then go round to George's. I've got things to sort.'

‘This is so amazing, I can't get my head round it. Oh my God!' Harriet kept saying, clearly far more impressed by Emma's balding father than the upcoming social event of the season.

‘Emma darling, perfect timing!' Tarquin cried. ‘And you must be Harriet – welcome to Hartfield!'

‘Hello, I'm really – I mean it's so good of you – and the programme . . . I just love it . . . and I'm really into conservation and . . .'

Fortunately, Tarquin was too buzzed up to listen to Harriet's stammering.

‘Now, Emma, listen,' he enthused. ‘I've had the most brilliant idea!'

Emma groaned inwardly. When inspiration struck her father, it was usually of two kinds: either highly embarrassing, involving her in making excuses for why everyone had received shapeless Fair Trade cotton T-shirts or Make Your Own Log kits for Christmas; or very labour intensive, with her as the labour.

‘It came to me in the shower,' her father went on. ‘You know George is in a state about the new bedrooms not being ready? Well, his worries are over – he can put some of the guests in my lodges. Be great publicity for me and the TV programmers will love it.'

Emma hesitated. ‘What does George think about it?'

‘Bit doubtful,' Tarquin admitted. ‘Anyone would think I was suggesting putting them in mud huts.'

Emma was hardly surprised. Her father was the first man in the South of England to build eco-lodges; they
were little two-room earth shelters, built into the side of the hill at the bottom of their orchard, their roofs covered with plants and grass. They reminded Emma of Teletubby houses, but the BBC were fascinated and were devoting a whole episode of
Going Green
to what they called ‘Down to Earth – the New Way of Living' – but then they weren't aspirational guests forced to give up power showers, surround sound TV and the newest version of in-room coffee maker for the privilege.

‘Perhaps,' she suggested, ‘the film crew could stay there? Or maybe you should just pretend someone was there? I could pose for them – that way there won't be other people's mess lying around.'

‘Now that
is
an idea! You'd be perfect,' Tarquin exclaimed, turning to Harriet. ‘Isn't she a clever girl? Of course, her mother was very inventive, God rest her soul.'

His eyes took on the faraway look that Emma knew was a warning of worse to come.

‘OK, Harriet, let's get going,' Emma butted in firmly. The last thing she needed was for her father to go into one of his maudlin phases right now. ‘I'll show you where you're sleeping and then we must go. I promised George that I'd get you over there in time to help in the tearoom.'

‘Lily can do teas,' Tarquin interrupted. ‘She's going to be a sort of general dogsbody to Mrs P and this Italian chap, just till things calm down a bit.'

‘Lily?' Emma gasped. ‘You don't mean to tell me George has actually asked Lily Bates to work there?'

Her father shook his head. ‘Not George – it was my
other bright idea,' he said proudly. ‘Now she's at catering college, she needs all the experience she can get. And it'll be fun for her – heaven knows, she deserves some.'

For the second time that day, Emma felt a pang of conscience. Lily's mum had for many years been their housekeeper but, when Emma was ten, Mrs Bates was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and her condition had deteriorated so fast that she was now wheelchair bound. Tarquin had installed them in a cottage in the village and paid their rent, but it was Lily, an only child, who had grown up caring for her mum, combining school and homework with household chores, shopping and cooking. She had never had much of a social life and was, in Emma's opinion, totally without the social skills necessary to ever get one.

‘Can't I just see the lodges?' Harriet pleaded, finally managing to string an entire sentence together. ‘Have they got sedum roofs? I read a book about earth sheltering when I did my GCSE rural studies course.'

‘You did? This is wonderful – Emma's totally switched off from the whole thing. Come along, I'll show you,' Tarquin said. ‘You see, contrary to what people believe, they are full of light; I've used glass on one side and . . .'

To Emma's relief, her father's mobile phone rang at that moment. He snatched it from his pocket and closed his eyes, a habit he always had when speaking on the phone.

‘What? It's not? You haven't? They didn't?' Tarquin's face was growing more purple by the second. ‘Give me
ten minutes and I'll be there.'

‘Problem?' Emma asked.

‘Our local MP has just flown –
flown,
mind you – from Shoreham Airport to Exeter for a seminar. And he's the one who goes on about carbon footprints. Davina and I are heading for the
Evening Argus
right now – I want headlines in tomorrow's edition, I want . . .'

What else he wanted Emma didn't discover as he was already out of earshot, heading for the office above the garage where Davina, his personal assistant, was undoubtedly already scribbling a suitable invective for his next press release.

‘Sorry about that,' Emma said. ‘When Dad's on one of his rants, there's no stopping him.'

‘He is,' Harriet sighed, ‘absolutely lovely. You are so lucky to have a dad like that.'

‘You mean one that goes round switching off lights and wearing slightly grubby shirts because he won't let anyone wash at more than thirty degrees? That kind of lucky?'

‘No,' Harriet said solemnly. ‘A dad that hasn't gambled your home away. That kind of lucky.'

Emma said nothing. She felt too ashamed.

‘Oh wow! It's amazing!' Harriet stood open-mouthed outside the front door of Donwell Abbey, her eyes scanning from the immaculate lawns, fringed with beech, sycamore and Scots pines and staked out with archery targets to the shimmering waters of the spa pool, glimpsed through the window of what had once been the orangery.

Emma had to admit that, despite knowing the house almost as well as her own, she never failed to be impressed by its russet walls, almost hidden under great swathes of Virginia creeper, its numerous mullioned windows that twinkled when they caught the late afternoon sun, and the vast oak front door with its enormous lion's head door knocker.