Page 27 of The Importance of Being Emma
I’d dealt with that then and I’d deal with this now.
Chapter Four
~~MARK~~
Early on the morning of my birthday, I woke to the phone ringing next to my bed. I groped for the receiver and grunted into it.
Saffron’s voice almost burst my eardrums. ‘Happy birthday, darling!’
Before I had time to bellow something back at her, Father came on the line. ‘Many happy returns, Mark, did you get our card and cheque?’
‘Yes thanks, they arrived yesterday I think. What time is it where you are?’
‘God knows. Some time in the afternoon, we’re in Singapore, remember? Just come back from Haw Par Villa, a sort of theme park. Didn’t think I’d enjoy it, but it was fascinating. We’re off out again in a few minutes. Is Tamara there?’
I rolled onto my back and grinned. ‘No, she’s coming later today.’
‘So you’re all alone.’
‘Apart from a couple of hookers I picked up last night.’
‘I know you’re joking.’ He paused. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘What do you think?’
He said gently, ‘I think the sooner Tamara’s with you, the better. It’s not natural for a man to be on his own.’
‘I’m going into the office, I’ll hardly be on my own there.’
‘You know what I mean. By the way, have we got the new Parkinson contract agreed yet?’
This led to a brief discussion about the need to keep particularly close to our biggest customer, who was being courted even more than usual by our competitors; then he was off on his next outing, Saffron nagging in the background.
It made running Donwell Organics seem like a picnic.
I lay in bed a little longer, thinking. Not about the Parkinson contract, I’m ashamed to say, but about the list of instructions I needed to give Mrs Burn in preparation for Tamara’s arrival; such as ‘Lay fire in drawing room’ and ‘Put bottle of Krug on ice’.
At least the phone call meant I got to the office earlier than usual. Since I was leaving shortly after lunch to pick up Tamara from the airport, then taking the rest of the day off, I needed to get a head start.
It felt like I’d only just got going when Cherry, my PA, rang through.
‘Ready for coffee?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, it’s only—’ I glanced incredulously at my watch. ‘Five past eleven? Yes, coffee please, then can you get hold of Mitch and ask him to come up here before one o’clock.’ David Mitchell was our Sales Director and in charge of the Parkinson account. ‘Oh, and could you check that Tamara’s plane’s on time? The details are in my diary.’
‘Fine. And you’ve got a visitor.’
‘There’s no one scheduled—’
‘It’s Emma Woodhouse, she says it’ll only take a few minutes.’
‘Oh. All right, but . . .’ The words died in my throat.
‘I’ll bring coffee for two, then, shall I?’
‘OK’.
I’d hardly put down the phone when the door opened and there stood Emma in a too-short skirt, holding a large round tin emblazoned with ‘Fortnum & Mason’. We hadn’t seen each other — hadn’t even spoken — since our quarrel over a week earlier. And yet I’d lost count of the times I’d almost phoned her, almost called in at Hartfield . . .
