Page 50 of The Importance of Being Emma
While Mark took a shower, I sat on the bed and gave myself a quick manicure. I’d just started on my last nail when something blocked my light.
I glanced up. Mark was standing in front of me, wearing nothing but an apology for a towel round his hips. I found my gaze fixed on his tanned, well-shaped thighs, each dark hair clearly visible at such close range.
‘D’you think I need to shave?’ he said. His voice was low, almost husky.
I swallowed. ‘No. I think hairy legs can be very appealing — on a man.’
There was a pause. ‘I meant my face.’
My gaze travelled upwards, passing hurriedly over the skimpy towel to the taut muscles of his stomach and the broad expanse of his chest, where the hair was still damp . . .
At last I looked at his face. His eyes widened in mock surprise and he gave a deep chuckle.
I felt myself go bright red. ‘Just checking you over for signs of ageing. You’re not in bad shape — for thirty-five.’
‘It’s been a while since anyone checked me overthatthoroughly,’ he said silkily.
I scowled at him. ‘Yes, you do need to shave and you’d better get a move on. I want to use the mirror in the bathroom for my make-up.’ I bent my head and continued with my manicure.
‘Ah yes, you and your make-up.’ He sounded amused, as if I was a little girl playing at being grown up. ‘I’ll try not to keep you waiting too long.’
As he went away, I thought of Tamara. He wouldn’t have kept her waiting at all; she’d have been in the bathroom with him the whole time, and no prizes for guessing what they’d have been up to in the shower.
Five minutes later, the door opened and he emerged once more, dressed only in a pair of black boxers. I averted my eyes, darted past him into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. But it was full ofhim —his cologne, his shaving gear, his clothes. And there, draped over the side of the bath, was the towel he’d been wearing, still warm . . .
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Without makeup I looked like an unsophisticated teenager, which was precisely how he’d thought of me for years. Well, I’d show him. I carefully applied lots of dark brown eye liner and lash-tripling mascara, followed by several layers of vamp-red lipstick.
By the time I’d finished, I felt I could take on the world — and any dodgy feelings for Mark Knightley. I lifted my chin and stalked out of the bathroom. He was sitting on the bed; fresh shirt, different suit, nice tie. I put everything away in my dress carrier and looked round for my jacket. Only then did I notice that he was holding it.
‘Allow me,’ he murmured.
He stood behind me, helped me slip it on and, on the pretext of straightening the sleeves, turned me slowly round to face him. His eyes met mine, briefly, then focused on my mouth. Seconds passed, God knows how many. For one wild, weird moment, I thought he was going to kiss me . . . He didn’t; but my relief was short-lived as he looked down at my neckline, studying every inch of bare skin. All in silence; no need for words, when his eyes spoke volumes.
Then he said briskly, ‘Fasten that jacket, you’ll catch cold,’ and turned away.
I pulled myself up short. Idiot! I’d imagined too much . . . I squared my shoulders, picked up my handbag and left the room. As I didn’t know where to go next, I stopped at the main door and waited, taking deep calming breaths and trying not to feel like an even bigger fool.
At last he arrived, grinning broadly. ‘It’s not far to the house,’ he said, as we went outside. ‘Drinks are in Hoskins and dinner’s in the Lady Marian Alford room. That’ll make you fall in love with the place, if you haven’t already.’
I gave a frosty smile and said nothing.
We entered the house from a small courtyard and went along a plush corridor, past watercolours and drawings of Ashridge through the centuries, from its origins as a medieval monastery to the stately building of today. We crossed the Reception area and walked into a room that took my breath away. It was decorated in the same blue as my dress, with magnificent white plasterwork on the ceiling. Around the walls were bookcases and portraits, including one of a sleeping, rosy-cheeked child.
Mark followed my gaze. ‘That’s a Joshua Reynolds, doesn’t it remind you of Emily? We should take a photo for Izzy’s collection.’
I laughed, and the tension between us eased. He handed me a glass of wine and introduced me to Judy Scott, the Alumni Association organiser. We hadn’t been talking long when a fat man in a crumpled suit swayed up to us, already the worse for drink.
‘Long time no see, Mark,’ he brayed. ‘Out in Africa, weren’t you?’
Within half a minute, I knew that his name was Baz Lorimer, he’d been at Ashridge at the same time as Mark and he was Head of Customer Relations for DK Clothing, which I hoped hadabsolutely nothing to do with Donna Karan. I also discovered that, like most large, unfit men, he had a serious perspiration problem. Judy and I continued our conversation, but it was impossible not to hear what Lorimer was saying.
‘High-class totty, the one in the blue.’ He let out an appreciative belch.
I didn’t catch Mark’s reply.
Then Lorimer bellowed, ‘Are you shagging her, or have I got a chance?’
Heads turned in our direction, while I blushed to the roots of my hair.
