Page 28 of The Importance of Being Emma
I forced a smile. ‘’Morning.’
She took a few steps into the room and hesitated. I got up and shut the door. As I passed behind her, she spun round and thrust the tin at me.
‘Happy birthday. And Mark,’ — sharp intake of breath — ‘let’s call a truce and make up.’
I took the tin from her and placed it on the desk. ‘Make up?’ I said, cautiously.
‘You know, for the whole Robert Martin thing. How I wish I’d never even heard of that stupid man! But what I hate most of all is this — this bad feeling between us. I’ve been so unhappy, I thought you’d never speak to me again.’
I don’t know which came first, my arms opening in welcome or her eager step forward. Did it matter? She was there, burying her face in my chest, gripping the belt at the back of my trousers. My hands, as if guided by an unseen force, came to rest firmly on the curve of her suede-clad hips. My eyes closed; but whether in pain or pleasure, I had no idea.
After a while, I became aware that she was crying — or rather trying not to. I opened my eyes, held her slightly away from me and raised one hand to cup her chin and tilt her face towards mine. Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed and I watched, fascinated, as a teardrop quivered on her lower lid — and fell. Without thinking, I pressed my lips against her cheek to catch it and tasted a fleeting moment of intimacy.
Not physical intimacy. That was all too familiar, although not with her.
Something else. A closeness forged by shared memories, tempered by deep — affection.
My hand dropped back to her hip and I let out a long breath. ‘Just making the hurt better, same as when you were little,’ I said in a hearty voice. Too hearty, perhaps.
She stifled a sob, then frowned. ‘I don’t remember it ever being like that.’
‘Really? It should be me who doesn’t remember things. Thirty-five today, can’t you see all the grey hairs that have appeared overnight?’ To my relief, her frown became a smile. ‘Look,’ I went on, ‘the Rob and Harriet incident’s over. Let’s forget about it. Especially now you’ve come to apologise.’
I felt her stiffen in my arms, saw her eyes flash. ‘I haven’t — I’ve come to let you apologise to me!’
‘What on earth have I — ?’ I stopped and let out another steadying breath. ‘As you said at the time, we’ll just have to agree to differ.’
‘I still don’t think there was any harm done, not on Harriet’s side anyway.’ She gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I don’t know abouthim, of course, but I can’t imagine he’s too upset.’
After spending several evenings with Rob Martin in The Hare and Hounds, I knew exactly how upset he was; but I was also determined to avoid any more arguments with Emma. So I pulled a clean handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her.
‘Here, dry your eyes.’ I walked over to the desk. ‘Now, what’s in this tin you’ve brought? Don’t tell me — Henry’s sent me a supply of garlic cloves to see me through the winter.’
‘Oh, Mark.’ She made a funny sound, a cross between a laugh and a hiccup, then dabbed distractedly at her cheek with the handkerchief. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Dad’s present is in the blue envelope there. He’s so worried about the effect India must have had on your, er, system that he was going to get you a voucher for colonic irrigation. But I persuaded him to go for Gentlemen’s Tonic instead, much more relaxing.’
‘Gentlemen’s Tonic?’ I said, doubtfully. It reminded me of Gentleman’s Relish and that photo . . .
‘It’s a posh male grooming place in Mayfair, you’ll love it. I’ve got you one of their vouchers as well.’
There were two envelopes taped to the tin. I opened the blue one first and found a card and voucher from Henry. Then I opened the silver one; same voucher and a card with a corny joke about getting old. It was signed ‘Love, Mouse’, followed by three kisses.
I immediately thought, ‘One down, two to go.’ Then, ‘But that first kiss hardly counts, it was more like first aid.’
I cleared my throat. ‘You told me Mouse was gone for ever.’
She blushed and looked down at the floor. ‘She popped back, just for your birthday.’
The door opened and Cherry appeared with the coffee tray, which she placed on the little table at the other end of the room. When she’d gone, I prised the lid carefully off the tin.
Emma watched me nervously. ‘I made you a coffee and walnut cake, your favourite. At least, it used to be your favourite.’
‘It still is. Thank you, let’s have some now.’
We sat in the armchairs either side of the table. She poured the coffee while I cut two generous slices of cake with a plastic ruler, the most suitable implement I could lay my hands on, and used sheets of printer paper as plates.
She giggled. ‘Not quite in keeping with the image of a high-powered business executive, is it?’
‘Your image or mine?’
