Page 55 of The Importance of Being Emma
I certainly wasn’t prepared for anything else; although you could say I’d spent years waiting for this very moment . . .
* * *
~~MARK~~
I slept well; so well, in fact, that I didn’t hear the alarm go off at half past eight. I woke — cursing — just before eleven, got showered and dressed in seven minutes flat and rushed downstairs.
No time for breakfast; anyway, there was bound to be something on offer at Hartfield. I could see it now: Emma and I rustling up bacon and eggs under Henry’s disapproving gaze — the first of many breakfasts together, I was sure.
I walked to the car with a spring in my step, pausing only to breathe in the crisp, apple-scented air. It was almost Hallowe’en. Maybe we’d go to John and Izzy’s this morning and take the children shopping for scary masks and pumpkins; on the way home we’d stop for lunch, then go back to Donwell for the rest of the day, and all night . . .
Exactly five minutes later I was at Hartfield, smoothing my hair and ringing the bell. As I waited for what seemed like ages, I began to wonder if I was being overconfident. In all the years I’d known her, dealing with Emma had never been straightforward.
At last the door opened; but it was only Henry, smiling benignly. ‘Good morning. Fully recovered, are we?’
‘Yes, thank you. Look, I’m sorry if I was rude last night—’
‘No need to apologise, Mark. I understand — more than most people — the trials and tribulations of the digestive system.’ He gave a little morbid sigh.
‘And I’m a bit later than I intended.’ I hesitated. ‘Is Emma still around?’
‘Very much so,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘We’ve got another visitor, you know, besides you. I was just making them more coffee — would you like a cup?’
‘I’d love one.’ Another visitor? I cursed myself again for sleeping in, and glanced right and left; the only cars on the drive were Emma’s and mine.
‘Just go through to the drawing room.’ Henry shut the front door behind me and shuffled off towards the kitchen.
‘Who else is here?’ I called after him, but he didn’t reply. I frowned; if it was Mary, I wouldn’t get Emma on her own until lunch time.
Through the open drawing room door, I heard Emma give a throaty laugh of encouragement. This brought a smile to my face; the visitor definitely wasn’t Mary Bates! Then — a man’s voice, unfamiliar, his tone so low that I couldn’t make out the words, and another laugh from Emma.
I took a couple of steps forward, my legs strangely heavy.
That voice again, the words audible now, the accent marked. New Zealand, wasn’t it? Or maybe Australian . . . ‘Emma Woodhouse, it feels like we’ve known each other for years.’
I walked into the room and stopped short.
They were on the sofa together, their knees almost touching; he was half turned towards her, his hand on her arm. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. I couldn’t see all of his face, but I knew who he was, instantly.
Flynn Churchill.
Several seconds passed before Emma noticed me. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, dismissively, and looked straight back at him. ‘Flynn, this is Mark Knightley, I’m sure Tom will have mentioned the name.’
He jumped to his feet and tried to win me over with the same engaging grin I’d seen in that photo-shrine on the Westons’ sideboard. We shook hands — he wasn’t as limp-wristed as I’d have liked — and I schooled my features into a mask of polite indifference; inside, I was wishing him miles away.
So he’d finally shown up in Highbury, after all those false boasts and empty promises. Putting the Westons to great inconvenience, no doubt; I vaguely remembered Emma saying he wasn’t expected until the end of the week. And, withimpeccable timing, he’d decided to visit Hartfield at a critical moment between Emma and me.
I took a seat opposite them and willed her to look at me. All in vain; it became increasingly obvious that I may as well not be in the room. He was centre stage, the focus of her attention.
I’d only just met him, yet I hated him — more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
I was over the moon at seeing Flynn. For one thing, his arrival delayed that uncomfortable little chat with Mark. For another, the man himself was everything I’d dreamed he would be: gorgeous-looking, great fun — and here, in the flesh, at long last.
Mark, normally so socially adept, sat there in silence. Eventually, he got to his feet and announced that he had to go.
