Page 18 of The Importance of Being Emma
She picked up the tea tray. ‘I’ll make some fresh, won’t be a moment.’
‘I’ll come with you, we can start the meeting in the kitchen.’ I was determined not to let her out of my sight in case she invented more delays.
I sat at the kitchen table while she made the tea. I told her the ground rules for mentoring; when and where we’d meet, what information I’d expect her to provide, and so on. I explained that a mentor would help her deal with the longer term, with strategic business goals and career objectives, whereas her line manager, Henry, was there for day-to-day performance issues.
As I spoke the words I’d rehearsed, I watched her. The swing of her hair when she turned to refill the milk jug. The little frown when she prised the lid off the tea caddy. The curve of her breasts when she reached up to a shelf for more sugar. And those slender fingers caressing the handle of the kettle as it came to the boil, then directing its flow expertly into the silver teapot.
How could she make such a simple everyday task look so sexy?
‘By the way,’ she said, as she brought the tea tray over, hips swaying in time to the throb of my pulse, ‘I read something interesting the other day about organic farming in India.’
‘Checking up on me?’ I said.
She avoided my gaze and set out the cups and saucers. ‘Actually, it does give me a bit of an issue with your so-called successful track record. I hadn’t realised that organic methods were causing such massive environmental problems in India.’
I frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
She sat down and poured the milk into the cups. ‘All the irrigation water that’s needed to produce organic foods and manure and animal fodder. It has to be pumped from deep underground, so it’s draining reserves without replacing them. Rather irresponsible, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Not if—’
She ignored me and pressed on, filling the cups with tea as she spoke. ‘Apparently it takes two thousand litres of water a year to grow the fodder to yield just one litre of milk. That’s not just unsustainable, it’s unethical!’ She looked across at me, her eyes bright with triumph.
I took one of the cups and helped myself to sugar. ‘Is this an attempt to discredit me and persuade Henry to abandon the mentoring?’
‘Of course not, I just thought it was interesting. Although, now you come to mention it, I’m sure Dad would have something to say.’
‘I’m sure he would, if those statistics were true of Donwell Organics’ growers. But they’re not, and maybe you should have checked your facts first.’
I took a sip of tea and watched the gleam in her eyes fade.
‘You see, Emma,’ I said, half amused, half exasperated, ‘I have a very good Indian friend called Vivek, a retired civil servant and a great reader. He discovered that a form of irrigation known as rainwater harvesting was used in India until the early nineteenth century and decided that this practice needed to be revived. Donwell buys all of his village’s organic produce, so he came to me to explain what he planned to do and ask for some financial assistance.’
I paused to drink my tea while she stared down at the table, her face like thunder.
‘With our backing,’ I continued, ‘Vivek redesigned his village’s drainage system to slow the passage of the monsoonrain long enough for it to collect in specially dug ponds. The water percolates into the soil and refills underground reserves. This means wells can find water at seven metres instead of thirty metres previously. It’s a truly sustainable system. So, yes, in general terms organic farming is causing India a major environmental problem. But Donwell is repairing whatever damage it’s responsible for, we’re funding initiatives like Vivek’s right across the country. Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not being unethical.’
She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Thanks for the lecture, didn’t you say you had to be somewhere at six?’
As she reached over for my half-empty cup, I seized her hand. Our eyes locked. That jumper really did bring out the green in her irises . . .
‘No rush,’ I said softly. ‘I’ve put off seeing Steve until seven thirty, I thought it only fair since you couldn’t have known that Harriet and Kate would turn up sounexpectedlythis afternoon.’
She looked startled, then she laughed. ‘God, I’d forgotten how bloody devious you can be.’
I grinned back at her. ‘Takes one to know one.’ Her hand stirred in mine and, as if responding to some deep dark instinct, I ran my thumb over her smooth warm skin. It was more the gesture of a lover than an old friend. She didn’t even flinch, as if to her it was nothing remarkable.
I abruptly let go of her hand and took a long drink of lukewarm tea. Then I pictured a little girl with plaits and braces and no boobs and spent the next hour discussing her personal goals, business strategy and marketing plans. It felt odd talking about such things with her, but of course she’d always been a precocious child.
I’d cracked it. All it involved was doing two things in parallel: making my mouth say ‘Emma’ and my eyes see ‘Mouse’.
Chapter Three
~~EMMA~~
After several delays, including Harriet catching a nasty cold, the day of the photo shoot arrived. It seemed that half of Highbury was planning to attend.
First, Philip wanted to be involved, from the crack of dawn if need be. I managed to put him off until lunch time, when Harriet would be dressed, made up and ready to be admired. I arranged that the three of us would go to his house after I’d taken the photos, to do all the editing and printing. My plan was then to leave the two of them together and let nature take its course.
