The Importance of Being Emma (13 page)

‘
Only joking!’ I called over my shoulder. ‘And John, if you’re taking those bags upstairs, I’ve put everyone in the usual bedrooms.’

It took all of the next two hours to get Izzy ready to go out, not so much physically as mentally. She grilled me about the babysitter’s IQ, fretted that James was sickening for something and generally convinced herself that she’d return from an evening of self-indulgence to find all her children hospitalised. She’d just resigned herself to abandoning them, when I happened to mention that Harriet had been off work with a sore throat and wasn’t able to go to Kate’s dinner. I might as well have announced the arrival in Highbury of the Black Death.

Izzy took a hasty step away from me. ‘Harriet’s your PA, she’ll have infected you before she went off sick.’

‘
I’m fine, actually, I never seem to get colds or sore throats.’

‘
Keep right away from the children and go and gargle with TCP, just in case.’

I glared at her. ‘I’m wearing Clive Christian No. 1, no way am I smothering one of the most expensive perfumes in the world with the smell of TCP!’

It was very frustrating that Harriet was unwell. I’d had it all organised: Philip lived on Harriet’s side of Highbury, so I’d asked him to pick her up on his way to Randalls and, of course, take her home at the end of the evening. It would be the perfect opportunity for him to make a move. Yesterday, however, I had to tell him that the poor girl was ill. He made sympathetic noises but, when I asked him if I should give Kate his apologies too, he looked at me as though I had two heads. Then I remembered my theory that he was lonely and would no doubt enjoy the company, even if Harriet wasn’t there.

So, with Izzy, Harriet and Philip all causing me grief in their different ways, I wasn’t in the best of moods on Saturday evening. And it got worse. I dressed in a hurry, then kept wondering if my long dark brown skirt was too tight and my gold strappy top too revealing. All the way to Randalls, Dad and Izzy vied with each other as to who would enjoy the evening least. Finally, although we weren’t late, we found Kate and Tom’s drive already occupied by a little blue two-seater sports car, which I recognised as Philip’s, and a sleek black Mercedes – George Knightley’s car, which Mark was using while he was away. John had to park the Volkswagen on the main road, which irritated him no end and consequently made Dad and Izzy more nervous than ever.

Looks-wise, John was a typical Knightley – tall, dark and handsome – but he lacked the easy manner of Mark and his father. I didn’t mind that; I knew him well enough to see his reserve for what it was, the character of an introvert. No, what I minded was his behaviour towards Izzy and Dad; he often took Izzy for granted and lost his patience far too quickly with Dad, with the result that they never seemed to relax when he was around. In contrast, Mark brought out the best in them, but dealt firmly with their eccentric little ways.

When it came to me, however, John and Mark were the same. They both treated me like a kid sister, to be fed a wholesome diet of what they called constructive criticism; a diet that didn’t seem as if it would ever vary.

Tom was at the door to welcome us and take our coats, waiting with good humour while I helped Dad remove his many layers of outer clothing. I was very fond of Tom. He brought energy and enthusiasm to everything he did; and I’d never heard him say a cross word about anyone, a remarkable achievement in four years of insular village life.

‘
By the way,’ he said to me as we went into the large open-plan living room, ‘I had an email from Flynn this morning and you’ll be thrilled to know he’s – ’

At that moment, a squeal from the far corner diverted his attention. Batty, in some sort of fluster as usual.

‘
Oh, Mother’s spectacles! Thank you, Mark, wherever did you find them?’ I didn’t hear his reply, but it made her titter. ‘Goodness, she must have dropped them when she … ’ Her voice rose to a crescendo. ‘Mother, here are your specs – no, they’re your spare pair, you’re wearing your other ones … No, it’s not George, it’s his son Mark, George is away on a … Yes, it was George’s car we came in, but Mark was driving it, so kind of him to give us a lift.’

Mark and Tamara had their backs to me. In her high heels she was the same height as him, too tall to need protection from those broad shoulders of his. Her hair hung down to her non-existent hips in a heavy black curtain and, as I watched, he lifted one hand and gently twisted the glossy ends through his fingers. A sensual, intimate gesture; I looked quickly away.

Tom seemed to have completely forgotten the thrilling contents of Flynn’s email. ‘Come and meet Tamara.’ He waved Izzy and John on ahead, then shepherded Dad and me across the room after them.

As Tamara greeted Izzy and John with a polite kiss, I stayed back and studied her face. Impossibly white skin, blood-red lips, dark almond-shaped eyes accentuated with dramatic make-up. A very attractive face, I had to admit; but marred by a ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ expression, which she made no effort to disguise. And she reminded me of someone, particularly in that slinky black low-cut dress; I just couldn’t think who.

Mark introduced us. ‘Tamara, this is Henry Woodhouse, Izzy’s father. And her sister, Emma.’

The shrewd dark eyes merely glanced at Dad, but sized me up from top to toe. ‘Delighted.’ She sounded anything but.

‘
I’m just as delighted,’ I said, with a bright smile.

Dad took Tamara’s arm. ‘Come nearer the fire, my dear, you must be finding England very cold after India.’

She kept her eyes on me. ‘Mark.’ It could have been a question but she made it a command, as if he was a dog at obedience class.

I noticed him flush slightly. ‘I’ll join you in a minute, darling, I just need a word with Emma.’

She shrugged and allowed Dad to lead her over to the fireplace. I wondered what had kept Mark by her side for five whole years, apart from her obvious physical appeal; my first impressions were of a woman with no social finesse whatsoever.

I turned to Mark. ‘What did you want a word about?’

‘
Nothing, I just thought Tamara needed to mingle.’

I almost laughed out loud. Watching her with Dad, who seemed to be struggling to make conversation, the word ‘mingle’ seemed utterly incongruous; she was like a panther toying with its prey. Then I realised who she reminded me of and, this time, I did laugh out loud.

Mark raised one eyebrow. ‘What’s the joke?’

‘
You – you don’t want to know.’

‘
Trust me, I do. I need some light relief, I have a feeling this evening’s going to be a hard slog.’

I took a deep breath. ‘It’s just – I didn’t know you were bringing Morticia.’

He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Emma!’ As Tamara glanced in our direction, he pretended to have a coughing fit, which immediately had Dad looking across as well. When he’d recovered, he grinned at me. ‘I remember you being obsessed with the Addams Family at one time. You used to recite what seemed like every show, word for word, it drove us all round the bend.’

‘
And to think I was desperate to be like Morticia when I grew up.’ I let out a long, nostalgic sigh.

‘
Thank God you’re not,’ he said sharply.

I was about to ask what he meant when Philip came up to us. He gave Mark a curt nod, then handed me a glass of wine and smiled complacently.

‘
A little bird told me you prefer white before the meal, Emma. I’m so glad you’re here, I was terrified you’d caught what poor Harriet’s got.’

Mark excused himself to join Dad and Tamara, while I smiled back at Philip, pleased he couldn’t stop himself from mentioning Harriet.

‘
Poor thing, she’s suffering in more ways than one. Dad sent her a couple of his remedies, slippery elm bark tea and his all-time favourite, raw garlic cloves. When she phoned me to ask how often she should take them, I told her to stick to Lemsip! But the worst thing is that she’s on her own – all the girls in her house have gone away for the weekend. I don’t suppose you could call in tomorrow and check on her? I’ve got my hands full with my sister and family.’

He looked horrified. ‘No, I couldn’t, I might catch what she’s got. And it’s your presentation to the Board on Monday, I don’t want to miss that. Plus we need to discuss your budget some time next week, in
considerable
depth.’

For a moment, I was disappointed. Then I decided he was just being sensible; and, to be fair, his commitment to his job was exemplary.

I suddenly realised he’d asked me a question. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Emma, I’m finding our conversation equally distracting. I merely asked who looks after
you
when you’re ill? I don’t suppose Henry’s up to it and I couldn’t bear to think there’s no one taking care of you.’

I stared at him in alarm. I told myself that he was probably thinking of Harriet and feeling frustrated that he couldn’t risk going to see her. However, just in case, I resolved to circulate a bit more.

‘
Fortunately, I never get ill,’ I said coolly. ‘That reminds me, I’d better go and see how Mrs Bates is. She had a nasty attack of shingles a while ago.’

I hurried off to spend the next ten minutes shouting pleasantries at Old Mother Bates about her state of health. All the time I had the feeling that I was being watched. It was weird, though. Whenever I looked round at Philip, I sensed he’d just that second averted his eyes from meeting mine. And whenever I looked in the other direction, I sensed Mark had just done the same. Or had they been gazing at each other – and I was simply in the way?

Even one of Kate’s superb meals didn’t improve my mood.

Perhaps it was being opposite Mark and Tamara. She picked at her food and hardly spoke a word. Mark occasionally tried to jolly her out of it, without any noticeable success; she was determined not to enjoy herself.

Or maybe it was seeing Philip enjoying himself far too much. After that first comment about ‘poor Harriet’, it was as though he never spared her another thought. Again, I justified his behaviour to myself; a sociable man who lived alone had to make the most of these occasions, didn’t he?

While Kate served the main course of beef bourguignonne, Tom returned to an earlier subject. ‘We’ve had exciting news today from Flynn – that’s my son, he’s a TV chef in Australia,’ he added, for the benefit of Philip and Tamara. He paused, then said impressively, ‘He’s coming to Highbury!’

This announcement provoked mixed reactions around the table: gasps of delight from Batty, Dad and Izzy, polite interest from Philip, indifference from Tamara – and from Old Mother Bates, who at least had the excuse that she was hard of hearing. Mark and John exchanged knowing looks.

Tom went on, ‘He hasn’t given me a date yet, but he’s actually in England as we speak. Out of the blue, he got an invitation to cook at The Mulberry Tree, that’s a Michelin-starred restaurant over in the West Country apparently. He’ll be there for another week or so, then he’s coming straight here.’

I glanced at the large photo that had the place of honour on the sideboard; a man’s face in close-up – dark red curly hair, crinkly green eyes and a devilish grin. Flynn Churchill, drop-dead gorgeous and, at twenty-eight years old, still unattached. Tom often joked that he’d not met the right woman – yet.

I allowed myself a little smile of anticipation.

‘
Of course, his aunt Stella’s not best pleased he’s come to England,’ Kate said. ‘But Flynn’s got his career to think of, he’s meeting with the BBC while he’s over here. And I’m sure he’ll bring Stella round, in time.’

‘
I’m sure he will, since she’s got a few million to dispose of,’ John put in. ‘And who could blame him … Any more of this amazing beef stuff?’

As Kate dished out second helpings, the conversation turned to other matters and Flynn was forgotten. Not by me, however; my thoughts were full of him. To think that, after all these years, he was only a few hours’ drive away … I paid little attention to what the others were saying, just nodded and smiled and laughed in what I hoped were the right places.

Then, over dessert, the mention of my bête noire, Jane Fairfax, brought me up short.

Saint Jane of Highbury, as I called her, was around the same age as me; but that was all we had in common. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop everyone thinking we should be the best of friends and, as children, we were forced to play together whenever she came to stay with Batty, her aunt. Even worse, Jane always seemed to have mastered a new skill, like playing the piano or crocheting coasters. How could I be friends with the girl who outshone me at everything?

Not surprisingly, it was Batty who brought her name into the conversation. ‘Lovely gooseberry fool, Kate, a real taste of summer. That’s when we last saw dear Jane – my niece, for those of you who don’t know, such a lovely girl. Oh, that reminds me, she phoned just before we came out. A tiny favour,’ – coy giggle – ‘I was going to ask you on Monday, Henry, but it’s the Board meeting and there may be other things on your … Remember Jane’s work placement, in Weymouth, as part of her degree? Well,’ – conspiratorial whisper – ‘it’s ended rather suddenly, she won’t say why, but there are nine months left to go and I just wondered … ?’ She stopped and looked expectantly at Dad.

I guessed what was coming and nearly choked on my gooseberry fool; which, given its perfect consistency, would have been quite an achievement.