The pre-dinner drinks dispensed, and consumed, Emma led the guests into the dining room.
‘Quite the little hostess,’ whispered Miss Taylor to James.
‘Thanks to you,’ he replied under his voice. ‘Your graduate.’
‘The clay shaped itself,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I couldn’t have changed Emma had I wanted to. And I fear for her, I’m sorry to say.’
James glanced at Emma, who was taking her seat at the head of the table. ‘You think she’ll come a cropper?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no. But there’s a danger that she’ll overstep the mark with somebody.’
James nodded. As an old friend of the family he did not want Emma to be hurt; at the same time, though, he felt that a short, sharp shock might be the only way in which she would be brought down a peg or two. That was it, he thought; she needed taking down a peg or two.
With everybody seated, Emma looked down the table at her guests. She had placed Philip next to Harriet Smith, and she noticed, with some satisfaction, that he was already engaging her in what appeared to be animated conversation. The triple gin had done its work, she thought; now all that was needed was a response from Harriet, and the whole scheme would fall into place. How satisfying, she thought; and I have created this. It is all my idea.
Her gaze moved on to Miss Taylor and James. Although they were not seated together, she had seen the look off affection that passed between them as they took their places at the table; such affection as might be felt between a couple who had been together for years, rather than a few weeks; a look of friendship, a look of pleasure, of satisfaction, perhaps, at having found each other. But it was I who found you for each other, she told herself. I am responsible for your happiness.
Then there was Miss Bates. Emma felt a sudden tug of conscience and told herself that she must make more of an effort with Miss Bates; she must give her a bit more of her time. It would be easy enough; all she had to do was to call on her now and then – Miss Bates was always in – and give her a present of those violet creams that she liked so much but obviously could no longer afford. Miss Bates, she assumed, divided her life between the violet-cream days – before she was an unsuccessful Lloyd’s Name – and the days in which violet creams were just a distant memory. Lloyd’s Names had suffered in many different ways – being deprived of violet creams was just one way in which financial disaster brought hardship. Poor Miss Bates – and there she was sitting next to James, who was being so kind to her, as he was to everybody, whatever his or her failings.
But there was no time to take in the rest of the table, as Emma had Frank Churchill on her right, and he had to be talked to.
‘Place of honour,’ said Frank. ‘On the hostess’s right.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve split up the Randalls party. I assumed that you wouldn’t want to be beside your father and …’ She almost said ‘stepmother’, but remembered that this would be premature. ‘… Miss Taylor,’ she finished.
‘I’m easy,’ said Frank.
She looked at him, noticing his skin, tanned by the sun. She noticed, too, his watch, a Patek Philippe. It was understated and would have been missed by most people. Emma knew just what it was.
‘This must be the first time you’ve met her,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
He was smiling at her in a way that suggested she would get no further information from him. She had the impression, too, that he was thinking about something. It was as if he were weighing her up in some way; and it was disconcerting.
‘She’ll be great for your dad,’ she said. ‘He was so lonely.’
Frank frowned. ‘Was he?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘That’s too bad.’
Mrs Firhill was serving the soup, and was now hovering behind Frank with a tureen. He half turned, and smiled as she ladled the consommé into his plate. Emma thought: He’s paying attention to her. Why? She waited until he turned back. ‘What are you going to do after you leave Randalls?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to travel?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ve got a friend who’s in France at the moment. We had a vague arrangement to go to Thailand for a few months. I could do that on the way back to Perth.’
Emma dipped her spoon into her consommé. There was a friend. She felt a certain irritation at the thought that Frank Churchill already had a friend; the first seeds of envy. ‘She’s French?’
‘He. No, Australian.’
The word he dropped into the conversation like a small stone into a pond. Her first thought was: I was right, again! Inadvertently, but still right. He isn’t interested! And then she remembered what Harriet had said, which was, ‘What a pity.’
Frank wiped his lips with his table napkin. ‘We’ve known each other a long time,’ he said.
She had been distracted by her thoughts. ‘Who?’
‘Geoff, my friend in France – we were at school together.’
She wanted to find out more, but was trying to work out how to ascertain the nature of the relationship. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions; in fact, she was now sure that she had. Old school friends could go to Thailand together without there being anything more to it.
‘You’re lucky still to be in touch with friends from school,’ she said. ‘I hardly ever see mine. Except for one or two I occasionally hear from.’
He looked at her intently. ‘It’s different with me and Geoff.’
She did not know what to make of this. ‘Oh …’
‘Yes.’
The situation was now unambiguously clear. ‘I’m fine with that,’ said Emma.
Frank lowered his voice. ‘One thing, though – I like to flirt.’
Emma was unprepared for this. ‘Flirt?’
‘Yes. It’s cover. I’m fed up with people suggesting that I have to get a girlfriend and get married. I get it all the time. You’ve got no idea.’
‘Can’t you come out? Doesn’t that take the heat off you?’
Frank shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. It’s fine for most people but I can’t because I have the Churchills to think of. They wouldn’t understand – they just wouldn’t. My aunt is ill, too, and it’s simpler for her not to know. Later, when she’s gone, I’ll think again. And I’m not sure if I want to hurt my real father’s feelings. He feels guilty, you know.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, dead sure. And I think that if I came out then he’d feel even guiltier. No need for him to do that, of course, as the way I feel is nothing to do with my father having handed me over to my aunt and uncle. Nothing at all. But he’d think: Oh my God, it’s my fault for being an absentee father, etcetera, etcetera. Believe me, it’s simpler – at least for now.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’ He paused. He was looking directly into her eyes. ‘Would you mind if I flirted with you? Just a bit?’
Emma’s first reaction was to say no. She saw no reason why she should be drawn into Frank’s problems, especially since she thought they were largely of his own creation. She was not convinced that James would take the disclosure badly – he was a tolerant man, with modern attitudes. Why not just tell him? Why try to conceal something that most people now thought of as perfectly natural – as just one of the possibilities of being human?
But then she looked at Frank, who was smiling back at her in a way that immediately weakened her resolve. Why not? It tickled her that she should be the object of the attentions of such a breathtakingly good-looking young man. She could even imagine that when he flirted he meant it, while at the same time she could have the reassurance of knowing that he did not, for Emma was wary of involvement with men.
‘All right.’
His smile widened. And it was at that point that Frank leaned over to her – just as Mrs Firhill was beginning to clear the soup plates on the opposite side of the table – and whispered into her ear: ‘Sex!’
It was perfect. Emma was genuinely taken by surprise, a
nd reacted as anybody into whose ear the word sex had been whispered might be expected to react. She gave a start, and then, reverting to her agreed role, pouted. Leaning forward herself, she whispered into his ear, ‘Consommé!’
That made him laugh, or begin to laugh and then apparently struggle to suppress it.
Everybody saw what was going on – or at least everybody on the opposite side of the table saw it. James’s eyebrows shot up, and then shot down again. Miss Taylor’s brow furrowed, and then became smooth once more. Jane Fairfax’s mouth opened very slightly, and then shut. Mrs Firhill raised her eyes to the ceiling and then lowered them again.
The dinner party continued. The hubbub of conversation increased during the second course, and by the third – a chocolate mousse of which Mrs Firhill was particularly proud – the level of sound was almost deafening. Shortly after eleven, though, Mr Woodhouse began to yawn, and several of the guests, noticing this, started to suggest that they leave. This was the signal for all to rise to their feet and begin to drift out into the hall. Emma had intended that they should finish in the drawing room, where coffee, decaffeinated and otherwise, was waiting, but the host’s obvious tiredness had put paid to that.
She met Harriet in the small morning room where the women had placed their coats. They were alone, and she took the opportunity to find out how her friend had got on with Philip. ‘Things seemed to be going well at your end of the table,’ said Emma.
‘Really well,’ said Harriet. ‘We talked and talked all evening. He barely said anything to the person on his right. He’s got such a lovely voice, Emma. He really has. I could listen to him for hours.’
I couldn’t, thought Emma. But she said, ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s lovely.’ She looked at Harriet encouragingly. ‘And?’
Harriet smiled coyly. ‘I think he likes me.’
‘Good.’
‘I think he’s going to ask me out.’
‘Also good.’
Harriet picked up her coat and they went out into the hall. There were few guests left now: Mrs Goddard, Harriet, and Philip. Mrs Goddard embraced Mr Woodhouse, planting a kiss left and right, preventing him from recoiling by embracing him firmly. ‘Dear Woody,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a treat. And promise me you’ll remember.’
Mr Woodhouse looked anxiously at Emma. ‘Yes, of course. Of course.’
‘Now, Harriet, dear,’ said Mrs Goddard, releasing Mr Woodhouse and turning to Harriet. ‘That’s us offski.’
Emma smiled. Offski.
‘And you, dear Emma,’ continued Mrs Goddard. ‘You must come and hang out with us. Promise me you will. Go on, promise.’
Emma smiled again. ‘Any time,’ she said.
‘Any time soon,’ enthused Mrs Goddard. ‘Now come on, Harriet, time to split.’
Now it was just Philip, Mr Woodhouse, and Emma.
‘I must go too,’ said Philip. He had been watching Mrs Goddard with a certain morbid fascination, and Emma even thought that she detected a suppressed shudder. Well, that was not surprising; cold fish meets warm, effusive fish, she thought; and for all the offsky and splitting, she instinctively liked Mrs Goddard, or Mrs God as she now thought of her. What if God, if he (she) was actually like her: rather casual, with a fondness for cannabis (which he, after all, would have created in the first place) and a benign, rather folksy manner? What if God actually hated Gregorian chants and the Anglican liturgy, strongly disliked the smell of incense the Catholics kept wafting in his direction, and had a strong sympathy for ageing hippies who taught English as a foreign language? What if God actually knew the way to the railway station but understood that others needed to be told as well?
Mr Woodhouse yawned. ‘Oh goodness, I am sorry. You see Philip out, Emma,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I must get to bed before I collapse. Such social excitement!’
He shook Philip’s hand quickly and disappeared down the corridor.
‘He gets so tired,’ said Emma. ‘He’s always up early – that’s the problem. He’s up at five most days.’
‘Emma,’ said Philip. ‘Can we talk?’
Emma affected surprise. ‘Of course. But about what? We’ve all just covered every subject under the sun in the dining room. Politics?’
Philip swayed slightly on his feet. ‘Could we go outside? It’s a lovely night.’
Emma looked out into the garden. ‘It could rain.’
‘It won’t rain. It’s perfect. Couldn’t we go and sit on the lawn for a few minutes?’
She looked at her watch. ‘It’s so late …’
He took her arm, gently, and moved towards the front door. She did not resist; he probably had something to say about Harriet and she would, of course, encourage him. I can tolerate this creepy man for the sake of Harriet, she told herself.
There was an almost full moon outside, painting the garden an ethereal silver. ‘Look at the moon,’ she said. ‘So bright. So lunar!’ She had to say something.
They were standing on the lawn now. ‘I don’t want to sit on the grass,’ she said. ‘It gets so damp at night.’ She thought of his office building in Ipswich, and its chronic damp.
‘Emma,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something.’
It occurred to her that he wanted to discuss the portrait. That was it.
‘What did you think of my portrait of Harriet?’ she asked. ‘You can be absolutely frank, you know.’ Frankness, of course, was the last thing she wanted; praise was the first.
He seemed to regard her question as a distraction. ‘Oh that. Well …’
She waited. ‘Yes?’
‘You did it in pastel.’
‘Yes, it’s a pastel drawing. I thought that would work rather well for Harriet. Her colouring, you see, rather lends itself to pastel, don’t you agree?’ And then she added, ‘There’s nothing wrong with pastels, you know. Vuillard used them a lot. They look like oils until you get up close, and then you realise they’re not.’
He sighed. ‘You didn’t fix it.’
What was he talking about? She always fixed her pastels. ‘I did. I sprayed it with fixative. I always do.’
He shook his head. He was standing with the moon behind him and she could not see his expression. ‘You fixed the first drawing – the one underneath. You forgot to fix what you did on top of it. So when I smudged it – inadvertently – I saw what was underneath.’
Emma caught her breath.
Philip seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but at first she did not. Finally she said, ‘Major embarrassment.’
‘I should think so.’
Emma decided to brazen it out. ‘I’m very sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve seen Harriet in the nude but …’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t let it put you off her. Please. Nothing need be said. You should just go ahead anyway.’
‘Go ahead with what?’
‘With Harriet. With seeing her.’
This remark was greeted with complete silence. Then Philip emitted what sounded like a groan. ‘You don’t think that I’m interested in her, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But, Emma, no, no, no. You’ve got it completely wrong. It’s you I like. I like you a lot. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.’
She stood quite still. She heard him breathing. She felt his hand upon her arm.
‘Say something, Emma. Please say something.’
She struggled to speak. The awfulness of the situation seemed to have constricted her throat. It was hard enough to breathe, let alone to speak. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t really think so.’
He let out another groan. ‘Please review the situation. Please reconsider.’
She felt her confidence grow; he sounded like a business letter. ‘No. You should stick to Harriet.’
‘Her!’
‘And what’s wrong with her? She’s a very attractive young woman.’
‘She’s an airhead.’
This was too much for Emma. He was right, but she would not have him say it. ‘Since when did vicars
call other people airheads? You should be ashamed of yourself, Philip.’
This silenced him. She waited a few moments, and then announced that she had to get back into the house. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘should not be driving. You had three gins before dinner and then …’ She stopped herself, but he had heard what she had said.
‘You deliberately gave me three gins?’
‘You didn’t have to drink them.’ She knew this was a weak response.
He snorted. ‘I’m quite sober, thank you. Talking to you is enough to sober anybody up.’
She watched him as he strode away. When he reached the BMW Something-something he was briefly illuminated by the automatic switching on of the interior light. She saw him lower himself into the driving seat and slam the door. Then the engine roared into life and the car spun round in a tight circle, the beams of its headlights sweeping across the lawn and catching Emma for a second or two before they moved away.
Emma went back into the house, her mind a confusion of conflicting thoughts. But one thought seemed to rise above the others: I created this mess. I did it.
17
Emma decided to visit Harriet the following day. She had toyed with the idea of leaving matters exactly where they stood, but it seemed to her it would be better to put Harriet off Philip before she learned of his lack of interest in her. This would be easily achieved, she felt: Harriet had shown herself to be remarkably malleable, and a few words of advice, judiciously chosen, would undoubtedly be enough to bring the whole thing to an end.
She had not yet decided exactly what she would have to say to Harriet. It had occurred to her that she might tell her that Philip was already involved with somebody else – possibly even that he was already married – but that, she realised, would simply be untrue, and she did not tell lies. Far better, then, to tell the truth about Philip – that he was a flawed character, which was true and could be put to Harriet in perfectly good faith. There might be an issue as to why Emma had changed her view so quickly, but this could be explained as a falling of scales from the eyes, as sometimes happened, even to the best judges of character.
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 22
