Page 1 of The Importance of Being Emma
Chapter One
~~EMMA~~
Good, the boardroom was deserted.
When I was a child, it filled me with awe; dark panelling, solid mahogany furniture, large leather-bound minute books and forbidding photographs of former Highbury Foods Board members, their names usually ending in Woodhouse. Now, although there were no obvious signs of change, it all looked the worse for wear; the photographs faded, the furniture scuffed.
I closed the door and selected a seat at the long table with care. I’d have more privacy here than in my own office, but I still wanted advance warning of anyone approaching.
I flicked through the magazine I’d brought with me and found what I was looking for on page thirty:
Change is in the air at Highbury Foods, one of the nation’s most traditional small companies, in the glamorous form of new Marketing Director Emma Woodhouse. But has this enthusiastic novice bitten off more than she can chew?
Emma has everything going for her. She’s stunning, highly intelligent and wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of mere mortals, thanks to some shrewd property investment by her great-grandfather. She has one of the most sought-after addresses in England: Highbury. Not the old Arsenal football ground, but a picturesque and prestigious village in Surrey, where her family is well known for its charitable giving, courtesy of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust. And, for someone whose lifereeks of privilege and plenty, Emma seems refreshingly grateful for her good fortune.
Now, at only twenty-three, she has decided that the family business is in need of her talents. Her father Henry has run Highbury Foods along very conservative lines for two decades, following faithfully in the footsteps of previous generations. In fact, the company has had the same game plan for the last 52 years: supplying a range of non-perishable delicacies to upmarket homes and hotels via mail order. It has yet to discover the advantages of selling over the Internet and, until now, did not even see the need for a Marketing Director.
But Emma wants to drag the company into the 21st century and has set herself only twelve months to achieve this.
We say it’s mission impossible. Even with an MBA from Stanford, USA. But Ms Woodhouse says, ‘Watch this space.’
I threw the magazine down. They’d got it completely wrong; it was Harvard, not Stanford. Hadn’t that cretin of a journalist listened — or had he been too busy ogling my legs? He’d certainly chosen a photo that showed not much else; the angle suggested I’d ordered the photographer to grovel at my feet.
If I had, I couldn’t remember it.
I didn’t read on. It was the usual witless blurb they published in those glossy magazines that came with a couple of forests’ worth of Sunday papers. I should have guessed as much from the saucy headline, ‘Gentleman’s Relish’, a reference to the highly seasoned anchovy paste that was one of our most established and successful products.
But this was my first press interview and I’d hoped for something better. I hadn’t even expected to see it in print until next weekend, so I was taken aback when Batty, our Company Secretary, handed it to me this morning with a squeal of excitement. Knowing her, she’d already have shown it to the other directors, just when I wanted to make a good impression. This fatuous nonsense portrayed me as having all the subtlety of an Exocet missile.
The September sun warmed my back. I turned my head and gazed at its low rays slanting in through the long dusty windows. I could see the factory, a jumble of squat brick buildings, and, in the distance, the tall copper beech hedge that hid my home from view. Mark Knightley had once observed that it was actually the other way round; the hedge was designed to hide the grim reality of work from the pampered occupants of Hartfield Hall.
Meaning me.
He was wrong, of course. I’d been fascinated by Highbury Foods for as long as I could remember. I came here during school holidays, University vacations, even occasional weekends when only the maintenance team was in. I studied production methods, analysed sales trends and talked to employees — about themselves, as well as their jobs. Our company culture was like that; relationships mattered more than results. And it worked. We turned a nice profit most years while still employing people who were long past their sell-by date, like Batty . . .
Lost in thought, I wasn’t aware of footsteps outside in the corridor until it was almost too late. The door creaked open and I heard a familiar twittering sound. Talk of the devil: Batty, in full flow. I dived for cover under the table.
‘This is where the Board will be meeting, dear — no, don’t go in now, I’ll show you after we’ve had a cuppa. That’s your main job this morning, to take the minutes at the . . . I’ll be sitting beside you, in case you need any help. Henry — that’sthe Managing Director — speaks awfully quietly at times, such a martyr to his chest. You’ll be PA to him and his daughter — lovely family, so caring. And I should know, I started work here under Henry’s father more years ago than I like to . . . I must say, dear, that was a glowing reference from your last temping job at Abbey Mill Haulage, Robert Martin couldn’t praise you highly enough and he’s never one to . . . This way to my office, dear, then I’ll tell you all about . . .’ At last, Batty and her unfortunate victim moved out of earshot, leaving the door ajar.
With a sigh of relief, I crawled from my hiding place and brushed myself down. I was in no hurry to see Batty again and have her fawning about the magazine article. She might surprise me, of course, and ask exactly how I proposed to drag Highbury Foods into this century; but somehow I doubted it.
Modernising the company was a challenge I’d prepared for over the past five years. I’d focused on the academic side, starting with a BSc at the London School of Economics and following it immediately with my MBA. Wherever possible, I’d made Highbury Foods the subject of my essays and assignments, usually scoring top marks for perception and ingenuity.
Now that I had a formal position with the power — and the budget — to make a difference, I could put my plans into action. And I would start at today’s Board meeting . . .
Once again a noise interrupted my thoughts. This time it was the buzz of a wasp, high up on the window, sluggishly searching for a way out. I frowned. If Dad saw it, he would postpone the meeting. Convinced he was allergic to any sort of sting or bite, he kept an EpiPen on him at all times although, to my knowledge, he never used it.
I placed a chair next to the window, rolled up the magazine — it might do nothing for my CV, but it made a great wasp zapper — kicked off my Dior shoes and used the chair to climbonto the sill. My stockinged feet slithered on the wood and I had to grip the sash with my free hand to steady myself.
Eyeball to eyeball with the wasp, I drew back my other arm, took aim and—
‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’
Only one person called me Mouse.
The magazine fell to the floor. For a moment there was silence, except for the wasp buzzing nonchalantly, unaware it had escaped certain death.
I took a deep breath and turned round, forcing a smile. ‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’
