Page 20 of The Importance of Being Emma
This impromptu mating ritual was completely lost on Harriet. She frowned and started counting on her fingers. ‘That’s one, two, three nephews and one niece — only four children. Didn’t you just say your sister had five?’
‘Yes, but Emily hadn’t been born when I took these, she’s only nine months old now.’ I indicated the last photo. ‘Andfinally John, the man you thought looked constipated. I must admit, he does have rather a pained expression.’
‘He was probably irritated at having his precious time wasted by someone who thought she could teach David Bailey a thing or two,’ Mark said.
I ignored him and went on, ‘Izzy hates this photo, every time she sees it she says I’ve turned her gorgeous husband into Nicolas Cage with a hangover. I think she wanted him to come across as a doting father, which he is, but it’s nothing to do with my technique, he always looks grumpy. Anyway, today there are no couples involved so I can take my photos just as I like.’
Philip smirked. ‘That’s right, Emma, no couples involved, at least notyet.’
‘And what could you possibly mean by that, Philip?’ I gave him a teasing look, then put my arm firmly through Harriet’s; now would be a good time to leave him dangling. ‘Excuse us, please. The sooner Harriet and I eat, the sooner we can take the photos and be on our way to your place.’
Philip didn’t reply, but I noticed him staring soulfully after us. That was all the answer I needed.
* * *
~~MARK~~
Elton’s gaze was fixed on Emma and Harriet as they walked away.
‘Poetry in motion,’ he said, under his breath.
I couldn’t resist asking, ‘Which one, Emma or Harriet?’
He flushed, as though annoyed that I’d overheard. ‘Both of them, naturally.’
‘But they’re so different.’
‘Yes, just as a man can like different types of poetry, surely.’
‘In my experience, a man who’s inspired by Byron doesn’t care much for Betjeman and vice versa.’
He stalked off, saying over his shoulder, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about.’
I remained where I was, content to watch everyone else, listen to snatches of conversation and speculate on hidden agendas.
Henry was trying to convert Harriet to an invalid diet, his plaintive voice laced with persuasion. ‘I’ve eaten one boiled egg, but I’m afraid I couldn’t manage the second . . . Emma does them exactly right, not too soft-boiled of course, in case of listeria . . . You must be feeling very nervous, Harriet, this would be perfect for your digestion . . . ’
Harriet giggled and fluttered her eyelashes and generally seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. She looked frequently in my direction, going bright red whenever I smiled at her.
Elton spoke to nobody except Emma and Harriet. I couldn’t decide which one he was after; I certainly didn’t think it was both, as he’d suggested. If it was Emma — well, I couldn’t blame him. And, as he was one of those men who truly believed he was God’s gift to women, it wouldn’t enter his head that she didn’t fancy him. If it was Harriet, then I had to question my judgement; I’d marked him down as more of a social climber. At any rate, when he wasn’t chatting them up, he was either shovelling food into his mouth at a rate of knots or grooming himself surreptitiously in the mirror.
Kate was calmly ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and that Henry didn’t get too fractious. This was usually Emma’s role, but she was too busy with Harriet: on the one hand protecting her from Henry’s ridiculous notions about food, on the other encouraging her to hang on Elton’s every word.
It was Emma I watched most; every elegant turn of her body in her figure-hugging red jumper and black trousers; every graceful flick of her hand as she tucked a stray tendril of glossyhair behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled as she constantly checked what everyone was doing — apart from me, it seemed; and her full, well-shaped lips were never still as she talked, smiled, ate and drank . . .
Then Henry gave a loud moan of disgust. ‘I hope that’s not some of your wedding cake, Kate, we’ll all be ill. I haven’t allowed dried fruit in this house for six years.’
Emma used her normal diversion tactics. ‘Dad, I need you in the kitchen, to make sure I’ve got the right coloured chopping boards for the fruit and vegetables.’ As she propelled him towards the door, I heard her say coaxingly, ‘Don’t make a fuss about the cake, remember Mark couldn’t get to the wedding so he’ll be wanting to try it. And I bet he’s eaten far worse things out in India.’
She returned a few moments later for Harriet and then a second time, to ask us to fill up our plates and come through to watch the photo shoot. The lights were full on, the camera was ready on its tripod and Harriet was standing rigidly behind the kitchen table. In front of her was a dazzling array of kitchen equipment and food, both fresh and tinned.
Henry frowned. ‘What about gloves, darling? Shouldn’t Harriet be wearing some of those disposable plastic ones?’
‘No, Dad, I don’t think so.’
‘And where’s her cap and apron?’
‘No one under sixty wears an apron any more, unless it’s a rude one. And there’s no need for a cap if she’s got her hair tied back.’ She gave him one of her winning smiles, then turned to the rest of us. ‘Just to explain, I’ve thought up some scenarios to help Harriet get into character. In the first one she’s preparing for a very important date, her new boyfriend and his parents are coming to dinner and everything has to be perfect. Are you visualising the new boyfriend, Harriet? He’s a young, up-and-coming guy, director of an SME—’
