Page 31 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘I’m fine, actually, I never seem to get colds or sore throats.’
‘Keep right away from the children and go and gargle with TCP, just in case.’
I glared at her. ‘I’m wearing Clive Christian No. 1, no way am I smothering one of the most expensive perfumes in the world with the smell of TCP!’
It was very frustrating that Harriet was unwell. I’d had it all organised: Philip lived on Harriet’s side of Highbury, so I’d asked him to pick her up on his way to Randalls and, of course, take her home at the end of the evening. It would be the perfect opportunity for him to make a move. Yesterday, however, I had to tell him that the poor girl was ill. He made sympathetic noises but, when I asked him if I should give Kate his apologies too, he looked at me as though I had two heads. Then I remembered my theory that he was lonely and would no doubt enjoy the company, even if Harriet wasn’t there.
So, with Izzy, Harriet and Philip all causing me grief in their different ways, I wasn’t in the best of moods on Saturday evening. And it got worse. I dressed in a hurry, then kept wondering if my long dark brown skirt was too tight and my gold strappy top too revealing. All the way to Randalls, Dad and Izzy vied with each other as to who would enjoy the evening least. Finally, although we weren’t late, we found Kate and Tom’s drive already occupied by a little blue two-seater sports car, which I recognised as Philip’s, and a sleek black Mercedes — George Knightley’s car, which Mark was using while he was away. John had to park the Volkswagen on the main road, which irritated him no end and consequently made Dad and Izzy more nervous than ever.
Looks-wise, John was a typical Knightley — tall, dark and handsome — but he lacked the easy manner of Mark and hisfather. I didn’t mind that; I knew him well enough to see his reserve for what it was, the character of an introvert. No, what I minded was his behaviour towards Izzy and Dad; he often took Izzy for granted and lost his patience far too quickly with Dad, with the result that they never seemed to relax when he was around. In contrast, Mark brought out the best in them, but dealt firmly with their eccentric little ways.
When it came to me, however, John and Mark were the same. They both treated me like a kid sister, to be fed a wholesome diet of what they called constructive criticism; a diet that didn’t seem as if it would ever vary.
Tom was at the door to welcome us and take our coats, waiting with good humour while I helped Dad remove his many layers of outer clothing. I was very fond of Tom. He brought energy and enthusiasm to everything he did; and I’d never heard him say a cross word about anyone, a remarkable achievement in four years of insular village life.
‘By the way,’ he said to me as we went into the large open-plan living room, ‘I had an email from Flynn this morning and you’ll be thrilled to know he’s—’
At that moment, a squeal from the far corner diverted his attention. Batty, in some sort of fluster as usual.
‘Oh, Mother’s spectacles! Thank you, Mark, wherever did you find them?’ I didn’t hear his reply, but it made her titter. ‘Goodness, she must have dropped them when she . . .’ Her voice rose to a crescendo. ‘Mother, here are your specs — no, they’re your spare pair, you’re wearing your other ones . . . No, it’s not George, it’s his son Mark, George is away on a . . . Yes, it was George’s car we came in, but Mark was driving it, so kind of him to give us a lift.’
Mark and Tamara had their backs to me. In her high heels she was the same height as him, too tall to need protection from those broad shoulders of his. Her hair hung down to her non-existent hips in a heavy black curtain and, as I watched, he lifted one hand and gently twisted the glossy ends through his fingers. A sensual, intimate gesture; I looked quickly away.
Tom seemed to have completely forgotten the thrilling contents of Flynn’s email. ‘Come and meet Tamara.’ He waved Izzy and John on ahead, then shepherded Dad and me across the room after them.
As Tamara greeted Izzy and John with a polite kiss, I stayed back and studied her face. Impossibly white skin, blood-red lips, dark almond-shaped eyes accentuated with dramatic make-up. A very attractive face, I had to admit; but marred by a ‘What the hell am I doing here?’ expression, which she made no effort to disguise. And she reminded me of someone, particularly in that slinky black low-cut dress; I just couldn’t think who.
Mark introduced us. ‘Tamara, this is Henry Woodhouse, Izzy’s father. And her sister, Emma.’
The shrewd dark eyes merely glanced at Dad, but sized me up from top to toe. ‘Delighted.’ She sounded anything but.
‘I’m just as delighted,’ I said, with a bright smile.
Dad took Tamara’s arm. ‘Come nearer the fire, my dear, you must be finding England very cold after India.’
She kept her eyes on me. ‘Mark.’ It could have been a question but she made it a command, as if he was a dog at obedience class.
I noticed him flush slightly. ‘I’ll join you in a minute, darling, I just need a word with Emma.’
She shrugged and allowed Dad to lead her over to the fireplace. I wondered what had kept Mark by her side for five whole years, apart from her obvious physical appeal; my first impressions were of a woman with no social finesse whatsoever.
I turned to Mark. ‘What did you want a word about?’
‘Nothing, I just thought Tamara needed to mingle.’
I almost laughed out loud. Watching her with Dad, who seemed to be struggling to make conversation, the word ‘mingle’ seemed utterly incongruous; she was like a panther toying with its prey. Then I realised who she reminded me of and, this time, I did laugh out loud.
Mark raised one eyebrow. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘You — you don’t want to know.’
‘Trust me, I do. I need some light relief, I have a feeling this evening’s going to be a hard slog.’
I took a deep breath. ‘It’s just — I didn’t know you were bringing Morticia.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Emma!’ As Tamara glanced in our direction, he pretended to have a coughing fit, which immediately had Dad looking across as well. When he’d recovered, he grinned at me. ‘I remember you being obsessed with the Addams Family at one time. You used to recite what seemed like every show, word for word, it drove us all round the bend.’
‘And to think I was desperate to be like Morticia when I grew up.’ I let out a long, nostalgic sigh.
