The Importance of Being Emma

by Juliet Archer

  His jaw dropped. ‘At this time of year? Your clothes will be wet through, you’ll catch your death. Darling, pop upstairs and bring Mark one of my flannelette shirts and those baggy fawn cords, they might fit him. If not – ’

  I laughed. ‘Henry, I’m fine, I enjoyed the fresh air and my clothes are perfectly dry. Look at my shoes, not a speck of mud on them.’

  ‘But how will you get home? Darling, order a taxi for Mark, shall we say about ten o’clock?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Henry, but I’ll walk back. Along the road, of course, the bridle path will be pitch black.’

  Emma, who had stayed seated despite Henry’s instructions, said briskly, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  I shuddered. ‘No thanks, I’ve heard all about your driving from John.’

  Henry gave me a reproachful look. ‘Emma’s a wonderful driver, your brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about – ’

  Emma hastily held up the claret. ‘Look what Mark’s brought you, Dad.’

  ‘Thank you, so thoughtful.’ He beamed at me, then turned to Emma. ‘Shall we drink it tonight, or have you already opened something?’

  ‘I have, but I’m sure we can manage more than one bottle. After all, it’s a celebration, our first meal together in years.’

  ‘Not for lack of trying on my part,’ I said. ‘But whenever I was back in England, you were away.’

  Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Pure coincidence, nothing personal. And now I can’t avoid you even if I wanted to, because you’re mentoring me. Oh joy.’

  ‘Just like old times, Big Brother looking over your shoulder.’

  She got up rather abruptly and walked towards the door with the wine.

  ‘You must notice a big difference in Emma since you last saw her,’ Henry said, gazing after her.

  I watched her stop by a glass-fronted cabinet, put the wine down and start to re-arrange the figurines inside.

  ‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘And no.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s changed physically, filled out here and there, acquired a bit of sophistication. But when I look at her I see the same old Emma, and I suppose I always will.’

  Across the room, Emma slammed the cabinet door shut, snatched up the wine and hurried out; leaving me to reflect that, when necessary, I could be a bloody good liar.

  ~~EMMA~~

  ‘Filled out here and there … acquired a bit of sophistication … but still the same old Emma’?

  I kicked open the kitchen door. It was going to be an uphill battle to get him to treat me like an adult. At least he’d stopped short of calling me his little sister. If he had, I swear I would have inserted the Château Cheval bloody Blanc somewhere about his person, without an anaesthetic.

  Mark Knightley had a reputation for being fair and honest, but always diplomatic. Except when it came to me. It was as if he judged me by different standards from everyone else, the lowest being perfection and the highest something beyond sainthood.

  Several deep breaths later, I returned to the dining room with the decanted wine and three glasses.

  As I sat down, Mark gave me one of his calculating looks. ‘I was about to come and see if you needed a hand.’

  ‘I think I can manage to open a bottle of wine, not much call for mentoring there. Dad, would you like a little of this before dinner?’

  ‘I shouldn’t, but I will.’ He watched me like a hawk as I poured him an eggcupful. ‘That’s far too much for me, darling. Never mind, as you said, it’s a celebration.’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health!’

  ‘And especially yours, Henry,’ Mark said, gravely. He turned to me. ‘Here’s to our new relationship. I mean, of course, the mentoring.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Cheers.’

  Dad sipped his wine. ‘I hope you change your mind about going back to India, Mark. Dreadful-sounding place, you’re lucky to have got out alive. I trust you’re going to have a full medical check-up, in case you’ve picked up any nasty diseases?’

  ‘I’m fit as a fiddle, Henry. India’s like anywhere, do as the locals do and you won’t go far wrong.’

  ‘But you are going back?’ I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

  ‘That’s the plan. Unless, after a life of leisure for six months, Father decides to retire and asks me to take over permanently. But I can’t see that happening.’

  Dad shook his head. ‘Neither can I. George is like me, wants to keep his hand in. Of course, Emma will take over from me one day, but not until she’s got a lot more experience.’

  ‘How have your first couple of days gone, Emma?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, refilling Dad’s glass despite his feeble protests. ‘Harriet’s settling in nicely. And I think I’ve found my next matchmaking assignment.’

  ‘Please, darling, not again.’ Dad put his hand on my arm. ‘Whenever you make a prediction about people, it comes true. Look at poor Kate.’

  I laughed. ‘I know. My first attempt at matchmaking was a complete success.’

  ‘Success?’ Mark leaned forward in his chair and gave me a disapproving look. ‘Rubbish. Success implies a plan, and some effort. Knowing you, you made a lucky guess then sat back and did nothing.’

  This from the expert, the man whose idea of a fulfilling relationship was dragging each other along to functions! ‘Everyone knows that guesses need skill as much as luck,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘And no, I didn’t have a plan exactly, but I didn’t sit back and do nothing either, the truth’s somewhere in between.’ I smiled as I recalled how easy it had been. ‘I got things rolling as soon as Tom came out of the Merchant Navy and settled back in Highbury. I invited him and Kate to dinner, with a few other people as well, so that it wasn’t too obvious, then made sure he gave her a lift home. After that, it was just a matter of prodding them along. When I was in the States I couldn’t do much, of course, but by then it was cut and dried.’

  ‘You should have left well alone, people are quite capable of choosing their partners without any help from you.’ Another disapproving look.

  Dad pounced on Mark’s last few words. ‘That’s just like Emma, always helping others, never thinking of herself. But matchmaking’s such a risky business! Giving romantic notions to a man and a woman who’ve probably never thought of each other that way before – it’s no wonder so many couples break up. Save yourself the trouble, darling, you’ll only be disappointed.’

  ‘You worry too much, Dad,’ I said gently. ‘And I hope you’re not suggesting that Kate and Tom will break up, because actually they’re better suited than most couples. Just look at Izzy and John – ’ I stopped, remembering who I was with.

  ‘Maybe Kate and Tom seem better suited because they’re much older – and wiser – than Izzy and John,’ Mark said drily.

  Dad frowned. ‘I can’t agree with you there, Isabella’s so sensible and a marvellous wife and mother, although John can be rather – ’

  ‘Anyway,’ I put in, getting up to check that I’d finished setting the table, ‘it’s too late, my next assignment’s well underway.’

  Mark drained his glass. ‘The time to really worry, Henry, is when Emma starts matchmaking for herself.’

  ‘I’d rather die,’ I said, with a dismissive laugh. ‘As far as I’m concerned men can stay on Mars, or wherever it is they come from, at least for the moment.’

  ‘So do enlighten us, who’s your next victim?’

  Victim? He made me sound like a black widow spider. I straightened the place mats and braced myself for criticism. ‘Philip Elton.’

  ‘Elton? You must be joking.’

  ‘I am not, he’s the ideal candidate.’ I ticked off the reasons on my fingers. ‘He’s in his prime, can’t be any older than thirty … Handsome, not my type of course … Good career prospects, I mean with another company, he’s already got as far as he can at Highbury Foods … And he’s just bought a house, he says he spends every weekend in Ikea. That’s a S
wedish furniture chain, in case you don’t know. I remember doing a case study on them for my MBA, although I’ve never been in any of their shops. Poor Philip, he seems to have everything, but have you noticed how lonely he looks? He’s got such big mournful brown eyes, just like Dr Perry’s labrador when he thinks you’ve come to the surgery to take him for a walk.’ I smiled as I re-folded the napkins. ‘Yes, when I find the right woman for him, I guarantee she’ll be sharing his little Ikea show home in a matter of weeks, or even days.’

  Dad looked at me in utter dismay. ‘But there’s no need to go that far, if it’s company he wants then Mark or I could help. You’ll be seeing some of your old friends while you’re here, won’t you, Mark?’

  ‘I’m not sure Philip’ll fit in with my crowd,’ Mark said, ‘but I don’t mind having the odd drink with him.’

  Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll find out if he plays bridge. You know, we still play every Thursday, Mark. That’s myself, Frank Clarke, Mary and her mother. But Frank had a triple heart bypass last year and some weeks he doesn’t feel up to going out, so I could invite Philip instead. Or would you be interested?’

  ‘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.

  Tam,

  Missing you.

  Any chance of you coming here before October?

  Love M.

  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 bookmaker; 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.