Page 43 of The Importance of Being Emma
Her jaw dropped. ‘He’s gay, isn’t he? Trace says these days most of the shaggable ones are.’
I thought of Saturday night and suppressed a shudder. ‘He’s certainly not gay.’ I looked her straight in the eye. ‘He doesn’t fancy you. It’s me he’s been after, all along.’
She stared at me, a strange glassy stare, and her face turned a peculiar whitish green.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I added gently, ‘I’m pretty sure he doesn’t fancy me now.’
Then, to my dismay — and that of everyone else in the restaurant — she lurched to her feet and said in a loud voice, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
I held my napkin to her mouth and bundled her into the Ladies, just in time. As I stood outside the cubicle listening to her throwing up the entire contents of her stomach, I decided it was as though she was cleansing herself of the excesses I’d been feeding her — Philip’s supposed infatuation as much as Pierre’s cooking.
Eventually, the retching stopped.
I tapped on the cubicle door. ‘Would you like me to take you home?’
‘Yes, please, but only so I can get changed.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I’m coming back to work.’
‘Oh, Harriet, there’s no need, just take the afternoon off—’
‘No, I’d rather be in the office with you than home alone.’
I wasn’t sure that was meant as a compliment, but I didn’t argue. While she washed her face, I went to pay the bill and fetch our things.
On the way to her house, she asked the question I was dreading. ‘How did you find out about — about all this?’
I sighed and launched into edited highlights of my journey home with Philip. I left out his insulting remarks about her, of course, and my fears for my safety, and finished with an apology. ‘I’m so sorry, I should have realised what was going on right from the start. And I can’t forgive myself for misleading you and building your hopes up.’
‘You didn’t do it on purpose,’ she said sadly. ‘You were just being nice. No one else would have believed that someone like him could fancy someone like me.’
As I waited outside Harriet’s house, I decided she was behaving very sensibly about the whole thing. If I ever wanted to acquire a sort of childlike simplicity, Harriet Smith wouldmake a great role model. Then I remembered who I was. Like it or not, I would never get away with childlike simplicity; the name Emma Woodhouse was synonymous with sophisticated complexity.
But I could take some learnings from this experience, especially around self-awareness. I reached for my personal organiser and set myself three little goals: to take no one at face value ever again; to focus on completing the Harriet’s Secret Recipes research project; and to stop matchmaking. Which would be a real shame because there was a new solicitor at Thrayles, our legal advisors, who might suit Harriet very nicely.
Back in the office, I had some final words of wisdom for Harriet. ‘I think Philip’s unprofessional behaviour at the Board meeting is just the beginning. My advice — not that you have to take it, of course — is to keep well out of his way.’
She shook her head. ‘No need, I’ve just checked his horoscope for the next month and he’s entering a period of harmony and growth in his personal relationships.’ She gave a trembling smile. ‘You realise what that means, Emma? I’ve still got a chance with him after all!’
My heart sank. Getting Harriet to face reality was going to be harder than I’d thought. I could only hope that Philip would indirectly help me out — by being as obnoxious as possible.
* * *
~~MARK~~
I called at Hartfield on my way home after dinner with the Board — against my better judgement, but I needed to finalise arrangements for Ashridge with Emma. Although I could have phoned her, I decided to use this as a practice run for the next day.
When she opened the door and saw it was me, her face lit up in a mischievous grin. ‘This is a great honour, are you sure youcan spare the time out of your busy schedule? Or are you looking forward to our little outing so much that you’ve turned up half a day early?’
I smiled, in spite of myself, and stepped into the hall. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, I just came to bring your tin back. You should be very proud of me, I managed to make that delicious cake last longer than a day.’ I gave her the tin, making sure our fingers didn’t touch.
This was the way to do it, keep everything at the level of brotherly banter.
‘Thank you.’ She put the tin down on a marble-topped telephone table nearby and picked up a folded white handkerchief. ‘And I’ve been meaning to return this.’
Instead of handing it to me, she leaned forward and tucked it into my breast pocket. I closed my eyes; tried to shut out her nearness, even as I breathed in her perfume . . .
‘Are you tired?’ Her voice was soft — with sympathy, not seduction.
My eyes flew open. ‘Yeah, sorry, it’s been a long day.’
