Falling

by Jane Green

  “Just for one night,” grumbles Simon. “But you mustn’t do this again, Muffin. Truly. You know I only agreed to host an engagement party because I thought it would be small.”

  “Darling.” Georgina leans over to give her husband a kiss on the cheek. “How long have we been married? When it comes to parties, when have I ever done anything by halves?” She smiles at him indulgently. “Are you able to run to the cellar and get that lovely wine? I’m putting out a plate of cheese and biscuits for when Emma arrives with her man. They should be here soon.”

  Simon takes his foot off the ottoman with great reluctance and heaves himself out of the comfort of his chair. “Know anything about this man?” he asks his wife as he slowly makes his way out of the room. “Is it serious?”

  “I imagine it must be if she’s bringing him home to meet us. I trust you’ll be on your best behavior with him?”

  “Me?” He turns to look at his wife, aghast. “I have never been the one in this partnership that anyone has had to worry about.” He lets out a bark of laughter. “Let’s just hope he’s looking after her. That’s my only concern.”

  “Ssssh,” says Georgina, suddenly, her head cocked. “Oh my goodness! I think I just heard a car door. I think they must be here.”

  • • •

  It has been ages since Emma has been to her parents’ house. She has barely given England a second thought during her five years in the States. She has made a few sporadic trips back, but not to Somerset, only to London, for work, where she has stayed at the Four Seasons, dined at the best restaurants, had her parents come up from the country to see her, and taken them out somewhere fabulous for dinner.

  She hadn’t been back to Brigham Hall since she left. She told people she was from a beautiful part of the world, but her heart didn’t ache for her house, the fields, the narrow country lanes overgrown with lush hedges.

  At least, it didn’t ache until today, driving along those winding roads with Dominic, seeing everything through his eyes, passing charming thatched cottages and village streets lined with pretty stone buildings older than anything Dominic had ever seen in his life.

  She drives the rental car expertly, even though it has been years since she drove on this side of the road. As they draw closer to Yeovil she remembers it all, and she laughs in pleasure as she points out pubs she used to frequent as a teenager, fields in which she snogged teenage boys, buses she used to take, sitting on the top deck in the seat at the front, puffing on cigarettes and blowing smoke out the side of her mouth in a way she thought at the time was ineffably cool.

  “Snogged?” Dominic starts to laugh. “I’ve never heard anyone but Austin Powers use that word. I didn’t think it was even real.”

  “It most certainly is real,” says Emma. “You know what it means, right?”

  “Sure. Having sex.”

  “No!” She laughs. “It most certainly does not mean having sex. Oh my God, you think I was having sex with teenage boys in fields? What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “My kind of girl?” he says.

  “Well, I wasn’t. Having sex in fields. Snogging is kissing. Proper kissing. French kissing.”

  “Do you mean with tongues?”

  “Yes. With tongues.”

  “So . . . making out?”

  “Yes, exactly. Making out.”

  “Hmmm. Snogging. I like that word. I’m going to call it snogging from now on. Do you want to go snogging with me?”

  Emma cracks up. “I can’t actually believe we’re having this conversation. Anyway, that’s not how you’d say it. You’d say, ‘Fancy a snog?’”

  “No way.” Dominic starts laughing. “Is that really what you’d say? ‘Fancy a snog?’”

  “Yes, but it’s not snahg.” She starts to laugh. “It’s snog. Short o.”

  “Snog. Fancy a snog?”

  “Are you asking?” Emma is still laughing.

  “I’m asking.”

  “I’m dancing.”

  “What?” He stares at her.

  “Never mind.” Emma shakes her head, giggling. “It’s an old joke. The boy who walks up to the girl and says, ‘Are you dancing?’ ‘Are you asking?’ ‘I’m asking.’ ‘I’m dancing.’”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “No. It’s an old phrase. Must be an English thing.”

  “Shall we pull over into a field and snog? I’m feeling competitive with all those old boyfriends of yours. I’m not going to feel like I’ve had the full English experience until I’ve snogged someone in a field.”

  “When you say ‘someone,’ do you mean anyone at all? Like, say, her?” Emma gestures to a sour-faced older woman on the pavement.

  “No thanks. When I say someone, I mean you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” says Emma. Once they have pulled through the village, she veers to the left and parks. “Come on.” She gets out of the car and pulls Dominic out, too, pulling him behind a bush where she snakes her arms around his neck and passionately kisses him.

  “Mmmm.” Dominic starts to unbutton her jeans. “I could get used to this.”

  “Not now.” She giggles. “I don’t want nettle rash. Later. I promise you,” she says. She gives him another kiss, before dragging him back to the car.

  A mile, another mile and a half, a left, a right, and the car slows as Emma drives through the wooden gates and up a winding driveway, rounding a small copse of trees to reveal Brigham Hall, nestled in a gravel driveway, fields stretching all around it, the setting sun turning the pretty stone a glowing pinkish gold.

  “Whoa.” Dominic whistles, gazing at the house. Emma realizes with a start that it does look rather stately and grand, particularly to an American newcomer. She’d never thought of it that way when she lived here.

  “You never told me you live in Downton Abbey.”

  “Hardly,” Emma says. “This is nothing. It just looks grand from here. Wait until you get inside. It’s all falling apart.” She steps out of the car, pausing to really look at the stone Georgian house she has always taken for granted. Seeing it through Dominic’s eyes, she recognizes how beautiful it is, how lucky she was to have grown up here.

  As she stands by the car and Dominic busies himself with their bags, a chocolate lab suddenly emerges through the front door, his tail wagging furiously in delight. Emma flings her arms around him, covering him with kisses. As much as she has made America her home, this is home, too, she realizes. And for the first time since moving to New York all those years ago, she is happy to be here.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hello?” Emma walks through the front door, Petey stuck to her heels, followed closely by Dominic, who puts their bags down in the hallway, next to the Wellington boots lined up under the coat rack.

  The limestone floor is old and worn, dotted with aged Persian rugs, and a couple of riding hats sit on a console table. Dominic walks over and picks one up. “Who rides?”

  “No one anymore. I used to, but obviously I’m not here. That’s my old hat, I think.” She walks over and picks it up, smiling at the memory. “I kept a horse at a stable down the road. Pennyflake was his name. I adored him.”

  “Why are the hats out?”

  Emma lowers her voice. “Same reason the wellies are lined up by the front door. It’s what you do when you’re a yah living in the country.”

  “A what?”

  “A yah. Someone upper class, don’t you know.” She exaggerates the accent as Dominic shakes his head with a laugh.

  “I thought we spoke the same language, but I guess not.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought before I moved to America,” says Emma, putting down the riding hat. “I kept asking where the shopping trolleys were kept, and was there a petrol station nearby. I couldn’t understand why no one knew what I was talking about.”

  Dominic stares a
t her. “I’m not even going to ask,” he says finally, as Emma laughs and walks over to give him a kiss.

  “I love you.” She looks into his eyes, seeing them crinkle as he smiles.

  “I love you, too,” he replies, and then both of them jump apart as Emma’s mother walks into the hallway.

  “There you are!” she booms, coming over with a smile, kissing Emma on each cheek before embracing her in a quick, tight hug. “I thought I heard a noise. Well, hello!” She releases her daughter and stands back to look Dominic up and down, before extending her hand. “You must be Emma’s friend. I’m her mother. Georgina Montague. How do you do?”

  “Good, thank you,” says Dominic. “How are you?” He shakes her hand enthusiastically.

  “Well, let’s get you upstairs,” she bustles. “Daddy’s just in the cellar, but put your things away, then come down and we’ll all have a little glass of something. Muffin?” She turns and bellows down the corridor. “Did you find the wine?”

  “Your mother is terrifying,” says Dominic, as soon as they are safely behind closed doors in Emma’s old bedroom. He looks around, taking in the evidence of Emma’s life, long before he came into it. “Why are there posters of boy bands on your wall still?”

  “Because I basically haven’t been back since I went to university. This is like stepping back in time.”

  “Who are they, anyway?”

  “Take That.”

  Dominic looks blank.

  “Huge band in England. That’s Jason. He was my favorite.”

  “Cute,” says Dominic, walking around the room and examining the gymkhana ribbons. “Your mom must treat this room like a shrine.”

  Emma bursts out laughing. “Are you joking? The only reason this room still looks exactly like it did when I left for university is that my mother has probably never set foot in it since. My parents’ bedroom is in the other wing. She never comes up here. It was brilliant for parties. I could sneak tons of people up here and my mother never knew.” She pauses. “Can I just say something about her being terrifying? You didn’t mean that, did you? She really isn’t terrifying at all, once you get to know her. She’s just quite strong and imposing. You can handle her.”

  “Okay,” says Dominic, although he sounds doubtful. “But if she’s like that, what the hell is your father like?”

  “He’s a softie. My mother’s the one who wears the trousers.”

  “You mean pants.” He raises an eyebrow at her.

  “When in England,” she says, as he grabs her and pulls her onto the bed.

  • • •

  “Really good to meet you, sir,” says Dominic, more respectful than Emma has ever seen him. He looks more sophisticated than she has ever seen him, and more uncomfortable. And terribly American, she thinks, in his chinos, blue button-down shirt, and sneakers.

  She looks at the sneakers, then at her father’s battered old brogues. Her mother will have noticed them immediately, disapprovingly. Trainers, she would say, are only for the gym. Thankfully, though, her mother is not casting disapproving glances at Dominic, but is instead busy bringing in the cheese platter, twittering on about someone’s homemade peach chutney she had bought at one of the country fairs over the summer.

  “Come and sit down,” says her father. “The girls are drinking wine, but I’m on the scotch. Fancy a glass? I have an excellent single malt, too.”

  “Actually,” Dominic says, “I’m more of a beer drinker. It’s not that I don’t like a glass of Jack every now and then, but this early in the evening I drink beer, sir.”

  “Hmm,” says Emma’s father, visibly pleased at being called sir. “I think we may have a couple of beers in the outside fridge.” He stands up.

  “Please, let me. If you tell me where they are, I can get them.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Go through the kitchen into the gallery, then to the garage. There’s a small fridge in there. I’m not sure what kind we have, but they should be on the top shelf.”

  “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “No, no. I’m quite all right with my nip here.” He toasts him with a smile. When Dominic is safely out of the room, he turns to Emma.

  “Very nice young man, your American,” he says.

  “He is nice, isn’t he?” says Emma. “I’m glad you like him.”

  “I like the way he called me sir,” says her father. “It reminds me of army days. Quite unusual to find a young person these days who has that sort of respect for the older generation. I approve, Emma.”

  “You hardly know him.” Emma laughs. “Which is not to say I’m not delighted you approve. He’s a lovely person. I know we’re not here for long, but hopefully you’ll get to know him a little.”

  “He’s quite good-looking,” booms her mother from the sofa. “Very glamorous and exotic with that suntan and that black hair. Where is his family from?”

  “I believe Connecticut,” says Emma, being deliberately obtuse. “Westport, originally, but now Trumbull.”

  Georgina’s face is blank. “I mean, where is his family from? What country?”

  “His grandparents were Italian,” she says.

  “Aha!” beams Georgina. “I thought I detected some Italian in there. We were just in Puglia, weren’t we, Muffin? The most divine place. Where in Italy are they from? Has he spent a lot of time visiting his ancestral home?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him yourself about what region his family comes from. But this is the first time he’s left America.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth she regrets them, for her mother opens her mouth in dismay. Luckily, before she can say anything disparaging, they are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  “George and Henry are here,” exclaims Georgina in delight, walking out of the room to get the door as Emma looks at her father in consternation.

  “I thought it was just us,” she says. “I thought the four of us were going to have dinner so you could get to know Dominic. I didn’t know George and his fiancée were coming, too?”

  Her father shrugs helplessly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You know your mother, darling. She can’t help it. She has this compulsion to invite everyone. What’s that she always says? The more the merrier? I’m sorry. You know I would have preferred it to be just us. Not that I don’t like my nephew very much, but it would have been so . . . George!” Her father composes a welcoming smile on his face as a young, handsome man walks into the living room, striding over to shake his hand effusively.

  “Thank you again for doing this, Uncle Simon,” George says. “It’s so kind of you and Aunt G. I don’t know how we’ll ever thank you.”

  A large woman with a big smile and short blond hair bounds into the room, flinging her arms around Emma’s father, who pales slightly as he pats her on the back, trying to extricate himself from her embrace. “Uncle Simon!” she says into his shoulder, pulling back but not releasing him. “As soon as we move into our new house we’re having you both up to stay! That’s how we’ll thank you! Honestly, this is just so, so lovely of you.”

  She finally releases him, as both she and George turn to see Emma, standing behind them.

  “Good God!” says George, peering at her. “Emma? Is that you? My favorite cousin?”

  “It’s me,” says Emma, astonished to see George hasn’t changed in the slightest since he was a child. He is still spectacularly pretty, with delicate aquiline features. He’s also beautifully dressed in a pale green cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders, green-and-pink argyle socks, mouse-suede Oxfords. He looks like something out of another era, as if Brideshead had revisited Brigham Hall by way of Chariots of Fire. He has floppy blond hair that he brushes out of his eyes, and perfect white teeth that sparkle as he comes over to give Emma a hug that she really doesn’t feel entitled to receive.

  He steps back to look at Emm
a, still clasping her arms. “You look positively glowing,” he says. “Aunt G says you’re in love and we get to meet the lucky fellow. In the meantime”—he lets her go and steps back—“I’d like you to meet my beautiful fiancée, Henrietta.”

  “How do you do?” Emma holds out a hand only to find herself enveloped in a fierce hug. Henrietta is rather large. And, there’s no other way to put it, rather manly. She has a huge smile, twinkling green eyes, and dimples. In a white shirt and beige trousers, with ballet flats on her feet, she is friendly and warm, and if Emma didn’t know better, she might think Henrietta was perhaps a somewhat feminine bloke, with a penchant for ballet flats.

  It is all very confusing, she thinks, as the door opens and Dominic steps back into the room, with an open can of beer in his hand.

  “Well, hello,” says George slowly, and, if Emma didn’t know better, she would swear seductively. “You must be Emma’s lucky man. I’m George. The little cousin.”

  “Hello,” says Dominic, shaking his hand. “Hey.” He waves to Henrietta. “I’m Dominic.”

  “Hello!” The wave wasn’t enough for her, though. She bounds over and gives him a cheerful hug. “I’m Henry.”

  Dominic looks confused.

  “Henry is short for Henrietta,” explains Emma, while stifling a case of the giggles. “The engagement party is for George and Henrietta.”

  “Henry,” corrects Henry.

  “It’s quite confusing,” says Emma.

  “I know. Everyone thinks George is marrying a man!” With that Henry throws her head back and lets out a belly laugh. Emma, Dominic, and Emma’s father, Simon, all smile rather uncomfortably just as Georgina comes back in the room.

  “Ah, here you are,” she says merrily to the happy couple. She claps her hands and puts an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “And you’ve met the wonderful Henry! Isn’t she the most perfect addition to the family? Don’t you adore her?” Henry turns as she and Georgina gaze affectionately at one another.

  “Dominic?” Emma says loudly. “You wanted to borrow the computer? Let me just show you where it is. Back in a sec.” She takes Dominic by the hand and leads him out. Once they are safely in the library, both of them collapse in nervous giggles.