Page 33 of The Importance of Being Emma
Dad’s face brightened. ‘Of course we can find work for Jane. What’s she studying? I’m sure you’ve told me, Mary, but my memory’s not what it was.’
‘Business Studies, quite a broad course, even some Finance.’ Batty simpered at Philip, while I heaved a sigh of relief. Then, ‘But her special subject for this year is’ — demure look in my direction — ‘Marketing.’
I nearly choked again, this time on my wine. Across the table, Mark grinned at me. He knew my opinion of ‘dear Jane’ and, needless to say, disagreed with it completely.
After that, there was no time for pleasant daydreams about Flynn; I spent the rest of the evening thinking up arguments to keep Saint Jane as far away from Marketing as possible.
Even though it was a Saturday, everyone seemed keen to go home at a respectable hour, no doubt for quite different reasons. Dad, Batty and Old Mother Bates to embark on their various bedtime rituals; Izzy to check on the children; John to watch Match of the Day; Mark and Tamara to make up for lost time in the bedroom; I didn’t like to speculate what a lonely bachelor like Philip got up to last thing at night; as for me, I was just longing to curl up with a book.
There was a change of plan, however, when Mark went to start the Mercedes and nothing happened. He tried a few more times, then got out of the car and lifted up the bonnet.
‘Father told me the battery plays up sometimes, I’ll have a quick look.’
‘Not in that new Versace jacket, darling,’ Tamara drawled. ‘Leave the car alone and call a taxi.’ It was the longest speech I’d heard her make all evening.
‘No need,’ John said. ‘I can give you four a lift, the Volkswagen holds seven. Hang on, there are eight of us—’
Philip cut in, his tone unusually assertive. ‘I’ll take Emma.’
I hesitated, then decided I was the most obvious person. Izzy and Tamara didn’t know him and the others would struggle to get in and out of his low sports car or, in Mark’s case, to sit comfortably. And maybe I could have a little chat about Harriet on the way home.
‘Thank you, Philip,’ I said, giving him a dazzling smile.
He grinned back. ‘Fantastic, I’ll just clear the front seat, won’t be long.’
While he rummaged around in his car, Mark said in an undertone, ‘Emma, are you sure about this?’
Typical ‘Mark knows best’ attitude, as if I’d just accepted a lift from Jack the Ripper. I glared at him. ‘Absolutely.’
He said nothing more, but then John took me to one side and muttered, ‘I can always come back for you, if you’d rather not go with Elton. He’s been eyeing you up all evening, obviously got the hots for you. Mind, you certainly egged him on during dinner, you laughed like a drain at all his crap jokes.’
This was getting silly. ‘I laughed at everyone’s crap jokes, including yours,’ I said haughtily. ‘And I’m not a simpleton, don’t you think I’d know if Philip fancied me? Believe me, he’s not the slightest bit interested.’
John shrugged. ‘In that case, I’ll leave you to it.’
As Philip opened the car door for me with a flourish, I reflected that people — especially men — would never cease to amaze me. There was John Knightley, a very able Finance Director but hardly what I’d call intuitive, meeting Philip for the first time and thinking he could read him like a balance sheet!
Soon Philip and I were speeding off towards Hartfield. He glanced across at me frequently and grinned, but made no attempt to talk.
I found the silence unnerving. ‘Lovely meal, wasn’t it?’ I said at last. ‘Kate’s a very — oh Philip, I thought you knew we had to go left there, you’ve missed it.’
A lay-by came into view; he swerved into it and brought the car to an abrupt halt.
‘Yes, best to turn round,’ I went on, ‘otherwise it’s quite a detour — oh no, the engine’s cut out.’
He flung off his seat belt and loosened his shirt collar. For a moment, I thought the fan belt must have broken and he was about to substitute his tie.
But I was mistaken. About everything.
It all happened so quickly. He let out a peculiar sort of groan and lunged at me — grabbed my arms — clamped his mouth to mine. Somehow, I twisted out of his clumsy embrace and shrank back against the passenger window, gasping, unable to speak.
In the moonlight, his eyes glittered. ‘I know, Emma, you take my breath away too . . . No point wasting time, let’s go to my place.’ He leered at me as his hand scraped along my thigh. ‘My Ikea bed’s not called aRamberg for nothing.’
‘Get — off — me.’ I slapped his hand away.
He smirked. ‘Come on, stop acting the prude, you’ve been leading me on for weeks. When you bent over your tripod and wiggled those hips at me during the photo shoot, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.’
I stared at him. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! You fancy Harriet, not me.’
