After breakfast, Freddie instigated the singing of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ in praise of Mrs P’s kedgeree, which he declared was the best this side of the Indian Ocean and as result Mrs P was now putty in his hands and determined to provide the best afternoon tea that Donwell had ever seen.
It was as everyone was piling into the mini jeeps that George had hired on Freddie’s instructions that Emma saw something that threatened to ruin her entire day: Theo Elton was strolling up the drive, hand in hand with Miranda, the reporter from Cheerio!
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ she hissed at George. ‘He’s only invited to the party.’
‘Ah,’ murmured George.
‘What’s “Ah” supposed to mean?’ demanded Emma.
‘Theo phoned and asked for Freddie’s mobile number . . .’
‘And you gave it to him? How stupid can you get?’ Emma exploded. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t answer my question.’
‘He was just ringing to ask whether he could bring his new girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’ Emma spluttered. ‘They only met a few days ago and besides it was me he was in love with!’
‘You didn’t want him,’ George pointed out.
‘That’s not the point,’ Emma snapped. ‘How do you think Harriet is going to feel?’ She glanced over her shoulder, grateful that Harriet and Lily were fully occupied in the kitchen. ‘You should never have let Freddie agree to them coming.’
‘Oh, Emma, come off it,’ George protested. ‘What was I supposed to do? I’m not the one footing the bill. Anyway, when he heard what Theo had to say, he couldn’t get him over here quickly enough. And I must admit I was pretty keen myself.’
Emma frowned. Freddie hadn’t mentioned any new developments to her and she was, after all, the party planner. Besides, George hated Freddie.
‘So what was the big attraction?’ she demanded.
‘Miranda,’ George said with a wry grin. ‘She’s offered to do a big piece on the band —’
‘I know that, Dad told me,’ Emma interrupted. ‘Doesn’t mean she has to be here now.’
‘Oh yes, she does,’ George corrected her. ‘The magazine want the whole country house party thing – there’s a photographer coming too. It’ll be a huge spread, loads of pictures of the house and gardens, masses about our activities – and we won’t have to pay a penny.’
‘Oh.’ Much as the sight of Theo Elton made her want to vomit, she had to admit that the Knightleys were hardly in a position to pass up on an opportunity like that.
‘Emma, someone’s left their picnic in the dining room!’ Harriet ran into the hall, waving a hamper. ‘I think it’s —’ She stopped dead and stared out of the open front door. ‘That’s Theo.’ She stood open-mouthed, like a rabbit caught in headlights. And then before Emma could stop her, she was out of the front door and heading towards him.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Emma hissed at George. ‘This is going to traumatise her big time. I hope you’re satisfied.’
‘Emma, do you always have to be such a drama queen?’ George sighed. ‘If anyone is to blame, it’s you because —’
‘What are you two rabbiting on about?’ Freddie said as he strolled towards them. He glanced at his watch. ‘George, your clay-pigeon shooting party is champing at the bit, so you’d better get over there.’
He turned to Emma. ‘Are you sure you won’t join us?’ he asked, tipping his finger under her chin so that shivers of anticipation rippled down her spine. ‘Jake and the guys are doing quad biking and I said I’d tag along for a laugh.’
‘Between you and me,’ George murmured, ‘I can’t see Emma wanting to spend her day knee deep in mud!’
‘It would have been fun,’ she lied, watching with increasing anxiety as Harriet tried to chat to Theo, ‘but I’ve loads to do for the party. By the way, what are Theo and Miranda doing?’
‘Horse riding,’ Freddie replied.
‘Let’s hope he falls off,’ Emma muttered under her breath. ‘Preferably head first into a cow pat.’
The more Emma saw of Miranda, the more she loathed her. She was into everything, shoving her little Dictaphone under people’s noses, laughing too loudly and prefacing every remark with, ‘When I interviewed . . .’ and then mentioning some C-list celebrity as though speaking to them had been the journalistic coup of the year. She kept ordering Liam, the somewhat weedy and acne-ridden photographer, about and would insist on calling Emma ‘Em’ to which, needless to say, she refused to respond. The girl was the pits. Luckily, it seemed that Freddie wasn’t particularly impressed with her either.
‘I know it’s great for the guys to get this publicity,’ he complained to Emma on Friday evening while everyone was lounging around on the lawn drinking Pimms or setting up an impromptu game of cricket, ‘but she’s so in your face. And very common.’
Emma glanced over to where Miranda was chatting to Dylan and Nick; he had a point. Which made it even more strange that Theo was taking an interest in her.
‘So,’ she said, touching Freddie’s arm lightly, ‘how’s it going so far? How do I rate as a party planner?’
‘Top of the range,’ Freddie replied.
‘And,’ Emma said, seductively running her tongue along her lower lip and edging closer to Freddie, ‘how do I rate in other ways?’
She held her breath. Had she said too much? She could see several pairs of eyes on them. Now was not the time to get the brush off.
She exhaled in relief as Freddie cupped her face in his hands. ‘You’re – lovely,’ he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. ‘There’s so much I want to say to you, but not here. Later – why don’t we . . .?’
‘Freddie! Over here!’ Jake shouted from the other side of the lawn. ‘Miranda wants to get a shot of me and the rest of the band!’
Damn Miranda, thought Emma as Freddie dropped his hands to his side. But I’ve got him.
‘Catch you later,’ he whispered, winking at her. ‘OK?’
‘Absolutely,’ Emma said with a smile. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
She had a long wait. Of course, she understood why. With so many people milling around, and Thalia popping in and out, and George’s parents getting into a tizz and asking her to check and double-check decorations and table plans and party favours, there was hardly a moment to draw breath, let alone have a full-on snog. But twice she caught Freddie gazing at her with a yearning expression on his face and that was enough. For now. Once the party was under way, she could think of at least three quiet corners they could disappear into. Not too quiet, of course – she needed her triumph to be witnessed by as many of her own mates as possible.
At seven o’clock on Saturday evening, Emma and Lucy were in Emma’s bedroom preparing for the party. Emma was standing in front of her mirror, eyeing her fancy dress costume with a degree of smug satisfaction. The theme that Freddie had finally chosen, after a lot of input from Emma, was Beaux and Belles.
‘That way, people can be as randy or as demure as they like,’ Emma had told him. ‘Something for everyone.’
‘And which will you be? Randy or demure?’ Freddie had asked, touching her arm and leaning towards her with a mischievous expression on his face,.
‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ she had replied enigmatically.
Now, surveying her reflection in the mirror, she felt she had hit exactly the right note for what was clearly going to be an evening of intimacy. She’d gone for the Regency heroine look. The Maximum Uplift bra that she was wearing under her electric-blue ball gown enhanced her cleavage enough to be enticing yet subtle, and, as she fingered the ringlets that had taken Stephanie at Cut Above three hours and a lot of subdued swearing to achieve, she felt ready for anything that Freddie had to offer. It had, after all, taken him long enough to pluck up the courage, and it would be so unfair to disappoint him.
‘Do you think I look subtly seductive?’ Emma asked Lucy.
‘Subtle? You?’ Lucy laughed, pulling off h
er jeans and T-shirt. ‘You’ll have guys salivating before we’ve finished the buffet.’
‘Oh good,’ Emma replied. ‘Only Freddie —’
‘Listen, I’m not being funny, but don’t go overboard. I reckon Freddie’s a bit of a playboy; you know, pick a girl up, dump her, move on? Just a feeling.’
‘Come off it, I’m not asking for marriage,’ Emma retorted. ‘Besides, he likes me. I know he does. I can sense these things.’
‘Right,’ Lucy said, gazing into the mirror. ‘Do you think I was a bit silly going as a bathing belle? Does my bum look big in bloomers?’
By eleven o’clock, Emma knew that all her planning had been worthwhile. The party was a triumph; the marquee had been transformed into Regency Brighton, complete with a bathing machine in one corner (dispensing somewhat unRegency popcorn) and a Punch and Judy booth in another. Fishing nets and stuffed seagulls hung from the ceiling and Emma’s father had managed to hire a barrel organ played by an overweight guy in a striped blazer and straw boater. Freddie, who looked divine as Beau Brummell, had danced with her three times. He’d even kissed her – only sadly it was on the top of her head, which didn’t really count, but he kept muttering about getting her on her own and that did. The champagne had been flowing like water. Even George, sporting a footman’s outfit, seemed happy and gave her a hug, saying that, even though she was stubborn, bossy and infuriating, she’d done a great job.
All the old school gang were having a ball – Serena and Angus had come back from Rock for the event (Emma took great satisfaction in noting that Serena’s nose was peeling – had she never heard of total block?) and Tabitha, Chelsea and the rest were all competing to get the photographer from Cheerio! to include them in his shots. Adam was dropping the words ‘my brother’ into every other sentence, conveniently leaving out the ‘half’, and Lucy had confided in Emma that Freddie thought she was ‘amazing’.
If there was anything to dampen her sense of elation, it was the sight of Harriet, who, having finished her waitressing duties, had changed into a particularly unflattering dress that she’d hired from some sleazy fancy dress shop, and was sitting in a corner tapping her feet in time to the music and trying to look as if she didn’t care about being the only person who hadn’t danced once. Harriet’s eyes seemed to follow Theo and Miranda round the room, which was unfortunate since they were spending a great deal of time exploring the depths of one another’s throat right in front of her, which Emma considered to be in very bad taste anyway. Every time Emma caught Harriet’s eye, she smiled; but the smile didn’t last and, as the evening wore on, Harriet seemed to be the only person who looked as if she wished she was anywhere but at Freddie’s party.
‘Why the long face?’ George asked Emma. ‘It’s going well.’
‘It’s Harriet.’ Emma sighed. ‘I’ve got to find a guy to dance with her. Do you think Simon Wittering would do?’
‘You said he was a loser,’ George reminded her.
‘Well, he is, but . . .’ She paused remembering Theo’s comments about double standards. ‘Well, Tom then, or Calum – or —’
‘You are unbelievable,’ George said laughing. ‘Rather than abandon Harriet to your totally off-the-wall matchmaking, I’m going to dance with her myself!’
Emma smiled as he walked over to Harriet, whispered in her ear and led her into the middle of the packed dance floor. He was such a sweet guy. And actually, she mused, his dancing was getting better. Much less demented chicken and more —
‘Emma, come and dance?’
Freddie was at her side, his hand already under her elbow. He didn’t have to ask twice.
‘Look, can we find somewhere quiet?’ Freddie whispered in Emma’s ear five minutes later. ‘There’s something I have to say to you and I can’t do it here. Please?’
‘Sure,’ she said, trying to still the fluttering in her chest. ‘Why don’t we go outside?’
She was just leading him to the doorway when someone seized her arm. ‘I want you to do something and do it now!’ Thalia, who when Emma had last seen her, had been sitting out on the terrace with Tarquin, George’s parents and a few other wrinklies, was now looking extremely excited and very flushed. ‘Go and get the band to stop playing and do a drum roll.’
‘I can’t, we were just —’
‘Granny, what’s all this?’ Freddie sounded irritated in the extreme. ‘Back off, OK?’
‘Emma, just do it!’
There was something in Thalia’s tone that brooked no argument. Emma pushed her way over to the band and whispered the instructions in Ravi’s ear. Being the professional he was, he took not a blind bit of notice, so she did the only thing she could. She whipped the drumsticks out of his hands. ‘Drum roll – surprise – do it now!’ she ordered.
‘What’s going on?’ Jake turned, open-mouthed, to Ravi, who shrugged and glared at Emma. But by then Thalia was beside them, a very reluctant Freddie in tow.
‘Right everyone,’ she shouted. ‘I know it’s another half-hour before Freddie is actually twenty-one but what the heck? Happy birthday to you, happy . . .’
Whether it was because Thalia’s singing was so off-key that it needed drowning out, or simply because after copious quantities of champagne everyone’s inhibitions had vanished, Emma wasn’t sure, but within seconds the whole place was reverberating to singing, clapping, cheering and the odd bawdy heckle from the likes of Simon Wittering. She darted back to Freddie’s side and slipped her hand in his.
‘And now,’ Thalia shouted, holding up a hand to still the hubbub, ‘a birthday surprise!’
Ravi, having got the hang of things, beat out another drum roll.
‘Oh my God!’ Freddie’s groan could be clearly heard by those standing near him. ‘This is all I need.’
Emma saw Miranda, who was standing close by, kick Liam the photographer with her stiletto and gesture to the doorway of the marquee.
‘Start shooting and don’t stop!’ she murmured. ‘This could be big.’
Emma turned and followed Miranda’s gaze. Standing in the doorway was Sir Douglas Churchill, Freddie’s father.
‘Happy twenty-first, Frederick,’ he boomed, striding across the floor and slapping Freddie on the back as Liam flashed shot after shot. ‘Good to see you.’
Despite the astonishment at seeing him there, it wasn’t Sir Douglas who took Emma’s attention. It was the way that Freddie’s hand gripped hers so tightly that she thought her knuckles would crack, and the look of sheer panic on his face.
‘Dad, what are you doing here? I mean, it’s great but . . .’ he stammered.
‘It wasn’t my idea, I confess,’ he replied gruffly. ‘But your grandmother – well, we have things to clear up.’
He turned to Emma. ‘And who is this delightful young lady?’
‘Sorry – let me introduce you. This is Emma. Emma, darling, meet my father.’
Just for a moment, Emma was speechless, thinking, Emma, darling – he called me darling. In front of his father.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Sir Douglas,’ she said, her natural good manners coming into play as the camera flashed again and again. ‘How lovely that you could come.’
‘Sweetheart, will you excuse us just for a minute?’ Freddie asked, turning to Emma. ‘I need to have a bit of time with my father.’ And with that, he tipped her chin, leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips. ‘Back in a minute,’ he whispered and led his father away.
Emma was reeling. He had to be madly in love with her to behave like that in front of his father. The odd thing was that, now he’d actually come on strong, her heart had stopped fluttering, her legs hadn’t turned to jelly and, although she was disappointed that he wasn’t around to dance now the disco had started and the DJ was playing ‘Catch My Heart’, she soon had guys clamouring to get her on to the dance floor. She did wonder where Freddie and his father had got too, but she was more concerned to work out just how many of her mates had seen the kiss.
She was sa
tisfied to see Tabitha and Serena nudging one another and looking enviously in her direction.
‘Have you had too much to drink?’ George suddenly appeared, having handed Harriet over to the tender mercies of Simon Wittering. ‘What was going on with you and Freddie?’
‘He kissed me,’ she said calmly. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Me? Why should I? You’re the one with the problem. I’ve told you, that guy is not right for you.’
‘Oh really? And why’s that? Because he’s fit? Because he knows how to have a laugh? Because . . . Oh my God! What has Lily got on?’
Lily, her kitchen duties obviously over for the evening, was standing on tiptoe in the doorway of the marquee, waving at Emma. She was wearing an emerald green shift dress with silver bells and bows sewn all over it.
‘She looks like a downmarket Christmas tree,’ Emma muttered to George, as Lily pushed through the throng of dancers to reach them. ‘Lily, what are you wearing?’
‘What? Bows and bells,’ she said. ‘I thought . . . oh dear. Oh.’
Her eyes scanned the costumes in the room, the long dresses, bathing belles, dandies and, in the case of Tabitha, Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
‘Oh no, I didn’t get it – see, Jake didn’t send an invitation or anything, he just said bows and bells, and I’ve never been to a posh do like this and I just thought . . .’
‘No, you didn’t think,’ Emma snapped, still smarting from George’s comments. ‘You never do. If you’d engaged your brain for one minute – well, that presupposes there is a brain to engage . . . you’d have realised that people like Freddie’s set don’t do tacky. And tonight you are the queen of tack.’
Lily stared at her open-mouthed.
‘Oh. You mean . . . you think . . . well, I’d better go and change. I don’t know what into though, I haven’t got anything glamorous . . . but if you think he’ll be upset . . .’
‘I think it’s a great costume,’ George broke in, glaring at Emma through narrowed eyes. ‘Far more imaginative than all this lot. And that colour suits you perfectly.’ He reached out a hand to her. ‘Come on, let me get you some champagne – and there are some pretty cool king prawn kebabs lurking somewhere.’
Secret Schemes and Daring Dreams Page 14
