Page 39 of The Importance of Being Emma
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ After a brief pause she said, ‘Well, I’m not spending the whole night discussing all that crap and going round in effing circles. I can find out what I need to know right now. I’m going to ask you a question and I expect an honest answer, OK?’
‘OK,’ I said, warily.
She hesitated. Then, ‘Can you picture me living here, at Donwell Abbey, with you, in the years ahead?’
Relief flooded through me. The question I’d feared hadn’t been about her at all . . . But I needed to consider my answer carefully; I owed her that, at least. So I thought about the past few days and how it had felt to be here with her on my own. Whenever she’d stayed previously, Father and Saffron had been around, filling the silences, fuelling our sense of togetherness.
But this time there’d been no distractions, no disguise. Away from the heady expat social life of India, I realised we had very little in common. Five years of wild partying, exotic holidays, good sex — and not much else.
And yet I couldn’t bring myself to say the word ‘no’; such a stark epitaph. Instead, I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head.
She smiled, but her eyes were empty. ‘I thought as much.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I’m going upstairs to start packing. Once that stupid PC’s up and running, I’ll look up the next available flight. Don’t try and change my mind, you’ll be wasting your time. We’ve already wasted five years, haven’t we?’
‘Don’t say that, it hasn’t been—’
‘And here’s your precious photo.’
Before I could stop her, she tore the photo of Emma into little pieces and threw them at me. We both watched in silence as they fluttered to the floor; then she stalked out of the room.
I crouched down and picked up the pieces, one by one, cradling them in my hand. The last piece was her face, a face that I could picture only too well living here, with me, in the years ahead.
I crushed the pieces in my fist and walked slowly into the drawing room. The fire was well ablaze and I stood in front of it, comforted by its warmth and light; yet, at the same time, disturbed by recent memories . . .
Who had I really been making love to, here on the rug — and upstairs, in my bed?
It was all so obvious. I’d spent the last few days in some sort of denial; even the normally thick-skinned Tamara had detected that. Denial of our crumbling relationship. Denial of my growing fascination with someone else; someone who thought of me as at best a friend, at worst a boring old fart.
I unclenched my fingers and let the pieces fall into the hungry flames.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
These days Dad was far less receptive to discussing work matters at home, which I took as yet another sign that he was ready for retirement. So I saved the subject of Saint Jane for our weekly one-to-one on the morning after the Board meeting.
I came straight to the point. ‘Giving Jane a work placement in Marketing will cause me big problems. First, I’ll have to spend time I can’t afford, bringing her up to speed with my ideas for the research project. Second, she won’t have anything like the thorough grounding in marketing theory I got at Harvard, so she’ll only be able to do basic stuff. And last but not least, Harriet can barely cope with the work you and I give her, let alone any extra. I’m having second thoughts about taking her on permanently.’
Dad nodded gloomily. ‘Yes, she’s a lovely girl, but — oh, if only Kate would come back!’
I ignored this and went on, ‘And I don’t see why we need to help Jane anyway. She got herself into this mess, she can get herself out of it.’
‘Now, darling, Mary’s asked me a favour and I can’t refuse, she’s one of my oldest friendsandmy bridge partner.’ He winced and clutched at his stomach. ‘Must make some more peppermint tea, such a nuisance having to do it myself, but I’m still suffering repercussions from Saturday night.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ I said, under my breath. I certainly was with Philip; and I suspected Mark was with Tamara — you could have cut the atmosphere between them last night with a knife. I went on, in a louder tone, ‘If you hadn’t sent Harriet home yesterday and told her to stay there until she was better, she’d be here to make your tea. In the meantime, the work’s piling up, and that’s even before you’ve hired Jane Fairfax.’ I paused to let this sink in. ‘If Harriet’s not back tomorrow, we’ll have to find another temp for a few days to get up to date — a cost we can easily avoid.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose she could come back, but we’d all need to wear breathing masks, like the ones John used when he sanded those doors down in their last house—’
‘Dad, please! If she comes back this week, I’ll keep her with me, I won’t let her anywhere near you.’ I bit my lip; that meant I’d have plenty of opportunity to tell her about Philip.
As if he could read my mind, Dad said, ‘And now Philip’s going away just when he’s meant to be working on next year’s budgets.’
This was news to me, especially as I’d found a snotty email from him in my inbox this morning, hassling me for some figures by tomorrow.
‘Where’s he going?’ I asked, hoping for Outer Mongolia on a one-way ticket.
‘To Bristol, on a training course. He claims he told me about it ages ago, activity-based costing or some such nonsense. He’s back in the office on Friday, but he’ll probably be so caught up in newfangled ideas that he won’t be able to concentrate on his priorities.’
Unlike Dad, I was relieved; the less Philip and I — and Philip and Harriet — had to do with each other at the moment, the better.
