Page 2 of The Importance of Being Emma
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~~MARK~~
Strange being at Highbury Foods. Strange being back in England, full stop. If only temporarily, to take over the reins of Donwell Organics while Father indulged my stepmother in another of her whims, this time a specially extended round-the-world cruise. Several months of binge eating and drinking, constantly in each other’s company; no doubt to be followed by an equally long period at a health farm and/or psychiatric unit, to repair the damage.
I could understand Father wanting to leave Donwell in a safe pair of hands; what I couldn’t understand was why the hands had to be mine or my younger brother John’s. But Father refused point-blank to consider an external interim appointment. And John, who was also our Finance Director, opted out before I could. So I had to come over from India, where I’d spent the last eight years setting up and running our regional operation in Mumbai.
To add to the culture shock, I’d taken on some of Father’s other duties. Occasional speaker at local Chamber of Commerce events; chief judge at the Autumn Flower and Produce Show,a perilous responsibility which I hastily delegated to John; chairman of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust; and, last but by no means least, non-executive director at Highbury Foods, only two miles down the road from Donwell but light years away in terms of how it was run.
That’s how I came to be invited to their Board meeting, a commitment I could have done without on this particular morning. I’d landed at Gatwick barely four hours earlier, after a delayed flight, and I needed to put in a few phone calls to India before business there closed for the day.
On my way to Henry’s office, I noticed that the boardroom door was open. I glanced in, assuming it was his PA, Kate Taylor, doing what she liked to call her ‘last minute’ preparation — a full hour before the start of the meeting. Then I remembered. Kate Taylor was no more; as of two days ago, she was Mrs Kate Weston. And, although she was coming back to live in the village after her honeymoon, I’d heard she had no intention of returning to Highbury Foods.
My eyes widened as I took in the view from the doorway. Long legs silhouetted against the window, lines and curves in perfect proportion. Short beige skirt stretched taut across more curves — nicely rounded, a pert promise of pleasure. Matching jacket with side vents, no doubt designed to draw the male eye to the symmetry below.
Then, as the vision brandished a rolled-up magazine, I saw her face in profile. It couldn’t be, surely . . .
It was.
‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’
She jumped, dropped the magazine and, after a pause, turned round.
‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’
There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her voice. I put down my briefcase and held out my arms.
‘I think I deserve a warmer welcome than that.’
She hesitated, then climbed carefully down from the sill and slipped into four-inch heels; this meant that, when I gave her the usual bear hug, there was less of a height difference than I remembered. I rested my cheek against her dark brown hair and smiled to myself. Underneath all that gloss, I knew she’d still be the same maddening little Mouse.
But she’d certainly overdone the gloss. I leaned back slightly and inspected her face. The hazel eyes flashed and the full red lips tightened, as if she could read my mind.
Undeterred, I gave it to her straight. ‘Too much makeup, you don’t need any at all. Most women would die for your skin, and that stuff round your eyes makes you look like a panda.’
The panda glared at me. ‘Bloody cheek. How would you feel if I criticised your appearance?’
‘Go ahead. You can hardly accuse me of wearing too much make-up.’
‘While you’ve been away I’ve grown up, believe it or not.’
‘Apparently. Although it didn’t look like it when you were dancing about on the window sill. Put me out of my misery, Mouse, what were you doing?’
She moved abruptly away. ‘There was a wasp. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me Mouse.’
‘You’re right, it’s not appropriate here. Whenever I’m at Highbury Foods, I’ll forget I know anyone called Mouse.’
Her voice was edgy. ‘I’d prefer you to stop calling me that, period.’
This was something of a turnaround, since I’d called her Mouse for at least fifteen years. It started when she accidentally introduced herself to someone as Emma Woodmouse. I teased her about it, called her Mouse for short and it stuck. Back then it suited her perfectly: such a small, scrawny thing, with big bright eyes. But now . . .
Maybe she’d outgrown it. She certainly didn’t look like a mouse any longer; and she’d never behaved much like one.
I grinned. ‘OK, Emma. Where’s the wasp?’
‘Up there, on the middle window. I need to get rid of it before Dad comes.’
‘Naturally.’
