Page 5 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Now, Dad, come along, Kate’s been on leave in the past and you’ve coped wonderfully. Just imagine she’s on an extended holiday.’
‘So wise for her age, isn’t she, Mark?’ He gave Mark no chance to agree or, more likely, disagree but continued, ‘I’m worried about you, darling, you’re taking on a lot of responsibility. Kate’s not here to help, and Mary’s not the woman she was . . . Neither am I, for that matter . . . themanI was, I should say.’ He took refuge in another sip of tea.
‘Meaning?’ I prompted, as a nasty, Knightley-shaped suspicion formed in my mind.
Dad turned to Mark. ‘Meaning that, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to hire you as a sort of mentor to Emma for the next six months.’
Mark Knightley as my mentor? Bloody hell, more like my tormentor.
‘I don’t need—’ I began, just as Mark said, ‘I’d be delighted.’
Dad looked at him approvingly. ‘You know the food industry inside out and you’ve got such a successful track record, especially on the marketing side.’
I tried again. ‘But we need to be forward-thinking and innovative—’
Mark cut in. ‘Are you suggesting I’m neither?’
I forced a smile. ‘I know you’re very knowledgeable and experienced in the more traditional markets, but that’s not what Highbury Foods needs right now. And, who knows, I might be looking to compete with Donwell Organics in some way. You couldn’t possibly mentor me in those circumstances.’
He laughed. ‘From my outdated knowledge and experience, I’d say any sort of attempt to enter the organic food market at the moment would be commercial suicide.’ Then he was serious again. ‘But I take your point. You’ll simply have to trust me to tell you if I ever feel there’s a conflict of interest.’
I didn’t retaliate, even though I wanted to. Let him win the first battle; his complacency might cost him the war.
‘So I’ll leave it to you two to decide how best to arrange the mentoring,’ Dad said. ‘Now let’s just go over the agenda for the Board meeting—’
There was a knock at the door and Batty peered in.
‘Henry, I thought you’d like to meet your new PA, she’s from Temp Tation, Pam Goddard’s agency, you know. Although poor Pam’s talking of changing the name, she gets the most peculiar calls sometimes, very distressing. There was one young man who—’ She broke off just as her conversation threatened to get interesting. ‘Oh Mark, how lovely to have you back in Highbury! I won’t interrupt you, we can do this later.’
Dad sighed. ‘It’s all right, bring her in, you can introduce her to Emma and Mark at the same time.’
As Batty pushed the door open and stood aside, I remembered the fragment of conversation I’d overheard earlier. All I knew about this person was that she’d temped at Abbey Mill Haulage; but it was quite possible I’d met her before. Highbury was such a small place, with people rarely moving away, and we often asked our existing employees to recommend friends or relatives for jobs. So I looked carefully at the young girl whotottered into the room on impossibly high heels, wondering if I’d recognise her.
I didn’t — and, in an odd way, I did. On the one hand, she was a complete stranger; on the other, I felt I’d known her for years. With her long wavy blonde hair, spiky black eyelashes and rosebud mouth, she was the spitting image of Lisa, my adorable Annette Himstedt doll that I’d had since I was nine.
Except I’d never have dressed Lisa in such a loud check suit.
‘Hiya, I’m Harriet Smith,’ the girl squeaked.
And I’d have to do something about that accent, Pseudo Posh meets Estuary English.
Dad got slowly to his feet. ‘Good morning, Harriet, I’m Henry Woodhouse. No doubt Mary’s been telling you what an old ogre I am.’
Harriet stared at him, obviously unsure how to respond, while Batty tittered, ‘Oh Henry, you and your little jokes.’
Dad went on, ‘This is my daughter, Emma Woodhouse.’
Harriet took my outstretched hand and managed a shy smile. ‘Hiya, Miss Henhouse. Shit — I mean, sorry . . . ’
I laughed and tried to put her at ease. ‘Just call me Emma, Harriet.’
‘Hiya, Emma-Harriet.’
My eyes widened. To my right, Mark seemed to be having a coughing fit.
Dad looked at him anxiously. ‘And this is Mark Knightley, our friend and non-executive director. Mark, that’s a nasty-sounding cough, would you like to chew on a garlic clove? I always keep some handy, with my troublesome throat.’
‘Thank you, Henry, but I seem to have recovered. Delighted to meet you, please call me Mark, Harriet.’ Mark shook her hand and gave her one of his most dazzling smiles.
