Page 12 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Pity, it’s an excellent way of passing the time, especially now the nights are drawing in.’
I scowled as I moved the decanter to the table. Cosy drinks with Mark and games of geriatric bridge were certainly not on my agenda for Philip.
Dad went on, ‘And we could always give a party, just a little one, so that Philip gets to know people better.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, knowing that Dad’s idea of a party would be vastly different from any normal person’s. ‘As long as you letmechoose the food and drink.’
Mark smiled patronisingly as I took his empty glass. ‘By all means choose Philip’s food, Emma, but not his women. Believe me, you’d be completely out of your depth.’
I said nothing, although I thought plenty. We’d see which one of us was proved right, Mr Know-it-all Knightley.
* * *
~~MARK~~
As we sat down to eat, I decided that in one respect Emma hadn’t changed; she was still maddeningly pig-headed. She seemed determined to ignore my advice and learn the hard way aboutPhilip Elton. I’d sized him up as soon as I met him, a dangerous combination of limited ability and unlimited ambition.
‘Not my type,’ she’d said. Thank God for that. I wondered what her type was . . .
Her voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘I’ve assumed you still like lasagne?’
I nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. There were various salads and warm ciabatta to accompany it; for Emma and me, at any rate. Henry restricted himself to a tiny portion of what looked like regurgitated baby food.
Emma kept the conversation flowing, mainly with questions about India. I explained the nature of our operation there and how I personally selected growers to supply many of our leading product lines: tea and spices, obviously, but also rice, fruit, cashew nuts and even coffee. I described my fascination with a country where you’d be gazing at breathtaking natural beauty one minute and turning away from sordid man-made poverty the next. Predictably, Henry was interested in public hygiene, while Emma wanted to know how the growers complied with the UK’s organic food standards.
I realised how much I’d missed Hartfield. Dinners like this had been a regular event at one time; initially for everyone in the two families then, once John married Izzy, just for Henry, Emma and me. The quality of the food varied occasionally, if Emma went through an experimental phase; the quality of the company, never — except when she had that teenage crush on me. But she’d soon got over that.
I looked at my watch and saw with surprise that it was after ten o’clock. ‘I’d best be off. It’s been such a relaxing evening that walking back to Donwell Abbey has lost its appeal. Are you still offering me a lift, Emma?’
‘Of course. I’ve not had much wine, let’s hope you’ve had enough to be able to tolerate my driving.’
I laughed; I’d always loved her wicked sense of humour. Good to know that hadn’t changed. It made me want to reach out and hug her.
I would have done, before; but not now.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
The usual passenger in my silver BMW 325 convertible was Dad. He liked to have the seat in its most forward position so that he could fiddle constantly with the air conditioning controls; funny how he could never seem to find the right setting until I pulled into our parking space at Highbury Foods . . .
I waited while Mark moved the seat back and got comfortable. Then, just as we set off, it started to rain. I flicked the windscreen wipers on and didn’t speak until I’d negotiated the twists and turns in our long driveway.
‘Thanks for tonight,’ I said at last. ‘Dad really enjoyed it. Why not come again next week?’
Silence. I glanced across; he was sound asleep.
The journey to Donwell Abbey took only five minutes by car. Although I hadn’t been there much in the last few years, I would have found my way blindfold. Down Wheel Lane, left onto the Kingston road, left again after a mile or so and there we were, approaching the house under a dripping canopy of horse chestnut trees. I drew up as quietly as I could on the gravel drive, just in case George and Saffron were already in bed, and gently shook Mark’s sleeve.
No response. I sighed and switched off the engine. ‘Mark, wake up.’
He stirred and turned towards me. His eyes were still closed; his face, caught in the glare of the security lighting, looked younger, off guard, more vulnerable. I heard the rain patteringon the car hood and felt cocooned from reality, safe and dry. But somehow not safe. And my mouth too dry.
I swallowed. ‘Mark, you’re home.’
His eyes opened and focused immediately on my mouth. For a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Not the brotherly peck he’d occasionally condescended to in the past, but a tongue-down-the-throat job.
I gave a nervous laugh and the moment passed, unexplored. ‘I thought I was going to have to slap your face to wake you up.’
