Page 112 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Oh Harriet, it wasn’t that hard to figure out.’
Brief pause; then she said, sounding relieved, ‘I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t, Mark said you might try and talk me out of it.’
I felt a surge of anger at being judged so unfairly. ‘If you really want something, no one should be able to talk you out of it—’ I broke off, remembering how easily I’d persuaded her to drop Robert Martin for Philip Elton. Maybe Mark had a point, maybe he already knew Harriet better than I did. ‘I need to go,it’s late and I’m sure you’ve still got packing to do. Have a good trip and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’
‘If I come back at all,’ she said cheerfully and hung up.
I threw the phone on the floor and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache. Dad made me his favourite hangover remedy, uncooked porridge oats in barley water, but after a couple of mouthfuls I couldn’t face any more. There was something weighing on my mind, something I needed to do as soon as possible. I found an unopened bottle of vintage port in the cellar, grabbed my car keys and poked my head round the door of the dining room, where Dad was tut-tutting over the Sunday papers.
‘Just popping into Highbury to give this port to Mary’s mother, I promised it to her ages ago.’
‘Fine, darling, best to call now before they go to church.’
Kings Row looked congested, so I parked on the high street and dashed across the grass verge that separated it from Batty’s house. I rang the doorbell and waited as patiently as I could.
When Batty eventually came to the door, she seemed even weirder than usual. ‘Oh, it’s you, have you heard already, did Kate tell you?’
I decided to ignore her ramblings and get my apology over and done with. ‘I brought this for you and your mother, I know how much you both like port.’ I paused. ‘And I’ve come to say sorry for last night, I don’t know what got into me.’
She took the port with a distracted smile. ‘That’s very kind of you, of course I thought nothing of it really, after . . . Do come in, dear, we’re all at sixes and sevens this morning but I’m just about to make another cuppa.’
As I hesitated, she added in a stage whisper, ‘Jane’s gone off to live in sin with Flynn Churchill, Mother would have kittens if she knew! I’ve had to say she’s in Ireland visiting Charlotte Dixon.’
I stood stock still for a moment, absorbing what I’d just heard. Then I closed the door behind me with a firm click and almost pushed her into the tiny kitchen. I switched on the kettle and stood between her and the tea things, in an attempt to keep her focused on the task in hand.
‘Right, Mary,’ I said with an encouraging smile, ‘I’ll make the tea and you can tell me all about Jane.’
* * *
~~MARK~~
As far as I knew, this morning would be Rob and Harriet’s first meeting for several months. I’d told each of them that they could back out of the arrangement at any time, but neither of them showed any signs of doing so. Still, until they saw each other again, I was on tenterhooks.
Rob lived outside the village, on the road we’d be taking to Gatwick Airport, so I planned to pick him up last. At eight o’clock sharp, Jack Thomas collected me from Donwell in his taxi and we went from there to Harriet’s house. I could see in a split second that she had too much luggage, but it took far longer to persuade her to ditch any of it. At last, she agreed to leave all the fake leather behind; January might be Mumbai’s coolest month, but temperatures could still reach twenty-eight degrees and the humidity was always high.
It was just after nine o’clock, well behind schedule, when we turned into the high street on the way to Rob’s. In the distance, I saw a familiar figure in red trousers come out of Mary’s cottage and walk slowly down the path.
I spoke without thinking, my voice taut with regret. ‘Oh God, there she is, there’s Emma.’
I needn’t have worried; Harriet caught only the name, not the undercurrent of emotion. She loosened her seat belt, leaned across me and banged on the window.
‘Oi, Emma!’
Emma didn’t seem to hear. The traffic lights were on red and the taxi rumbled to a halt right opposite her as she opened her car door. Harriet banged on the window time and again, shouting her name and waving frantically, but Emma had her head down, as if in a little world of her own. Then the lights changed. The taxi lurched forward, Harriet fell on top of me and Emma glanced in our direction at last.
I was hardly aware of Harriet straightening herself up with an embarrassed giggle; all I could see was the look of utter anguish in Emma’s eyes. And I had to find out what, or who, had put it there.
‘Pull over,’ I said to Jack.
As soon as he stopped the taxi, I jumped out and ran back down the street. Too late — Emma had driven off in the opposite direction. In three strides I was at Mary’s front door, almost hammering it down.
She did a double take when she saw me. ‘Mark, dear, aren’t you meant to be—’
‘Going to the airport, yes, and I’m in a hurry. But I’ve just seen Emma and she looked very upset. And I had to know — is everything all right?’
‘She wasn’t upset when she left here, more shocked than anything.’ She gave a nervous titter. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard our news.’
