Page 103 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Mark Knightley, of course,’ she said, looking at me as if I was mentally deficient.
I felt the colour drain from my face. ‘MarkKnightley?’
‘Yeah, and it’s looking good.’ She hugged herself like an excited child. ‘Can’t wait for tomorrow night.’
My stomach churned. ‘What’s happening tomorrow night?’
‘Didn’t you get your invitation this morning?’
‘Invitation?’
‘Here.’ She rummaged in her pocket and handed me an ivory card, much creased as if she’d been fondling it ever since it arrived. I snatched it from her, hardly registering the printed words about a party for George and Saffron. I was desperateto read what was scrawled across the bottom, in handwriting that was heartbreakingly familiar: ‘Hope you can come — there’s something I need to ask you. Mark.’
Harriet giggled. ‘The food sounds crap, innit? Friggin’ canopies, whatever they are. What are you wearing?’
‘Nothing.’ Was that a Freudian slip? God knows I’d have pranced round Donwell Abbey stark naked if I thought there was any chance of getting together with Mark . . . ‘I mean, I don’t know if I’m going.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Haven’t you had an invitation?’
‘Of course I have. I just can’t decide whether I can fit it in.’ I glanced casually through the pile of letters, but there wasn’t anything that looked like an invitation. ‘Start opening those, I’ll be back in a minute.’
I walked quickly round to Dad’s office, my heart pounding. I didn’t dwell on the revelation that Harriet fancied Mark instead of Flynn; I was more concerned about tracking down my invitation to Donwell. Harriet didn’t even know George and Saffron, so why had Mark invited her? And what on earth could he want to ask her? I reassured myself that there’d be a similar message written on my invitation, if I could find it.
Dad was by the window, examining the pad of his thumb in the watery sunlight. ‘Just cut myself on some paper, would you believe,’ he said, with a mournful sigh. ‘I’m an accident waiting to happen.’
I went straight to the point. ‘Did we have anything from Mark in this morning’s post?’
‘Look at it, do you think it’s infected?’
I squinted at a tiny cut in his flesh and wrinkled my nose. ‘How could it be? You smell like you’ve bathed in antiseptic. Listen, apparently there’s a party tomorrow night, to welcome George and Saffron home. Does that ring any bells?’
‘Party? Oh yes, we had an invitation but I don’t think we should go.’
I let this pass for the moment. ‘What did it say?’
‘Let me see . . . Seven thirty for drinks and canapés. Those things never agree with me, far too exotic.’
I tried again. ‘What I mean is, did Mark write anything on it?’
Dad gave a wry smile. ‘Our names of course, darling.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No. Anyway, as I said, I don’t think we should go.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s snow forecast. Isabella’s just phoned, she doesn’t want to go either. She’s really worried about leaving the children, but John doesn’t understand—’
For once, my patience was exhausted. ‘We’re going, Dad, or at least I am. I’ll book a taxi if you don’t want me to drive.’
I left him apprehensively prodding his thumb and walked slowly back to my office. I’d been so blind, so absolutely stupid. Because I’d thought Harriet fancied Flynn, I’d persuaded her that she had as much chance as anyone else to get him. But all along she’d meant Mark; she’d wanted to go to the Westons’ on New Year’s Eve to seehim. And her flirting with him over Scrabble had been genuine, not an attempt to make Flynn jealous. Later, when Mark had told me that there was nothing to keep him in England, he must have already been planning to take her back to India; far better to start their relationship away from the prying eyes of Highbury. Tomorrow night, at the party, he’d ask if she wanted to go with him. She’d say yes, yes,yes, and then . . .
I’d been so blind.
I found Harriet still gazing vacantly at the pile of letters, but at least she’d opened them. Not that it mattered. All of a sudden, I didn’t give a shit about Highbury Foods. How was I going toget through the next four days? How was I going to get through tomorrow night, come to that?
But the show must go on, for as long as possible. ‘Right, Harriet,’ I said firmly, ‘it’s about time we got down to some work.’
