Page 106 of The Importance of Being Emma
So that was what Mark and George had found so funny; and of course Saffron had taken offence, big time.
‘Saffron’s fine once you get used to her,’ I said. ‘I’d better go and say hello.’
As I approached, I saw Saffron talking to the Perrys while Mark was deep in conversation with his father. I heard George say, ‘And you think she’ll agree?’
Mark nodded. ‘I’m sure of it, otherwise I wouldn’t even be asking—’ He broke off when he noticed me.
George kissed me warmly on both cheeks. ‘You look ravishing, my dear. Doesn’t she, Mark?’
Mark didn’t seem to be listening. ‘I’ll go and have that word with Harriet,’ he muttered, and moved away.
‘He’s got a lot on his mind at the moment.’ George smiled apologetically, then gave Saffron a discreet nudge. ‘Here’s Emma.’
‘Darling!’ Saffron went through her ‘kiss and miss’ routine, ‘Mwah!’ somewhere beside my left cheek and ‘Mwah!’ near my right. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She lowered her voice the merest fraction. ‘This village is going to the dogs. That funny little girl in the hideous dress bleating on about Ikea and that frightful woman Mark asked to organise the party, what in God’s name was he thinking? But you haven’t changed, thank goodness. Just remind me to give you Felice’s phone number, she’ll show you how to do your hair and make-up properly, darling.’
George cut in hastily with, ‘And how are things going at Highbury Foods? Mark tells me you’re very talented at marketing.’
Really? He’d given no sign of being impressed so far. I was about to say something to that effect, when Gusty clapped her hands to draw our attention.
She surveyed us all with a condescending smirk. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know it’s the middle of winter but I thought I’d bring you a taste of summer with a little cookery demonstration. I’m making Fraises à la Neige, which means strawberries in snow for the uninitiated, so simple that even my better half Philip can do it. Everything’s set up through here’ — gesturing grandly at the conservatory — ‘although it’s impossible to get decent strawberries at this time of year. These ones were flown in from Spain or somewhere, but of course in the summer I’d pick them, fresh. Make a little outing of it, you know.’
Batty piped up, ‘That’s just what we do every June at Bob Taylor’s pick-your-own fruit farm on the Kingston road. Poorman, he’s never been the same since he . . . We take a picnic and have a wonderful time, you’d be welcome to join us, dear.’
Gusty scowled. ‘I’m going to be organising my own pick-your-own outing. Up to London, Fortnum & Mason in fact, veryselect.’
I caught Mark’s eye and, for a split second, we shared one of our old knowing looks. Then he turned abruptly away.
As if in a dream, I watched Gusty bully everyone into the conservatory; at least, almost everyone. The sight of Mark leading Harriet off in another direction wasn’t a dream — it was a short, sharp dose of reality. Behind me, I heard a loud curse as someone collided with the door.
I whirled round to find Flynn rubbing his elbow. ‘Oh hi, Tom said you were on your way.’
He grimaced. ‘I gave up dinner at the Ritz for this, hope it’s bloody well worth it. Funny how people are too ill to see me but not too ill to comehere.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I said, giving him a bemused look.
He forced a smile. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day. Don’t suppose there’s any decent whisky in this place?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Just then, Gusty came marching up to us. ‘Flynn, you gorrrgeous man, I want yourprofessionalopinion of my strawberries in snow.’ She slipped her arm coquettishly through his. ‘Come along, don’t be shy.’
Flynn jerked his arm away. ‘You can stick your strawberries up your—’
‘We’re not in the mood,’ I put in quickly. ‘Another time maybe.’
Gusty glared at me. ‘I hardly think so. Do you realise how much time and effort this demonstration’s taking? Not to mention the expense, although I told Sheila Burn to claim backevery penny she’s spent from Mark, it’s nothing to do with me.’ She spun on her heel and stalked off.
Flynn ran his hand through his hair. ‘Any chance of that whisky?’
‘Mrs B will track some down, she’s probably in the kitchen. This way.’
‘What would I do without you, my lovely?’ he said, flinging his arm casually round my shoulder.
As we entered the hall, Mark and Harriet came out of the study opposite. At that moment, my worst fears were realised. He seemed rather pleased with himself; but she . . . she looked like she’d just won the National Lottery, a rollover jackpot on a £1 ticket.
‘Remember, not a word to anyone,’ Mark said. When he saw us, his expression darkened. ‘Can I get you something?’
I dropped my gaze from Harriet’s radiant face and stared at her high-heeled, open-toed shoes. They were black patent, like her dress, and through her black tights — or was she wearing stockings, all set for seduction? — I could see that her toe nails were painted alternate black and pink. I wondered what Mark would think . . . But then, if he was besotted with her, he’d find everything about her irresistible, wouldn’t he?
