Page 47 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Neither did Tom for years, until Kate came along.’
‘Men don’t need other people as much as women do.’
‘Absolute bollocks.’
She didn’t reply, or maybe her words were drowned by a sudden battering of rain against the windscreen.
I switched the wipers to top speed and said, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, I just don’t agree with you.’
‘I understand.’ A pause; then, ‘You must be missing Tamara terribly.’
‘Actually, I’m not. We’ve both moved on.’
‘I don’t believe you move on from a five-year relationship as easily as that.’
‘True, but let’s just say it had stopped working a while ago. In the end, when I couldn’t promise her what she wanted, she wasn’t prepared to settle for less.’
‘Did she — did she want to marry you?’
‘Yes. At least, that’s what she implied. Asked me if I could see her living at Donwell Abbey. She knows I’ll inherit the place. Dad wants to keep it in the family and John prefers to live well away from the office.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I hadn’t thought of you at Donwell Abbey with — with a wife! And I certainly couldn’t imagine Tamara as a sort of lady of the manor.’
‘Neither could I. So she left.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever get married?’
It was a straightforward question, no strings attached, driven by friendly curiosity. Yet my heart missed a beat at the thought of Emma as my wife, my own perfect lady of the manor. The rain had eased and I switched the wipers to intermittent. In the top right-hand corner of the windscreen I noticed a smudge of bright blue sky.
I took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to, one day. How about you?’ Shit, what if she thought that last bit had a double meaning?
But she seemed oblivious to any undercurrents. ‘That’s just how I feel, with the emphasis very much on “one day”. I’ve gotmy career to think of. Maybe in ten years’ time I’ll think about marriage and children and all that.’
Ten years? My hands tightened round the steering wheel. God, in ten years’ time I’d be forty-bloody-five years old! Stupid to think we could ever . . .
I cleared my throat. ‘Steve said the other night that Forbury Manor’s just re-opened after that fire back in February. Doesn’t Henry usually have the Highbury Foods Christmas party there?’
‘Yes — Batty made a provisional booking ages ago, but perhaps someone had better go and make sure it’s still suitable. Where are you having the Donwell Organics Christmas do?’
The conversation moved to safer ground and I could concentrate on the last stage of our journey. We’d left the motorway and were skirting round the small town of Berkhamsted, when the clouds parted and the sun shone down on us like a blessing. The narrow road sliced through a forest of stately beech trees, their wet leaves gleaming like burnished copper, a sanctuary to the fallow deer that roamed the estate. As we slowed down for the speed ramps, the forest gave way to a large grassy common on the left and Ashridge Business School on the right.
Even though I’d been there many times, that first glimpse of the house always moved me. I loved the quiet elegance of its limestone façade, and the timeless simplicity of its large square towers and tall arched windows. In spite of my reluctance to bring Emma here, I felt my shoulders relax and my spirits lift.
I turned my head; our eyes met. God knows what mine betrayed, but hers were wide with wonder.
‘Oh, Mark . . .’ She sighed. ‘So this is where you did your MBA.’
‘You sound almost envious.’
‘Who wouldn’t be?’
I parked the car and got our bags and coats out of the boot. ‘We’ve got to check in at Reception first. Then I thought we’d go to the Learning Resource Centre — that’s their name for the library — and get the Mintel reports out of the way. We should still have time for a look at the grounds before dark.’
We walked towards the house; just before the entrance, I stopped.
‘Look up there.’ I pointed to a stone cross, clearly visible on the horizon through a cutting in the surrounding trees.
‘What’s it for?’
