Page 102 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Mrs—? Oh, your stepmother. But she’s thousands of miles away—’
‘I don’t mean her either, I mean Mrs Mark Knightley.’
‘Who?’
‘My wife. And since that person doesn’t exist, I’ll continue to organise everything myself. But thank you so much for offering. ’Bye.’ I slammed down the receiver and yelled, ‘Cherry!’
She came rushing into my room. ‘What is it?’
‘That woman who just rang, would you recognise her voice?’
‘Oh yes, quite a strong West Country accent.’ She pulled a face. ‘And a terribly bossy manner.’
‘Good. If she phones again, say I’m unavailable. Travelling to Mars, on my deathbed, anything.’ I stared out of the window, feeling indescribably weary.
‘You sound stressed out, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’ she said, in a motherly tone. ‘I’ve got plenty to get onwith — and you don’t seem to have had much time away from the office over the holidays.’
‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’ I gave her a reassuring smile. ‘There’s one other thing, I’d like you to organise my farewell lunch for Friday. I thought a buffet in the conference room would be best, then everyone can come and go as they please.’
‘Is it just for staff, or are you inviting people from outside the company?’
‘Just for staff, I’m taking my family and a few friends out for dinner on Saturday night. Could you book that, too? The Box Hill Restaurant, seven thirty, for about twenty people. I’ll give you exact numbers nearer the time.’
She gaped at me. ‘Box Hill, for twenty? You’d better take out a mortgage.’
I shrugged. ‘I may as well go off in style. I won’t be coming home for a long time.’
* * *
~~EMMA~~
After the New Year break, I went back to work and steeled myself to get through the week. As I scanned my personal organiser, I found the three goals I’d set after the Philip fiasco. Normally, I’d have congratulated myself on my progress; I was convinced I’d taken no one at face value, I’d completed the research stage of the Harriet’s Secret Recipes project and I’d kept my matchmaking instincts well and truly under control.
But somehow I didn’t feel like celebrating. Mark was leaving in only four days’ time.
With everyone returning to work this morning, I was looking forward to some company, even Saint Jane’s. But Batty announced that Jane was too ill to come in — ‘pale as a ghost, hardly eating a thing, wasting away’. That left Harriet, who could normally be relied on to provide an endless stream of drivel todistract me. I heard her clattering about in the outer office and waited for her to bring in the post, which we normally went through together.
After a few moments, I called out, ‘Hi, how are you?’
No answer. I popped my head round the door that divided our two rooms. She was at her desk, staring at a pile of unopened letters.
‘Are you OK?’ I said.
She looked up. ‘Mmm?’
‘What’s the matter, are you pining for FC?’
‘Who?’
‘FC, the man of your dreams, you know I can’t mention his name.’
‘Yeah, but—’ She paused, then cocked her head on one side. ‘What does FC stand for?’
I knew her English was basic at times, but this was ridiculous. ‘F for Flynn, C for Churchill,’ I said, as patiently as I could.
She let out a squeal of disgust. ‘Him? Why would I want him when I can have Mark?’
‘Mark? Mark who?’
