Page 25 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘I can see those photos now,’ I continued, ‘stuck on the wall in the study, above his Jerker.’
She giggled.
I put on a Philip-like voice. ‘Oh Harriet, let’s make secret recipes together in my kitchen at Paradise View. Don’t be the face of Highbury Foods, my darling, be the icon of Ikea!’
She burst out laughing.
Everything on the matchmaking front was going exactly to plan.
* * *
~~MARK~~
When I phoned Rob with the information I’d promised him after our last meeting, he sounded even more brusque than usual.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘I know this proposed EU legislation is aggravating, but it’s hardly the end of the world.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the bloody EU,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
There was a lengthy pause so I tried again. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘I’m free for a pint or two this evening, if you change your mind.’
He did change his mind. He rang me ten minutes later, apologising for his bad mood, and we arranged to meet in The Hare and Hounds at six thirty.
When I arrived at six twenty-five, he was already sitting there nursing a pint. I bought my own and joined him. It didn’t take long for him to come to the point; he wasn’t one for small talk.
‘It’s Harriet. Remember I was afraid she might turn like Emma Woodhouse? Well, it’s happened. When I saw her onTuesday night, she was all over me. Now she doesn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘What exactly has she said?’
‘Here, read this.’ From the breast pocket of his jacket he took a crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was covered in a childish scrawl, a sharp contrast to the stiff formality of the words themselves.
Dear Robert,
Thank you for your kind note and the flowers.
I am really honoured to be invited on a weekend to Amsterdam with you, but I do not feel able to accept. There are various reasons for this, but the primary one is that I do not think there is any future in our relationship.
I am sorry to disappoint you and hope we can remain on friendly terms.
Yours sincerely,
Harriet.
I knew one thing for certain; the letter may have been written by Harriet Smith, but the words were someone else’s.
‘Give me the background to this,’ was all I said.
It turned out he’d meant to send Harriet flowers after their date on Tuesday, but various work problems had delayed him. Then today his eldest sister had offered him two places on a trip to Amsterdam this weekend, as she and her boyfriend couldn’t go. Galvanised into action, Rob had rushed out, bought some flowers and told one of his drivers to deliver them to Harriet with a note and wait for an answer. He’d been confident of a positive response; they’d have slept together on Tuesday night, for God’s sake, if her room-mate hadn’t come back early.
He’d been totally unprepared for her reply. He’d tried her mobile but it was switched off, so he planned to go round to her house this evening and ask her to tell him to his face that there was ‘no future in their relationship’.
It all made me very uneasy; I was sure it was Emma who’d had a hand in the letter, but I didn’t say so. I merely suggested that he would only make things worse by seeing Harriet in his present state of mind and that, if she was turning into an Emma clone, the damage would not be repaired overnight. I added that, in my experience, a man who appeared to cool off often had the woman throwing herself at his feet. My advice was to leave her alone and wait.
