The Importance of Being Emma (6 page)

‘
No thank you, I’m very rusty.’

‘
Pity, it’s an excellent way of passing the time, especially now the nights are drawing in.’

I scowled as I moved the decanter to the table. Cosy drinks with Mark and games of geriatric bridge were certainly not on my agenda for Philip.

Dad went on, ‘And we could always give a party, just a little one, so that Philip gets to know people better.’

‘
Maybe,’ I said, knowing that Dad’s idea of a party would be vastly different from any normal person’s. ‘As long as you let
me
choose the food and drink.’

Mark smiled patronisingly as I took his empty glass. ‘By all means choose Philip’s food, Emma, but not his women. Believe me, you’d be completely out of your depth.’

I said nothing, although I thought plenty. We’d see which one of us was proved right, Mr Know-it-all Knightley.

~~MARK~~

As we sat down to eat, I decided that in one respect Emma hadn’t changed; she was still maddeningly pig-headed. She seemed determined to ignore my advice and learn the hard way about Philip Elton. I’d sized him up as soon as I met him, a dangerous combination of limited ability and unlimited ambition.

‘
Not my type,’ she’d said. Thank God for that. I wondered what her type was …

Her voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘I’ve assumed you still like lasagne?’

I nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. There were various salads and warm ciabatta to accompany it; for Emma and me, at any rate. Henry restricted himself to a tiny portion of what looked like regurgitated baby food.

Emma kept the conversation flowing, mainly with questions about India. I explained the nature of our operation there and how I personally selected growers to supply many of our leading product lines: tea and spices, obviously, but also rice, fruit, cashew nuts and even coffee. I described my fascination with a country where you’d be gazing at breathtaking natural beauty one minute and turning away from sordid man-made poverty the next. Predictably, Henry was interested in public hygiene, while Emma wanted to know how the growers complied with the UK’s organic food standards.

I realised how much I’d missed Hartfield. Dinners like this had been a regular event at one time; initially for everyone in the two families then, once John married Izzy, just for Henry, Emma and me. The quality of the food varied occasionally, if Emma went through an experimental phase; the quality of the company, never – except when she had that teenage crush on me. But she’d soon got over that.

I looked at my watch and saw with surprise that it was after ten o’clock. ‘I’d best be off. It’s been such a relaxing evening that walking back to Donwell Abbey has lost its appeal. Are you still offering me a lift, Emma?’

‘
Of course. I’ve not had much wine, let’s hope you’ve had enough to be able to tolerate my driving.’

I laughed; I’d always loved her wicked sense of humour. Good to know that hadn’t changed. It made me want to reach out and hug her.

I would have done, before; but not now.

~~EMMA~~

The usual passenger in my silver BMW 325 convertible was Dad. He liked to have the seat in its most forward position so that he could fiddle constantly with the air conditioning controls; funny how he could never seem to find the right setting until I pulled into our parking space at Highbury Foods …

I waited while Mark moved the seat back and got comfortable. Then, just as we set off, it started to rain. I flicked the windscreen wipers on and didn’t speak until I’d negotiated the twists and turns in our long driveway.

‘
Thanks for tonight,’ I said at last. ‘Dad really enjoyed it. Why not come again next week?’

Silence. I glanced across; he was sound asleep.

The journey to Donwell Abbey took only five minutes by car. Although I hadn’t been there much in the last few years, I would have found my way blindfold. Down Wheel Lane, left onto the Kingston road, left again after a mile or so and there we were, approaching the house under a dripping canopy of horse chestnut trees. I drew up as quietly as I could on the gravel drive, just in case George and Saffron were already in bed, and gently shook Mark’s sleeve.

No response. I sighed and switched off the engine. ‘Mark, wake up.’

He stirred and turned towards me. His eyes were still closed; his face, caught in the glare of the security lighting, looked younger, off guard, more vulnerable. I heard the rain pattering on the car hood and felt cocooned from reality, safe and dry. But somehow not safe. And my mouth too dry.

I swallowed. ‘Mark, you’re home.’

His eyes opened and focused immediately on my mouth. For a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Not the brotherly peck he’d occasionally condescended to in the past, but a tongue-down-the-throat job.

I gave a nervous laugh and the moment passed, unexplored. ‘I thought I was going to have to slap your face to wake you up.’

‘
Did I do anything to make you want to slap my face?’ There was something unfamiliar in his voice, almost like … fear.

‘
No more than usual,’ I said, staring at him.

He stared back. ‘Lovely evening, thank you. Sorry I dozed off just now, must be the jet lag. Why don’t you come in and – ’

‘
No!’ I turned on the ignition. ‘I’d better go, you know how Dad worries.’

‘
Goodnight, then.’ He got out of the car, bent his head against the rain and dashed to the front door. I revved the engine, swung the car round in a careless arc and drove off with a lot less consideration for the Knightleys than when I’d arrived.

All the way home I thought about that look on his face when he woke up. It was weird. No, not weird, ridiculous.

Mark Knightley wouldn’t want to kiss me like that.

Ever.

~~MARK~~

I was shattered, but I didn’t go straight to bed. Instead I went to the family room, now seldom used, and switched on the PC. I waited impatiently while the machine wheezed into life, then logged into my personal email account.

Nothing from Tamara, but that was no surprise. We weren’t ones to correspond cosily over the Internet, or chat on the phone. As Tamara said, we communicated best between the sheets.

Tonight, though, I wanted desperately to be in touch.

I sent the email and waited a few minutes, hoping she was online; but there was no reply.

Then I glanced down at the top drawer of the desk beside me. It was slightly open, revealing a glimpse of thigh, that photo of Emma. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to drift.

Soft skin against my lips, the heat of her, the taste …

I rammed the drawer shut and headed upstairs for a shower. A cold one, to numb my mind – and everything else.

~~EMMA~~

During that first week, I found out everything I needed to know about Harriet Smith. My first impressions were accurate. Clothes-wise, she was a walking disaster, lots of fake leather and cheap gold jewellery. And as soon as she forgot to talk properly, her speech became unintelligible. ‘Me farva’s got a tan ass’ apparently meant ‘my father lives in a town house’; ‘that geezer’s roofless’ was not a reference to a homeless person, but her term for a man without compassion.

I had to face facts. Harriet was a chav, a phenomenon I’d heard about but never actually experienced. The nearest I’d come to it was trailer trash in the States. Giving her a touch of class would be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated; but, in my book, nothing was impossible.

Her curriculum vitae was uninspiring. She’d been born and bred in Basildon, Essex, where her parents and younger brothers still lived. At sixteen she’d left school, done the basic secretarial qualifications and worked ever since. I wasn’t yet sure if it was her typing skills that guaranteed her constant employment, or simply her looks. Now twenty-two, she was renting an old house on the far side of Highbury, with three girls of a similar age.

When she told me that her father had been a professional and now earned his living as a bookkeeper, I felt a sudden surge of interest, visualising Philip’s spellbound face as Mr Smith held forth on the latest Statement of Standard Accounting Practice. Unfortunately, I’d misheard. Her father was a book
maker
; and he’d previously been a professional
footballer
with a team called Saffend United, before being injured in an off-pitch incident involving large amounts of alcohol.

And she had the most deplorable taste in men. One morning, I asked to see her temping contract. As we sat down to go through Batty’s Temp Tation file, the first thing I saw was a letter from Abbey Mill Haulage. It began like a reference, but ended on a surprising note.

We used Abbey Mill Haulage for most of our transportation and I knew Martin by sight. A large, lumbering man, rather like a carthorse, he reminded me of an intellectually challenged quarterback I’d dated briefly in the States. I tried not to let this prejudice me, just as I refused to be influenced by Harriet hovering excitedly at my shoulder, waiting for my reaction.

I gave a short laugh. ‘“Brightened up the office … miss her terribly” … Most unprofessional, you should never say anything personal in a reference, you could be sued.’

‘
Truth
, Harriet. It’s quite over the top, for someone like him.’

‘
I’ve seen him around,’ I said. ‘Tradesmen are always touting for Highbury Foods’ business.’

‘
He says he’s going to expand Abbey Mill now his farva’s retired.’

‘
He was twenty-eight on 8th June, and my birthday was 23rd June, Rob says there’s only fifteen days’ difference. Or is it sixteen? Anyway, Rob says we’re both Gemini, I thought I was Cancer, but he says I’m definitely Gemini like him.’

‘
Let’s hope he doesn’t use astrology to run his company,’ I said drily. ‘Is he married, or living with anyone?’

She blushed. ‘No, he’s still living at home, his mum says he’s ready to settle down, but she doesn’t know who’s good enough for him.’

‘
In other words, she can’t wait to get rid of him. How did you meet her?’

‘
She works at Abbey Mill, only two days a week since Rob’s dad retired. And she doesn’t want to get rid of Rob, she says she couldn’t have a better son.’

‘
Really, Harriet, every other sentence is “Rob says” or “Rob’s mum says”. Do you fancy him or something?’

Another blush. ‘I didn’t at first, Trace says he’s a bit of an ug.’

‘
Ugly geezer. But we get on really well. And on my last day he took me to The Ploughman after work. You know, that pub in Little Bassington that’s just been done up.’

‘
I don’t know actually, I never go to pubs.’

‘
You’re joking, aren’t you? Anyway, we’ve been out twice since then and I fancy him rotten now.’

This was the last thing I wanted to hear. ‘But Harriet, with your looks you could do so much better. You just need a classier image and that’s why – ’

‘
Hello, ladies.’ With perfect timing, Philip poked his head round the door.

‘
Come in, Philip.’ I gave him a dazzling smile, then continued, ‘And that’s why you’re going to be the face of Harriet’s Secret Recipes.’

‘
Me?’ she squealed. ‘What about Victoria?’

‘
Harriet sounds just as upmarket as Victoria. And I want to get away from any association with that US lingerie company, I still can’t understand how I had their name in my presentation.’ My lips tightened as I recalled the humiliation of the Board meeting.

Philip placed a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, it was probably subliminal, I bet you’ve got drawers full of the stuff at home.’

I gave him a frosty look. I didn’t mind him speculating about Harriet’s choice of underwear, but there was no need for him to do the same for me.

He went red and hurriedly removed his hand. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. I came to see if you needed a hand with the photo shoot, you did say you were doing it yourself to save the expense of hiring an agency.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘You certainly know the way to a Finance Director’s heart.’