Page 59 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘I know exactly where Ford’s is,’ I said, grimly. ‘But what on earth were you doingthere? Findlesham is the other side of Highbury and there’s a perfectly good petrol station on the way.’
She looked down. ‘Well, you see, I’ve been going past Philip’s house at least once a day.’
‘Oh Harriet, why?’
She shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Dunno, just a habit.’ She took a deep breath and went on, ‘Anyway, Ford’s is a crap garage, more for repairs, innit? The man has to come and work the pump for you, but he wasn’t around. And it was raining, so I just waited in the car. Then — guess what?’
‘I have no idea.’
At this point, her pot of tea arrived. She gave it a thorough stir and poured out a cup of what looked like treacle. Half the jug of milk followed, which seemed to defeat the object of having such a strong brew in the first place. After a couple of gulps she lurched forward, as if the information she was about to share was highly confidential.
‘Hecame,’ she said, in a loud whisper.
‘Philip?’
She looked at me as though I was an imbecile. ‘No — Rob.’
‘Robert Martin?’
‘Yes, I knew it was him because his van has yellow furry dice hanging from the mirror thingy.’
I gave a delicate shudder. ‘Not many of those round here.’
‘He only got them because I said I liked them.’ She took a paper napkin from the little silver holder and started fiddling with it. ‘He was with his sister, but for one horrible moment I thought she might be a new girlfriend . . . Not that I care,’ she added, shredding the napkin into dandruff-sized pieces on her plate.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘Alison — his sister, remember, the one that was going to Amsterdam—’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘What did she do?’
‘She got out of the van and came across to me, so I wound down the window and — oh Emma, it was awful!’ She dropped what remained of the napkin into the sugar bowl and covered her face with her hands, knocking over the milk jug in the process. A waitress appeared as if from nowhere and calmly cleaned everything up, while I took a fortifying drink of tea. There was another delay while our sandwiches arrived. Harriet peeped through her fingers at them but made no move to uncover her face.
‘Harriet,’ I said sternly, ‘pull yourself together and tell me what Alison said.’
She lowered her hands at last. ‘She said,’ — her voice trembled — ‘she said “Have you been waiting here long?” or something.’
My eyes widened. ‘Is that all?’
The hands waved wildly about, narrowly missing the little vase of golden-bronze spray chrysanthemums. ‘It was the shock of her even speaking to me, after — well, you know—’
‘Yes, yes.’
She started dissecting another napkin. ‘I told her I’d been sitting there at least five minutes. So she smiled and said she’d get Rob to go and find Dave to do the petrol. And I said I didn’t want him to get wet and she laughed, but not in a nasty sort ofway, and said he was big enough to look after himself. Then she went and the next thing I knewhewas there, even closer to me than you are, and — and guess what he said?’
I sighed. ‘I really can’t imagine.’
‘That Dave was on his way and I needed to wind the window up otherwise I’d get wet.’
‘Gosh.’
‘He must still like me . . . d’you think?’
I was silent. I had to admit — rather grudgingly and only to myself — that, if Mark Knightley had time for him, Robert Martin must be a decent man. And, in my view, a decent man didn’t switch from one woman to another that easily. Whereas it appeared that Philip Elton had forgotten me as soon as Gusty batted her eyelids at him across a crowded room . . .
I took a deep breath. ‘Harriet, please stop fiddling with that napkin and listen to me. I need to talk to you about Philip.’
She dropped the napkin, cocked her head on one side and said vacantly, ‘Philip?’
