Page 49 of The Importance of Being Emma
He gave me a long, serious look. ‘That’s out of the question.’
‘Why? It’s not as if we’ve never spent the night together before.’ I giggled. ‘It was the last time we all went camping, remember? In Darnley Woods — you, John, Izzy and me. Izzy wanted to share a tent with John instead of me and I couldn’t imagine why. Then you and John had a big row and we almost went home. But in the end you and I shared one tent, and they went in the other.’
‘That was entirely different. You were twelve, if that, and we were in sleeping bags—’
‘Yes, of course it was different, but that doesn’t change the fact that we spent the night together!’ I laughed and went on, ‘I was really cross with Izzy, so you gave me a pep talk about her being old enough to know what she was doing and told me those awful ghost stories to distract me. I don’t know which was worse, being cross or terrified.’
Silence; then he said, ‘If I have a nap now, I’ll be fine to drive home.’ He kicked off his shoes, stretched out on top of the bed covers and stared up at the ceiling.
I shrugged. ‘See how you feel later.’ I went into the bathroom and started running my bath, wondering why he’d been so abrupt with me; defensive, almost. Then I twigged. Oh, shit! Did he think I was that desperate?
I poked my head round the door and said haughtily, ‘You needn’t worry, I might have said I hadn’t kissed a man for over two months, but I’m not about to hit onyou. If the thought of staying in the same room as me is so off-putting, you can bloody well forget it!’
When he turned his back on me without a word, I knew I was right.
Arrogant bastard!
* * *
~~MARK~~
I stared moodily at the plain cream wall, remembering that last camping trip. I’d been as angry with John as Emma had been with Izzy. At twenty-three, I hadn’t exactly relished sharing a tent with a gawky twelve-year-old while my brother got his end away with her sister. The situation wasn’t helped by a poor night’s sleep; Emma had tossed and turned in her sleeping bag next to me, while I couldn’t avoid overhearing occasional noises from the other tent.
Now, years later, the opportunity to spend the night with her aroused a very different reaction. The irony was that she believed I was worried aboutherhitting onme! Bloody good job she couldn’t mind-read.
I sighed, rolled onto my front and closed my eyes. Maybe everything would seem better after a nap . . .
I must have dozed off; I don’t know for how long. I woke slowly, silently, to a scene more seductive than any dream. The sound of someone humming under their breath. A delicious fragrance, like a summer garden after rain. In the lamplight, agirl with her back to me, dark brown hair curling damply over bare shoulders, skin glowing honey-gold against the white of a towel that enveloped her body but did little to disguise her shape.
Emma; no longer a girl, but a woman.
The humming stopped. She turned her head; checking up on me, no doubt. Instantly, my eyes flicked shut.
A soft thud, as something hit the floor. Please God, let it be the towel.
Casting caution to the wind, I opened my eyes again.
Same view, only now with her full beauty revealed — and I drank in every detail. In my mind, I got up and crossed the room in a single stride; captured the narrow span of her waist between my hands, traced the smooth hollows of her back, reached down to cup the inviting curve of her hips. In my mind, she turned round with the sweetest of smiles, offering my urgent fingers other delights to explore, and raised heavy-lidded, lustrous eyes to mine before pressing herself against me. In my mind, we fell onto the bed, a hot fusion of mouths and limbs, and didn’t give dinner another thought . . .
Pure fantasy. The real Emma pulled on a pair of white briefs, wriggled into something blue and all-concealing, and moved out of sight; but not, unfortunately, out of mind.
Then, from the foot of the bed, ‘Mark.’
I feigned sleep. What else could I do? Although I must have looked unconscious, inside I was only too self-aware; voyeuristic lust battling it out with intense shame. After all, she’d told her father she couldn’t be in safer hands . . .
‘Mark, wake up.’
I gave what I hoped was a convincing start. ‘Whassat?’
‘Time to have your shower. We’ve got pre-dinner drinks in thirty-five minutes, according to the programme I saw at Reception.’
And time to face facts; in her eyes, I was simply part of the furniture. But then I’d done nothing so far to encourage her to see me any differently.
Maybe I should give her a taste of her own medicine.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
