Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams

by Rosie Rushton

  ‘I do hope the boys find somewhere nice to stay,’ Mrs Bates said as Jake left. ‘They can’t afford much and there’s four of them. I don’t like the idea of some grubby hostel.’

  Suddenly, everything clicked into place in Emma’s brain.

  ‘Mrs Bates,’ she murmured, smiling her most endearing smile and patting her hand the way she’d seen them do on Holby City and ER, ‘don’t you worry. I think I have the perfect solution. Just leave it with me.’

  ‘Emma, you’re a star!’

  ‘That is just the coolest idea!’

  Adam and Lucy sat side-by-side on the steps of Lucy’s chalet later that afternoon and gazed up at her admiringly.

  ‘See why I had to come over and tell you to your face? Neat, isn’t it?’ Emma agreed, squatting down beside them. ‘Dad’s chuffed because the band is staying in the eco-lodges – that way he gets them into the show without it looking contrived – Jake’s over the moon because Dad’s waiving the rent and I reckon now there is no way the band can refuse to play at Freddie’s party. So come on – where do we go to celebrate?’

  ‘Nowhere, sadly.’ Adam sighed. ‘We’re both on duty this evening – I’m teaching raft-building for tomorrow’s raft race, and Lucy’s helping with the campfire sing-along.’

  ‘Ye gods, you two lead riveting lives!’ Emma teased, gazing round at the groups of kids playing rounders or clambering over the assault course. ‘All looks like pretty hard work to me.’

  ‘Not half as hard as some of the lives these kids lead,’ Adam replied solemnly. ‘I’ve got a boy in my football squad who looks after his blind mum and dad – and he’s only nine. A charity paid for him to come and it’s the first time he’s had a chance to be a kid.’

  ‘A bit like Lily,’ Emma murmured thoughtfully. ‘You don’t realise, do you? I mean, what with our lives and stuff.’

  ‘No,’ Lucy replied. ‘You don’t.’

  For a moment, the silence was broken only by the shrieks of delight from the kids on the bouncy castle.

  ‘So how is your other scheme going?’ Lucy said smiling, anxious to lighten the mood. ‘You’re not really serious about getting Theo and Harriet together, are you?’

  ‘Theo? Theo Elton?’ Adam butted in. ‘He’s with Verity Price – although don’t ask me what he sees in her. She’s a right little tart.’

  ‘Which is why he’s not with her now,’ Emma informed him, deciding not to mention that it was Verity who chucked Theo. ‘And why Harriet is so perfect for him.’

  Her mind went back to the way Harriet had chatted non-stop when she got back to Emma’s house earlier that afternoon.

  ‘Theo was just so lovely with Mum,’ Harriet had told her, kicking off her shoes and sinking down on to one of the rattan chairs on the terrace. ‘He chatted away —’

  ‘You mean, you took him to meet her?’

  ‘When he came to fetch me,’ Harriet had explained. ‘He insisted on going and saying hi. Mum doesn’t normally like strangers coming, but she really took to Theo.’

  ‘More than Rob?’ Emma had asked, working hard to keep her voice disinterested and neutral.

  ‘Oh, Rob’s never been to the hospital,’ Harriet had replied, glancing at her watch. ‘I haven’t said much about Mum’s illness to him.’

  ‘But you felt able to tell Theo, who you only met yesterday?’ Emma had murmured. ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Well, yes – I mean, no – I mean, I will tell Rob, of course, it’s just that I didn’t want to put him off.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Emma had nodded wisely, as her mobile phone bleeped. ‘Obviously, if you’re aware that Rob’s that shallow —’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Harriet had interrupted hastily. ‘He’s just not really keen on hospitals.’

  ‘But if he was keen on you . . . oh, don’t listen to me.’ Emma had said theatrically, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and noting with some satisfaction how Harriet’s expression changed to one of confusion.

  She had scanned the text message.

  Have you got Harriet’s mobile number? Theo x

  She hadn’t been able to restrain a gasp of delight.

  ‘There, I told you Theo was keen – if you don’t believe me, look at that!’ she had cried, thrusting the phone under Harriet’s nose. ‘Shall I send it to him?’

  Harriet had nodded so rapidly that she resembled a plastic dog in the back of a Robin Reliant.

  ‘Wow! I mean, do you really think he likes me?’

  Emma giggled as she remembered Harriet’s joyful expression. She rammed her sunglasses on top of her head and turned to Lucy and Adam.

  ‘So I did,’ she told them, having left out the bit of the story involving psychiatric hospitals and divided loyalties. ‘And then I came over here and left them to it.’

  ‘Bring them along on Wednesday,’ Lucy suggested with a grin. ‘Then I can see whether all this is just a figment of your imagination.’

  ‘OK, cool.’ Emma nodded standing up and brushing bits of grass from her shorts. ‘Oh well, I suppose – good grief, what’s that noise?’

  She winced as the screech of a siren sent a flock of starlings flying from the trees.

  ‘The klaxon for supper,’ Lucy told her. ‘Got to dash. I’m on sausage duty.’

  ‘The way some people choose to spend their summer defies belief,’ sighed Emma. ‘I’m going home to wax my legs and watch Fifteen Love . . . See ya!’

  CHAPTER 6

  Daring dream:

  Pull the A-list guy and make sure everyone’s looking

  ‘GUESS WHAT?’ HARRIET CRIED, BURSTING FROM THE sitting room on Monday morning as Emma was waving goodbye to the last of the weekend guests. ‘George has just said I can play the piano – you know, the baby grand in the back sitting room? It’s fantastic – we had to sell ours. Well, no, that’s not true. They came and took it away because Dad didn’t keep up the payments.’

  Too much information, thought Emma. She’d have to teach Harriet that, while honesty was great in theory, there were times when it was best kept under wraps.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘By the way, that was such a cool idea of yours – about the photos on the website.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Harriet smiled. ‘It wasn’t my idea – I saw it on Mum’s hospital website. You know, nurses in starched caps pushing old-fashioned bath chairs alongside modern-day therapists, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ Emma persisted. ‘Theo’s thrilled. By the way, did he phone you after I texted your number?’

  Harriet nodded. ‘He wanted me to help choose which of your tennis pictures to put on the website.’ She giggled. ‘They’re really ace . . . oh ha, ha! Ace? Tennis?’

  Even their sense of humour matches, thought Emma and then winced at her own choice of words.

  ‘I told him to put music on the website,’ Harriet went on. ‘You know, the right period for each picture. He’s asked me to sort it for him.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Emma had to confess that Harriet was a constant source of amazement. She looked so dippy and yet she had some great ideas, which of course was exactly what a guy like Theo needed.

  ‘The pictures of me were just practice shots,’ she said. ‘It’s you he wants to photograph. He said you were really pretty.’

  ‘He did? Really?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Emma murmured. ‘Which is lovely, considering.’

  ‘Considering what? That I’m not really pretty, you mean? Well, I know —’

  ‘No, silly. Considering he’s so desperately in need of someone to love him.’

  Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘Theo is? But he’s so fit – surely he’s got a girlfriend?’

  Emma composed her features into what she hoped was an expression of muted compassion. ‘Had,’ she whispered. ‘Treated him brutally. Awful. Can’t say more but he just needs to know people care.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh – is that the time? Must dash. So – if he asks for help with photos and stuff – well, you will sor
t of . . .’

  ‘Of course I’ll help. Poor guy – and he’s so lovely.’

  Emma left feeling that the day had got off to an exceptionally good start.

  ‘Look, Theo, much as I’d love you to keep taking pictures of me, I simply can’t let them go on the website,’ Emma was saying to Theo ten minutes later after he’d cornered her in the hallway and asked her to pose in the rose garden. ‘My father would go ballistic.’ She paused, wondering how to make her excuse sound convincing. ‘See, Dad says he doesn’t want my name associated with anything that’s not one hundred per cent environmentally OK. You know, what with him being high profile and stuff. He loves the Knightleys to bits but the hotel isn’t exactly eco aware and —’

  ‘Right.’ Theo nodded. ‘I can see his point. But it was such a good idea of Harriet’s.’

  ‘So use her,’ Emma went on. ‘It might help to boost her self-esteem. And she’s free all day.’

  ‘You are kind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that then.’

  ‘Oh and by the way, Lucy’s invited you and Harriet to The Jacaranda Tree on Wednesday. You up for it?’

  ‘You bet!’ he replied. ‘Hey, I could take some shots for the teen bit of the website. That would spice it up a bit! From Croquet to the Club Scene – great caption, eh?’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Emma smiled. ‘See you.’

  At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, Emma was sitting at her dressing table plucking her eyebrows when her phone rang.

  ‘Emma? Where the hell are you?’

  She held the phone away from her left ear and continued plucking with her other hand. ‘In my bedroom. Not that it’s any business of yours,’ she informed George.

  ‘Actually, business is exactly what it is. Mrs Paxton-Whyte is here with Annabelle,’ he hissed. ‘Wedding plans? You said you’d take on Mum’s role and Mum is never late!’

  Emma chucked the tweezers to one side and kicked herself for looking inefficient in front of George. ‘OK, tell them I’ve been on the phone to some rather upmarket florists.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t, but they don’t know that. George just do it, OK? I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  An hour later, having resisted the urge to burst out laughing at the thought of the robustly built Annabelle Paxton-Whyte dressed as Titania for her Midsummer Night’s Dream wedding (‘My fiancé is going to be Oberon and my bridesmaids will be fairies – isn’t that blissful?’), Emma was hurrying down the drive to pick up her car and go into Brighton for some serious retail therapy. (The excuse she’d given to George was the need for gossamer-like tulle in sugar pink for the tables, but the main attraction was Gear Up’s sale.) As she reached the gates, a white Porsche 911 shot round the corner from the lane narrowly missing clipping her on the toes.

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ she screamed, leaping back on to the grass as the car shot past and then screeched to a halt, its tyres spinning on the gravel. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Emma’s heart was racing as she bent down to try to wrest the heel of her slingback from the soft turf and promptly toppled over. ‘You could have killed me!’

  ‘I am so sorry!’ A shadow fell across her face as the guy jumped out of the car and came towards her. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘Bit late for that!’ she muttered ‘What kind of loser —?’

  She looked up and her mouth fell open. The thick, blond hair and grey-green eyes of the guy smiling wryly down at her were instantly recognisable. It was Freddie Churchill.

  ‘What are you doing here? You’re not meant to be coming till tomorrow.’

  Freddie laughed and reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. He was wearing steel grey Fendi cut-offs and a baggy T-shirt; his arms and legs had the natural tan of someone who, when he wasn’t sailing or rowing on the Cam, was lounging about at some friend’s villa; and his whole air was one of confident self-assurance that comes from knowing that, even if you fluff all your exams, someone somewhere will bail you out.

  ‘I’ve always thought plans were made to be altered,’ he said, flashing her a smile. ‘Besides it’s your fault.’

  Emma brushed grass clippings off her dress and tried to look sophisticated.

  ‘How do you make that out?’ she said, wishing she hadn’t sucked off all her lip gloss and had done something with her so-in-need-of-highlights hair.

  ‘Adam says that you think this Donwell Abbey place is an OK venue for my bash,’ he said shrugging. ‘So I thought I’d come and suss it out.’ He grinned at her. ‘Come on, why don’t you show me round? I mean, unless you’re going somewhere?’

  ‘Nowhere that won’t keep, I guess,’ Emma said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. So – what do you want to see first?’

  ‘And we could have champagne on the terrace to start, then move to the dining room and conservatory for food and then the band and disco can be in the marquee,’ Emma concluded twenty minutes later. ‘Assuming, of course, that Jake says yes.’

  ‘Jake? You’ve spoken to Jake? You mean – the guitarist with Split Bamboo?’

  ‘Sure I have,’ Emma said sweetly. ‘He’s the cousin of a dear friend of mine.’

  ‘And you sorted it?’

  ‘Well, not every last detail,’ she admitted. ‘He’s insisting on speaking to you on Wednesday. But it should be fine. Now, is there anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Yes, just one thing,’ Freddie said, moving closer to her. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’ Emma’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘Be my party planner,’ he pleaded. ‘I love parties, I just hate all the aggro that goes into organising them.’

  For a moment, Emma couldn’t speak. She was too busy running a preview of press cuttings in her imagination:

  Churchill party a stunner thanks to Emma Woodhouse.

  Celebs clamour to retain services of Brighton’s hippest party planner.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ Freddie said apologetically. ‘I’ll get someone else . . .’

  ‘No, no, I’d love to do it!’ Emma enthused. ‘Now, about the fireworks . . .’

  ‘I did it, I did it, I did it!’

  Emma burst into the sitting room where George was picking ticks out of Brodie’s matted coat.

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Only secured you the most high-profile booking Donwell has ever had,’ she raved. ‘Freddie was here – he’s ever so nice and he’s booked every room from Thursday night through to Monday morning. He thinks my idea of a fancy dress theme for the party is ace, and he wants fireworks and the marquee on the lawn for the dancing and everything!’

  George jumped to his feet, ignoring Brodie’s yelp as he trod on his paw. ‘You mean, it’s actually going ahead?’ he gasped.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Emma replied. ‘It’s so cool – he’s having a couple of dozen really close mates to stay and the rest will just come for the party. Loads of people from the fashion business, so you never know where that might lead.’

  ‘So where is the guy?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Emma told him.

  ‘And he left a deposit?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Emma you didn’t let him go without – for heaven’s sake!’ George exploded.

  ‘I couldn’t ask him for money,’ Emma reasoned. ‘He’s Adam’s half-brother. And he’s really nice.’

  ‘Oh, and what are you going to say when he doesn’t pay the party bill? Oh George, it’s OK, he’s really nice. Get real, Emma!’

  Emma glared at him. ‘You know what, George Knightley? You’re becoming a real bore. He gave me his card, I gave him my phone number. And if you’re so worried, ask him for the money yourself!’ she snapped.

  ‘You said he’d gone.’

  ‘He has, but you’ll see him tomorrow at The Jacaranda. Lucy’s party? She said she’d left a message on your answerphone.’

  ‘Yes but —’

  ‘And don’t start all that “I’m needed here” bit,’ Emma ranted. ‘There
aren’t any guests right now. Dad’s around. And besides, call it work. Checking out the Churchill credit rating.’

  To her relief, George’s face creased into a smile. ‘OK, OK. I’m sorry – it’s just that all this is such a responsibility.’

  ‘So let your hair down for once,’ Emma encouraged him. ‘Come and listen to the band and . . . oh sugar!’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘I forgot to tell Freddie that Split Bamboo were staying over at our place.’ She sighed. ‘They’re moving in tonight. Still, maybe it’s best – Jake is still being all precious about playing at the party. Hopefully Freddie will persuade him. He’s ever so nice.’

  ‘If you say that one more time,’ muttered George, ‘I might just decide to hate the guy on sight.’

  ‘I can’t believe Freddie’s down here and hasn’t been in touch,’ said Lucy for the fifth time on Wednesday as she and Emma, exhausted from three hours’ hard shopping, sat in Fitzherbert’s eating salade niçoise and sipping cranberry juice spritzers. ‘Adam’ll be gutted. Did he say he’d come over later?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘He got a phone call from someone called Judy while we were talking and he dashed off,’ she reported. ‘He seemed in a bit of a state, to be honest.’

  ‘Judy?’ Lucy frowned, fingering the moonstone bracelet that was Emma’s birthday gift to her. ‘Girlfriend, maybe?’

  ‘Has he got one?’ Emma replied, a little too quickly.

  ‘I guess he must have,’ Lucy mused. ‘Guys like that with loads of money and a body to die for – he’s hardly going to be sitting at home watching Corrie every night, is he?’ She eyed Emma. ‘Not that you’d care, anyway,’ she teased. ‘You’re not into guys.’

  True, thought Emma, sipping her drink. But just think what a coup it would be to pull Freddie Churchill in front of everyone, especially if he’s supposedly at the beck and call of this Judy girl. In that instant, she doubled her resolve that, when Freddie hosted his birthday bash, it would be her and no one else that would be at his side.

  The Jacaranda Tree was the latest addition to the Brighton club scene. Three floors, all lavender and pink perspex with chrome pillars and huge screens picking out the bands and dancers, were already filling up when Emma, George, Lily, Harriet and Theo arrived on Wednesday evening. One mention of the Churchill name and they were waved past the bouncers and down the stairs. Emma caught sight of Adam and Lucy, perched on stools by the bar that encircled the giant purple plastic and vinyl tree which stretched from the basement to the roof of the building and gave the club its name.