Page 19 of The Importance of Being Emma
Next, Dad decided he’d better be on hand, to give us the benefit of his food hygiene expertise. Even though Harriet wouldn’t actually be cooking and the photos were for market research purposes only, he felt duty bound to comply with health and safety requirements.
Then Mark phoned to say he’d like to come for some input to my mentoring. When I asked him what input he could possibly get from a photo shoot, he told me he’d learn a lot from watching me with Harriet and Philip; or, if I preferred business jargon, ‘observing me interact with my subordinates and peers’.
The day was looking more stressful by the minute.
Finally, to my relief, Kate volunteered to help with the lunch. Whereas Harriet and I would have made do with a couple of sandwiches while we worked, I now had six to feed. And we covered a whole culinary continuum: from Dad, with his poor appetite and fastidious tastes, to Mark, who could eat not just a horse but an entire stable.
Harriet and I had the house to ourselves for most of the morning. After we’d set out a buffet in the dining room, she prepared the kitchen, under my instruction, while I set up myhigh-spec digital camera and tripod. That took far longer than expected, because I hadn’t used them since my brief interest in photography a couple of years back. Then I dressed Harriet in the outfit I’d chosen, a grey suit with a pink polo-necked jumper underneath. I tied her hair back — just as Philip liked it, I reminded her — and toned down her make-up.
At half past eleven, the doorbell rang. When I opened the front door, I found myself grappling with an enormous bouquet of red roses, orange gerbera and golden lilies.
‘For Highbury Foods’ new star,’ said a smarmy voice. Philip, evidently hoping to impress Harriet with flower power — but mistaking me for her.
I thrust the bouquet back at him. ‘How lovely! Now don’t be shy, go and give them to Harriet yourself.’
He seemed about to object; but I marched him straight to the kitchen, where Harriet was painting her nails, and announced his arrival with a flourish.
‘Ta-da, special delivery for Miss Harriet Smith.’
Her eyes were like saucers. ‘Th-these are forme?’
‘Looks like it,’ Philip said, rather tersely, and I guessed he was a little in awe of Harriet’s new image.
I’d hardly put the bouquet in water when the doorbell rang again. It was Kate, with two foil-wrapped parcels.
‘This one’s a quiche, fresh out of the oven, and the other’s some of our wedding cake.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m afraid Henry won’t touch either with a barge pole, but I know you’ll have catered for him separately.’
As if on cue, Dad came in and informed me that he’d just seen Mark’s car coming up the drive. I took a deep breath, added the finishing touches to the buffet and called everyone through to the dining room.
I wanted Harriet to eat quickly, so that I could get the photo shoot underway; the others could eat at a more leisurely pace,watching us at work in the kitchen if they wished. But Harriet wandered slowly round the room, staring at the furniture and paintings in stunned silence. Then she stopped right beside Philip, who was droning on to Mark about something, and beckoned me over excitedly. It seemed too good a matchmaking opportunity to miss; I curbed my impatience and went across to her.
She was studying a group of black-and-white photos in heavy silver frames. ‘These kids are so cute, who are they?’ She giggled. ‘That man’s got a funny look on his face, as if he’s constipated. The woman’s a bit like you, isn’t she?’
It worked beautifully. Philip broke off in mid-sentence and gave us his undivided attention.
‘That’s my sister Izzy, her husband John — he’s Mark’s brother — and their children,’ I said. ‘I took these photos at their house the January before last. Not quite up to a professional’s standard, I know, too much clutter in the background. And the children were misbehaving, that’s why Izzy looks sort of distracted. Although I’m rather proud of this photo, because it’s her to a T.’
Mark laughed. ‘Not quite. I’ve never seen her sitting as still as that, she’s normally up and down like a yo-yo.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Mark’s got this theory that Izzy is totally at the beck and call of her kids. But he’s wrong. I’ve seen her be very assertive with them, especially in front of John.’
‘I’m sure you have, she’s totally inconsistent as well as everything else,’ Mark said. ‘My other theory is that she secretly loves being bossed about by precocious children. Perhaps it reminds her of when she lived at Hartfield.’
‘Is that a nasty little dig at me?’ I put on an injured expression.
‘Not at all, I was just stating a vague possibility, you’re reading far too much into it as usual.’ He sipped his orange juiceand watched me over the rim of the glass, a wicked gleam in his eye. And I remembered that this was why I’d once adored him; he was the only one who could outwit me with words.
I lifted my chin. ‘You were asking about the children, Harriet. These are the three eldest. That’s Harry on the left, his real name’s Henry, after Dad, he was eight when this photo was taken. That’s James, who was five, and Bella, three. James is half turning away because he was about to rush off and be sick. We found out afterwards that he’d eaten a whole packet of chocolate biscuits. Really rich ones, Izzy had bought them specially for her NCT meeting.’
‘Ah, the National Childbirth Trust,’ Philip said. ‘A wonderful organisation, or so my sister tells me. I’ve no experience of it myselfyet, but who knows in the future?’
Mark gave a sardonic smile. ‘Izzy certainly seems to have signed up as a lifetime member.’
I nodded. ‘Five children already and maybe more to come. Anyway, on to the next photo, her youngest son Mark when he was a year old. He’s good as gold, never says a cross word, unlike his uncle here. This is my favourite photo of them all — his hair’s standing up in those adorable little tufts, I could just kiss him to bits.’
‘Apparently my hair used to be like that,’ Mark said, as if to wind me up.
Philip was not to be outdone. ‘Mine goes like that even now, if I don’t slick it down with gel.’ He glanced across at the mirror above the fireplace and preened himself.
