Page 58 of The Importance of Being Emma
He hesitated. ‘Actually, could you drop me in Highbury? Kate thinks I should call on Jane and introduce myself to the dreaded aunt. Jane may not be one for conversation, but apparently Mary Bates more than makes up for it. No wonder her mother’s gone deaf.’
I groaned. ‘You don’t need to tell me about Batty, I’ve known her all my life.’
‘Batty? Great nickname, must remember not to use it to her face.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Can’t say I’m thrilled about seeing them, but I’d do anything for my lovely stepmother. And it fills in the time until Dad can take me to fetch my hire car — had a bit of an argument with a lamp post in London and the front headlight’s had to be replaced.’ He paused and looked me straight in the eye. ‘You know, if these talks with the BBC go well, I could be staying in Highbury for some time. And believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better.’
I took this as a very encouraging sign.
* * *
~~MARK~~
I wanted to call Kate as soon as I left Hartfield and give my apologies for tonight; but I didn’t have the number for Randalls on my mobile, so it was a question of waiting until I got home and found Father’s address book.
Just as I got in the door, Kate herself rang. I was about to launch into a half-baked excuse — an urgent business proposal or something — when she forestalled me.
‘Flynn’s sent me a text to say you can come to dinner tonight. I’m so glad, because I’ve got a little favour to ask.’
That bastard Churchill. He’d made sure I couldn’t escape watching him move in on Emma.
‘What sort of favour?’ I said guardedly.
‘Could you give Mary and Jane a lift? Mary’s car wouldn’t start this morning and it’s had to be towed to the garage. I know she’ll offer to get a taxi, but—’
‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Thanks, Mark, I’ll tell her you’ll call for them at seven.’
She hung up, leaving me with a sickening sense of déjà vu. Was it only a week since I’d given Mary and her mother a lift to Randalls? I’d spent the whole evening going through the motions of a relationship with Tamara, when I ached to be with Emma. Even when Tamara and I split up two days later, a future with Emma still seemed inconceivable.
Until last night . . .
Now Churchill had arrived — and I had an even tougher fight on my hands.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
As part of my secret campaign to rid Harriet of her infatuation with Philip, I’d suggested a get-together away from the office. She wanted to go to The Ploughman one evening, but I knocked that idea on the head immediately; we were sure to bump into Philip himself or, even worse, Robert Martin. So I invited her to meet me at Tilly’s Tea Rooms in nearby Findlesham on Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t spoken to her since I’d heard about Philip’s whirlwind romance with the mysterious Gusty, just before I leftfor Ashridge on Friday. In theory, this would make it easier to convince Harriet that she had no chance with him, but I couldn’t be sure.
Although I’d made this arrangement before Flynn arrived, it turned out to be a far-sighted decision; I now felt like wearing something new to the Westons’ — and Findlesham had a very select dress shop.
Tilly’s was one of those quaint establishments that was, and had been since time immemorial, truly customer focused; the staff waited unobtrusively on your every need, brought any tea you fancied — Highbury Foods had supplied some of the more specialist blends for years — and made dainty sandwiches to individual order. Knowing that Harriet would drink something you could stand a spoon in, I ordered a pot of Earl Grey for one and settled down with the latest issue ofFortune.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed and still Harriet didn’t appear, with no reply whenever I called her mobile. At last she hurtled through the door, almost half an hour late and breathless with agitation.
‘You’ll never guess what happened!’ she said, her eyes suspiciously bright.
It was obvious she’d heard about Philip and Gusty. I took a sip of Earl Grey and prepared soothing phrases. She crashed down on the chair opposite and ordered ‘a pot of really, really strong tea, nothing posh, and a ham and pickle sarnie’. This prompted the waitress to launch into a gentle interrogation. Did she want white bread, malted grain or wholemeal? Crusts on or off? Butter or a healthy alternative? Smoked ham — or plain Wiltshire, freshly cut off the bone? By the time we got to the choice of pickles, I’d almost lost the will to live.
The waitress turned to me. ‘What would you like, Miss Woodhouse?’
‘The same, and another pot of Earl Grey,’ I said. ‘As quickly as you can, please, I’m running late.’
When we were on our own, Harriet gave me an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Emma, I was on time, honest, then I noticed I’d nearly run out of petrol. So I turned into Ford’s—’
‘Ford’s?’
‘Yeah, that garage in Little Bassington—’
