Page 32 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Thank God you’re not,’ he said sharply.
I was about to ask what he meant when Philip came up to us. He gave Mark a curt nod, then handed me a glass of wine and smiled complacently.
‘A little bird told me you prefer white before the meal, Emma. I’m so glad you’re here, I was terrified you’d caught what poor Harriet’s got.’
Mark excused himself to join Dad and Tamara, while I smiled back at Philip, pleased he couldn’t stop himself from mentioning Harriet.
‘Poor thing, she’s suffering in more ways than one. Dad sent her a couple of his remedies, slippery elm bark tea and his all-time favourite, raw garlic cloves. When she phoned me to askhow often she should take them, I told her to stick to Lemsip! But the worst thing is that she’s on her own — all the girls in her house have gone away for the weekend. I don’t suppose you could call in tomorrow and check on her? I’ve got my hands full with my sister and family.’
He looked horrified. ‘No, I couldn’t, I might catch what she’s got. And it’s your presentation to the Board on Monday, I don’t want to miss that. Plus we need to discuss your budget some time next week, inconsiderabledepth.’
For a moment, I was disappointed. Then I decided he was just being sensible; and, to be fair, his commitment to his job was exemplary.
I suddenly realised he’d asked me a question. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Emma, I’m finding our conversation equally distracting. I merely asked who looks afteryouwhen you’re ill? I don’t suppose Henry’s up to it and I couldn’t bear to think there’s no one taking care of you.’
I stared at him in alarm. I told myself that he was probably thinking of Harriet and feeling frustrated that he couldn’t risk going to see her. However, just in case, I resolved to circulate a bit more.
‘Fortunately, I never get ill,’ I said coolly. ‘That reminds me, I’d better go and see how Mrs Bates is. She had a nasty attack of shingles a while ago.’
I hurried off to spend the next ten minutes shouting pleasantries at Old Mother Bates about her state of health. All the time I had the feeling that I was being watched. It was weird, though. Whenever I looked round at Philip, I sensed he’d just that second averted his eyes from meeting mine. And whenever I looked in the other direction, I sensed Mark had just done the same. Or had they been gazing at each other — and I was simply in the way?
Even one of Kate’s superb meals didn’t improve my mood.
Perhaps it was being opposite Mark and Tamara. She picked at her food and hardly spoke a word. Mark occasionally tried to jolly her out of it, without any noticeable success; she was determined not to enjoy herself.
Or maybe it was seeing Philip enjoying himself far too much. After that first comment about ‘poor Harriet’, it was as though he never spared her another thought. Again, I justified his behaviour to myself; a sociable man who lived alone had to make the most of these occasions, didn’t he?
While Kate served the main course of beef bourguignonne, Tom returned to an earlier subject. ‘We’ve had exciting news today from Flynn — that’s my son, he’s a TV chef in Australia,’ he added, for the benefit of Philip and Tamara. He paused, then said impressively, ‘He’s coming to Highbury!’
This announcement provoked mixed reactions around the table: gasps of delight from Batty, Dad and Izzy, polite interest from Philip, indifference from Tamara — and from Old Mother Bates, who at least had the excuse that she was hard of hearing. Mark and John exchanged knowing looks.
Tom went on, ‘He hasn’t given me a date yet, but he’s actually in England as we speak. Out of the blue, he got an invitation to cook at The Mulberry Tree, that’s a Michelin-starred restaurant over in the West Country apparently. He’ll be there for another week or so, then he’s coming straight here.’
I glanced at the large photo that had the place of honour on the sideboard; a man’s face in close-up — dark red curly hair, crinkly green eyes and a devilish grin. Flynn Churchill, drop-dead gorgeous and, at twenty-eight years old, still unattached. Tom often joked that he’d not met the right woman — yet.
I allowed myself a little smile of anticipation.
‘Of course, his aunt Stella’s not best pleased he’s come to England,’ Kate said. ‘But Flynn’s got his career to think of, he’smeeting with the BBC while he’s over here. And I’m sure he’ll bring Stella round, in time.’
‘I’m sure he will, since she’s got a few million to dispose of,’ John put in. ‘And who could blame him . . . Any more of this amazing beef stuff?’
As Kate dished out second helpings, the conversation turned to other matters and Flynn was forgotten. Not by me, however; my thoughts were full of him. To think that, after all these years, he was only a few hours’ drive away . . . I paid little attention to what the others were saying, just nodded and smiled and laughed in what I hoped were the right places.
Then, over dessert, the mention of my bête noire, Jane Fairfax, brought me up short.
Saint Jane of Highbury, as I called her, was around the same age as me; but that was all we had in common. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop everyone thinking we should be the best of friends and, as children, we were forced to play together whenever she came to stay with Batty, her aunt. Even worse, Jane always seemed to have mastered a new skill, like playing the piano or crocheting coasters. How could I be friends with the girl who outshone me at everything?
Not surprisingly, it was Batty who brought her name into the conversation. ‘Lovely gooseberry fool, Kate, a real taste of summer. That’s when we last saw dear Jane — my niece, for those of you who don’t know, such a lovely girl. Oh, that reminds me, she phoned just before we came out. A tiny favour,’ — coy giggle — ‘I was going to ask you on Monday, Henry, but it’s the Board meeting and there may be other things on your . . . Remember Jane’s work placement, in Weymouth, as part of her degree? Well,’ — conspiratorial whisper — ‘it’s ended rather suddenly, she won’t say why, but there are nine months left to go and I just wondered . . . ?’ She stopped and looked expectantly at Dad.
I guessed what was coming and nearly choked on my gooseberry fool; which, given its perfect consistency, would have been quite an achievement.
Dad seemed perplexed. ‘You wondered what, Mary?’
Kate came to Batty’s rescue. ‘Mary’s hoping you can give Jane a work placement, so that she can meet her course requirements.’
‘Not that Jane wanted me to ask, you know,’ Batty twittered, ‘but I offered to, as soon as she . . . And it’s rather urgent, although the friends she’s lodging with, the Campbells, would love her to stay on with them.’
