The Importance of Being Emma

by Juliet Archer

  ‘I can’t possibly give you advice. If you can honestly say Robert Martin appeals to you more than anyone else … ’ I shrugged, then went on, in a more animated tone, ‘But isn’t it weird getting bouquets from two different men in the same week? I thought Philip’s was very elegant, but then red roses are my particular favourite. I once studied the Victorian meanings of flowers and, of course, red roses signify sincere and passionate love.’

  ‘What about blue carnations?’

  ‘Harriet, blue is not a natural colour for a carnation, so they can’t have any meaning at all. Come along, you need to reply to this note, can’t keep Darren waiting for ever.’

  She stared out of the window, twisting the note over and over in her hands until it resembled a corkscrew. I waited again for her to speak, but this time I was more hopeful.

  Then she sighed. ‘I know you won’t give me advice, but I think I’ve made up my mind. I think – I think I’ll say no. To everything – going out with him as well as the weekend in Amsterdam.’ She looked imploringly at me. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’

  I went up to her and hugged her. ‘Of course you are. I didn’t dare say this while you were still making up your mind, but I’ve been quite depressed about your relationship with Robert Martin. He and I – well, we obviously have such different values, and values are what make people and organisations tick. I was starting to think you weren’t suited to being at Highbury Foods after all.’ I paused. ‘As you know, we don’t want a temp for ever, we were going to advertise the permanent post soon. But why waste money advertising? You’ve just put yourself in the frame for the job. Harriet Smith, PA to the Marketing Director and the Managing Director, imagine that!’

  She jumped up and skipped round my room, a broad smile on her face. ‘Ooh, I’d love to work here all the time, temping’s so-o-o hard, all that new stuff to learn every time I go anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll have to see what Dad thinks, but there shouldn’t be a problem.’ I pulled out a chair for her at my table. ‘Now sit here and reply to that note. Here’s a pen and some paper – Conqueror Vellum, of course, only the best for Highbury Foods.’ I sat down at my PC to check my email.

  After a few minutes, I noticed that she’d unscrewed the note and was staring at it. I coughed to attract her attention. ‘Shall I ask Darren to bring a tent and camp overnight? It looks as though it’ll take you that long to answer a few lines.’

  She looked up; to my horror, her eyes were full of tears. ‘This is really, really hard,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to hurt his feelings. And what will his mum say?’

  ‘It’s always difficult to tell someone the truth, especially if they’ve got an inflated opinion of themselves.’

  ‘But he’s not like that at all, he’s very shy. That’s why it’s so hard to know what to say.’

  So I did the letter for her. At least, I dictated, she wrote; which was how it should be, since she was my PA.

  Of course, I didn’t make it too obvious that I was telling her what to say. I made suggestions, trotted out little phrases that I told her could be very effective in these situations. When we’d finished and sealed the letter inside a matching envelope, I summoned Marie to give it to Darren. I wasn’t going to let Harriet take it, in case she had second thoughts.

  She went back to her desk and I got down to some work. Half an hour later, I went into her room and found her toying miserably with the unopened post.

  I stood in front of her and waited until she looked up.

  ‘Harriet, we have a crisis,’ I said, in hushed tones. ‘I’m sure Philip printed off ten sets of photos but I can only find nine. I wonder what he’s done with the other set … Do you know what I think? I think he’s kept it at home.’

  She went bright red.

  ‘I can see those photos now,’ I continued, ‘stuck on the wall in the study, above his Jerker.’

  She giggled.

  I put on a Philip-like voice. ‘Oh Harriet, let’s make secret recipes together in my kitchen at Paradise View. Don’t be the face of Highbury Foods, my darling, be the icon of Ikea!’

  She burst out laughing.

  Everything on the matchmaking front was going exactly to plan.

  ~~MARK~~

  When I phoned Rob with the information I’d promised him after our last meeting, he sounded even more brusque than usual.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘I know this proposed EU legislation is aggravating, but it’s hardly the end of the world.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the bloody EU,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  There was a lengthy pause so I tried again. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘I’m free for a pint or two this evening, if you change your mind.’

  He did change his mind. He rang me ten minutes later, apologising for his bad mood, and we arranged to meet in The Hare and Hounds at six thirty.

  When I arrived at six twenty-five, he was already sitting there nursing a pint. I bought my own and joined him. It didn’t take long for him to come to the point; he wasn’t one for small talk.

  ‘It’s Harriet. Remember I was afraid she might turn like Emma Woodhouse? Well, it’s happened. When I saw her on Tuesday night, she was all over me. Now she doesn’t want anything to do with me.’

  ‘What exactly has she said?’

  ‘Here, read this.’ From the breast pocket of his jacket he took a crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was covered in a childish scrawl, a sharp contrast to the stiff formality of the words themselves.

  Dear Robert,

  Thank you for your kind note and the flowers.

  I am really honoured to be invited on a weekend to Amsterdam with you, but I do not feel able to accept. There are various reasons for this, but the primary one is that I do not think there is any future in our relationship.

  I am sorry to disappoint you and hope we can remain on friendly terms.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harriet.

  I knew one thing for certain; the letter may have been written by Harriet Smith, but the words were someone else’s.

  ‘Give me the background to this,’ was all I said.

  It turned out he’d meant to send Harriet flowers after their date on Tuesday, but various work problems had delayed him. Then today his eldest sister had offered him two places on a trip to Amsterdam this weekend, as she and her boyfriend couldn’t go. Galvanised into action, Rob had rushed out, bought some flowers and told one of his drivers to deliver them to Harriet with a note and wait for an answer. He’d been confident of a positive response; they’d have slept together on Tuesday night, for God’s sake, if her room-mate hadn’t come back early.

  He’d been totally unprepared for her reply. He’d tried her mobile but it was switched off, so he planned to go round to her house this evening and ask her to tell him to his face that there was ‘no future in their relationship’.

  It all made me very uneasy; I was sure it was Emma who’d had a hand in the letter, but I didn’t say so. I merely suggested that he would only make things worse by seeing Harriet in his present state of mind and that, if she was turning into an Emma clone, the damage would not be repaired overnight. I added that, in my experience, a man who appeared to cool off often had the woman throwing herself at his feet. My advice was to leave her alone and wait.

  He bought us both another pint and seemed to want to drop the subject. We talked about other things, mainly the local rugby scene. However, as we left the pub, he thanked me for listening and said he would take my advice and give Harriet some space.

  On my way home, I could think of nothing but his rejection. I found myself stopping at Hartfield, determined to speak to Emma and discover just how much she’d been involved. When she answered the door, I ignored her invitation to come in and stayed outside in the cold.

  She must have seen my grim expression in the glare of the security lighting; her eyes widened and her hand flew to h
er mouth.

  ‘Oh God – something awful’s happened – it’s one of the children, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ I said abruptly. ‘I’ve just been trying to cheer up Rob Martin.’

  She said nothing, but she smiled; a little gloating smile that told me all I wanted to know.

  I stared at her. ‘You were there, weren’t you, when Harriet got his note and sent back that idiotic reply?’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Funny, isn’t it? A man can never understand why a woman says no, he thinks she’ll fall into bed with him – and in this case go all the way to Amsterdam to do it – just because he asks her.’

  ‘What a load of crap! I’m not like that for a start, and I’m positive Rob isn’t. He had every reason to think there was “a future in their relationship”, as you so coyly phrased it in that letter.’

  ‘You think I had something to do with her letter?’

  I took a step forward, almost into the house, forcing her to retreat a little. My voice was low and menacing. ‘Didn’t you?’

  She laughed. ‘What if I did? I may have done them both a favour, he’s just not good enough for her.’

  ‘Not good enough for her? Are you blind or stupid or what? He runs his own company, she’s a temp … He’s financially independent, although he chooses to live with his parents, while she can afford only a clapped-out old car and a room in someone else’s house … He’s well respected throughout Surrey, she’s a nonentity … He’s a capable and educated man, mainly self-educated which is even more to be admired, whereas I suspect she’s bordering on simple. Yes, she’s pretty and compliant, but that’s about all. Not good enough for her? Bollocks, she should be grateful he’s lowering himself to her level.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Lowering himself? An ugly, coarse, jumped-up lorry driver wanting a relationship with a beautiful girl like Harriet? You think he’s all she should aspire to, when she’s got the potential to – to – ’

  ‘To what? Marry Prince bloody William?’ It was my turn to laugh.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ she said loftily. ‘But she isn’t setting her sights that high.’

  ‘And just where are you setting her sights? If it’s Philip Elton, then, as I’ve already told you, you’re wasting your time. His choice of woman will be like his choice of career – safe and lucrative. Even if he does fancy Harriet, he’ll just use her for a quick shag, nothing more. He may talk like a romantic fool, but he’ll act like the calculating bastard he really is.’

  She glared at me in silence for several seconds; when at last she spoke, her voice was soft and calm. ‘Look, I don’t know why you’re getting so wound up. I haven’t any specific man in mind for Harriet at the moment. I’m just relieved she’s seen the light about Robert Martin and I’m glad I could be of help.’ Her tone hardened. ‘But I don’t agree with your description of her, it’s unflattering and unrealistic. She’s actually the type of woman that would suit most men down to the ground. How did you put it? Pretty and compliant. In other words, good to look at and take to bed, but no threat to the male ego. You know, if you and Tamara ever broke up, you could do worse than go out with Harriet yourself.’ She smiled sweetly and went to shut the door in my face.

  I wedged it open with my foot and grabbed hold of the door knocker to steady myself. I was breathing hard and fast, as if I’d just run a marathon.

  ‘I’m telling you, you should have left well alone. You’re trying to make her into something she’s not and never will be. For God’s sake, Emma, sometimes I wonder if you’ve even got the sense you were born with!’

  Her lip curled. ‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to agree to differ on this one. I’m sure your friend Robert will get over it sooner than you think.’

  Something snapped inside me. ‘You don’t seem to realise that you’re pissing about with a man’s heart – do you know what the fuck one is?’

  There was an insolent glint in her eye. ‘A man – or a heart?’

  ‘Both!’ I turned on my heel and stormed off.

  Behind me, the front door slammed. I got into the car, leaned my arms on the steering wheel and rested my head on them, briefly. Then I straightened up, started the engine and drove home.

  ~~EMMA~~

  I lay in bed, drained but unable to sleep, thinking about what Mark had said. I’d only ever heard him swear like that when he was almost beside himself with rage. Until tonight, however, I’d never been the target for one of his rare outbursts.

  I knew I had nothing to reproach myself for. But I felt so miserable. Sort of incomplete. A jigsaw with one piece missing, the Mark-shaped one that didn’t quite fit, yet somehow belonged.

  We’d had our falling-out moments, of course. Particularly when he’d discovered my teenage crush on him, all those years ago.

  I’d dealt with that then and I’d deal with this now.

  Chapter Four

  ~~MARK~~

  Early on the morning of my birthday, I woke to the phone ringing next to my bed. I groped for the receiver and grunted into it.

  Saffron’s voice almost burst my eardrums. ‘Happy birthday, darling!’

  Before I had time to bellow something back at her, Father came on the line. ‘Many happy returns, Mark, did you get our card and cheque?’

  ‘Yes thanks, they arrived yesterday I think. What time is it where you are?’

  ‘God knows. Some time in the afternoon, we’re in Singapore, remember? Just come back from Haw Par Villa, a sort of theme park. Didn’t think I’d enjoy it, but it was fascinating. We’re off out again in a few minutes. Is Tamara there?’

  I rolled onto my back and grinned. ‘No, she’s coming later today.’

  ‘So you’re all alone.’

  ‘Apart from a couple of hookers I picked up last night.’

  ‘I know you’re joking.’ He paused. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He said gently, ‘I think the sooner Tamara’s with you, the better. It’s not natural for a man to be on his own.’

  ‘I’m going into the office, I’ll hardly be on my own there.’

  ‘You know what I mean. By the way, have we got the new Parkinson contract agreed yet?’

  This led to a brief discussion about the need to keep particularly close to our biggest customer, who was being courted even more than usual by our competitors; then he was off on his next outing, Saffron nagging in the background.

  It made running Donwell Organics seem like a picnic.

  I lay in bed a little longer, thinking. Not about the Parkinson contract, I’m ashamed to say, but about the list of instructions I needed to give Mrs Burn in preparation for Tamara’s arrival; such as ‘Lay fire in drawing room’ and ‘Put bottle of Krug on ice’.

  At least the phone call meant I got to the office earlier than usual. Since I was leaving shortly after lunch to pick up Tamara from the airport, then taking the rest of the day off, I needed to get a head start.

  It felt like I’d only just got going when Cherry, my PA, rang through.

  ‘Ready for coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, it’s only – ’ I glanced incredulously at my watch. ‘Five past eleven? Yes, coffee please, then can you get hold of Mitch and ask him to come up here before one o’clock.’ David Mitchell was our Sales Director and in charge of the Parkinson account. ‘Oh, and could you check that Tamara’s plane’s on time? The details are in my diary.’

  ‘Fine. And you’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘There’s no one scheduled – ’

  ‘It’s Emma Woodhouse, she says it’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘Oh. All right, but … ’ The words died in my throat.

  ‘I’ll bring coffee for two, then, shall I?’

  ‘OK’.

  I’d hardly put down the phone when the door opened and there stood Emma in a too-short skirt, holding a large round tin emblazoned with ‘Fortnum & Mason’. We hadn’t seen each other – hadn’t even spoken – sinc
e our quarrel over a week earlier. And yet I’d lost count of the times I’d almost phoned her, almost called in at Hartfield …

  I forced a smile. ‘’Morning.’

  She took a few steps into the room and hesitated. I got up and shut the door. As I passed behind her, she spun round and thrust the tin at me.

  ‘Happy birthday. And Mark,’ – sharp intake of breath – ‘let’s call a truce and make up.’

  I took the tin from her and placed it on the desk. ‘Make up?’ I said, cautiously.

  ‘You know, for the whole Robert Martin thing. How I wish I’d never even heard of that stupid man! But what I hate most of all is this – this bad feeling between us. I’ve been so unhappy, I thought you’d never speak to me again.’

  I don’t know which came first, my arms opening in welcome or her eager step forward. Did it matter? She was there, burying her face in my chest, gripping the belt at the back of my trousers. My hands, as if guided by an unseen force, came to rest firmly on the curve of her suede-clad hips. My eyes closed; but whether in pain or pleasure, I had no idea.

  After a while, I became aware that she was crying – or rather trying not to. I opened my eyes, held her slightly away from me and raised one hand to cup her chin and tilt her face towards mine. Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed and I watched, fascinated, as a teardrop quivered on her lower lid – and fell. Without thinking, I pressed my lips against her cheek to catch it and tasted a fleeting moment of intimacy.

  Not physical intimacy. That was all too familiar, although not with her.