Page 13 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Did I do anything to make you want to slap my face?’ There was something unfamiliar in his voice, almost like . . . fear.
‘No more than usual,’ I said, staring at him.
He stared back. ‘Lovely evening, thank you. Sorry I dozed off just now, must be the jet lag. Why don’t you come in and—’
‘No!’ I turned on the ignition. ‘I’d better go, you know how Dad worries.’
‘Goodnight, then.’ He got out of the car, bent his head against the rain and dashed to the front door. I revved the engine, swung the car round in a careless arc and drove off with a lot less consideration for the Knightleys than when I’d arrived.
All the way home I thought about that look on his face when he woke up. It was weird. No, not weird, ridiculous.
Mark Knightley wouldn’t want to kiss me like that.
Ever.
* * *
~~MARK~~
I was shattered, but I didn’t go straight to bed. Instead I went to the family room, now seldom used, and switched on the PC. I waited impatiently while the machine wheezed into life, then logged into my personal email account.
Nothing from Tamara, but that was no surprise. We weren’t ones to correspond cosily over the Internet, or chat on thephone. As Tamara said, we communicated best between the sheets.
Tonight, though, I wanted desperately to be in touch.
Tam,
Missing you.
Any chance of you coming here before October?
Love M.
I sent the email and waited a few minutes, hoping she was online; but there was no reply.
Then I glanced down at the top drawer of the desk beside me. It was slightly open, revealing a glimpse of thigh, that photo of Emma. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to drift.
Soft skin against my lips, the heat of her, the taste . . .
I rammed the drawer shut and headed upstairs for a shower. A cold one, to numb my mind — and everything else.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
During that first week, I found out everything I needed to know about Harriet Smith. My first impressions were accurate. Clothes-wise, she was a walking disaster, lots of fake leather and cheap gold jewellery. And as soon as she forgot to talk properly, her speech became unintelligible. ‘Me farva’s got a tan ass’ apparently meant ‘my father lives in a town house’; ‘that geezer’s roofless’ was not a reference to a homeless person, but her term for a man without compassion.
I had to face facts. Harriet was a chav, a phenomenon I’d heard about but never actually experienced. The nearest I’d come to it was trailer trash in the States. Giving her a touch of class would be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated; but, in my book, nothing was impossible.
Her curriculum vitae was uninspiring. She’d been born and bred in Basildon, Essex, where her parents and younger brothers still lived. At sixteen she’d left school, done the basic secretarial qualifications and worked ever since. I wasn’t yet sure if it was her typing skills that guaranteed her constant employment, or simply her looks. Now twenty-two, she was renting an old house on the far side of Highbury, with three girls of a similar age.
When she told me that her father had been a professional and now earned his living as a bookkeeper, I felt a sudden surge of interest, visualising Philip’s spellbound face as Mr Smith held forth on the latest Statement of Standard Accounting Practice. Unfortunately, I’d misheard. Her father was a bookmaker; and he’d previously been a professionalfootballerwith a team called Saffend United, before being injured in an off-pitch incident involving large amounts of alcohol.
And she had the most deplorable taste in men. One morning, I asked to see her temping contract. As we sat down to go through Batty’s Temp Tation file, the first thing I saw was a letter from Abbey Mill Haulage. It began like a reference, but ended on a surprising note.
To whom it may concern:
Harriet-Smith worked at Abbey Mill Haulage from 6th June to 26th August inclusive assisting our senior secretary Mrs Wagstaff. She was polite and punctual. Harriet brightened up the office every day. I’ll miss her terribly.
