Page 88 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘Once upon a time,’ I said softly, ‘in the Enchanted Kingdom of Highbury, Princess Harriet was on her way to see Queen Emma. Now Princess Harriet was very beautiful, with long golden hair and big blue—’
Harry interrupted me, his voice full of scorn. ‘Is this a fairy tale?’
‘Certainly not, just be patient.’ And I continued for a little longer in the same lyrical vein, to set the scene. Then I picked up the pace and related the story of Harriet and the Goths,suitably tailored to my audience with trans-galactic rocket-launchers, laser-phaser-blaster guns and a Flynn Churchill who was far more heroic than his real-life counterpart. Harry and James loved it and wanted to hear it over and over again — even the romantic bit, where Princess Harriet and Prince Flynn got married. I didn’t mind; anticipating Harriet’s and Flynn’s happy ending made me forget my own troubles for a while.
Later, when the boys were fast asleep, I returned to Mark’s room and tidied the bedclothes that Bella had disturbed. Then I picked up the bottle that she’d called his ‘favourite smell’. Armani, Eau Pour Homme. I opened it and inhaled. Fatal. At once, I was back in that tiny bathroom at Ashridge, then kissing him in the hall at home and, finally, lying on his bed at Forbury Manor, doing more kissing, doing more than kissing . . .
I replaced the cap and set the bottle down, but the scent and the memories lingered. So I slipped off my shoes. Lay on top of his duvet. Rested my cheek on his pillow. Breathed in his essence. Part Armani, something I could buy anywhere. And part Mark. Unique. Unattainable. And still under Tamara’s spell.
How long I lay there, I don’t know. Long enough to make his pillow damp with tears. But at last I got up, put on my shoes, smoothed his duvet, turned off his light.
And went downstairs to get on with my life.
* * *
~~MARK~~
In the days leading up to Christmas, my workload eased and I decided it was time to contact Emma. We were certain to meet over the holiday period; why not clear the air in advance? If part of me hoped for a full and passionate reconciliation, then I didn’t allow myself to dwell on it.
But I’d forgotten the disruption that an English winter could bring to the workplace. Donwell Organics was hit bya particularly virulent flu bug and most of our sales force — including Mitch, the Sales Director — went down with it. We were at a very delicate stage of negotiation with the new Parkinson contract and I had to drop everything to keep our chances of securing it alive.
So I worked all hours, right until the office closed on 24th December. I found the prospect of some time off strangely disconcerting. As I’d bought my presents well in advance, I didn’t have any last-minute shopping to do and my thoughts turned inevitably to Emma; but I knew she wouldn’t welcome a visit in the middle of her Christmas Eve preparations. It was the tradition for the Knightleys and Woodhouses, including John and family, to have Christmas lunch together. I’d missed out since going to India, preferring to visit England during warmer weather. This year, we were meeting at Hartfield and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of it unless I feigned Bubonic Plague or something equally drastic.
I kept away for as long as possible, arriving shortly before the meal was due to be served. Henry answered the door and seemed to accept my excuse about waiting for a phone call from Father. He showed me into the drawing room, where I was immediately set upon by an army of wildly excited children — four, at any rate — demanding their presents.
‘Emily gets hers first, she’s better behaved than any of you lot,’ I said, laughing and looking about for the youngest Knightley.
She was on her aunt’s knee, surveying me gravely. In contrast, Emma avoided my gaze, pretending to be engrossed in something on the other side of the room.
I decided to treat them as a package. ‘Merry Christmas, both of you.’ I bent down and planted a light kiss on Emily’s chubby cheek, then made a similar gesture in the vicinity of Emma, managing to avoid any actual physical contact. So far, so good.
The older children hovered impatiently while I rummaged in my carrier bags and took out two presents.
‘This one’s for Emily.’ I helped her to unwrap the cloth doll I’d bought her and she grabbed it with an appreciative gurgle.
‘And for Emma,’ I said heartily, holding the other present out towards her. She couldn’t refuse to open it, surely?
It seemed she could. She flushed and mumbled something about having her hands full with Emily.
Bella came to her rescue. ‘I’ll help you, Aunty Emma.’ In a second she’d taken the present from me and torn off the paper to reveal a book. She held it up to her face to read the title. ‘It’s about a shridge,’ she said importantly.
Izzy frowned. ‘A what, darling?’
‘A shridge.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ve got all the letters right, Bella, you just need to make it into one word. Ashridge. It’s a special place I took Aunty Emma to, not long ago.’ Not long ago? It seemed like a lifetime. I went on, ‘The book’s got some lovely pictures of the house and grounds, to remind her of our visit. And it tells you all about the people who used to live there, which is fascinating. I think so, anyway.’
Emma took the book from Bella as if it was a live cobra, put it straight down on the floor and studied the back of Emily’s neck. ‘Thanks, I’m sure I’ll be duly fascinated.’ She sounded anything but. ‘Bella, can you bring Uncle Mark’s present from under the tree?’
Bella was a willing go-between. As she gave me the present, she beamed at me and whispered, ‘It’s your favourite smell.’
It was. Armani, Eau Pour Homme. With a tag that said simply ‘To Mark, from Emma’; no love, no kisses, nothing. Was it that that made me see red, or was it the fact she’d been so lacking in imagination? I managed to mutter ‘Thank you,very useful’ and turned my attention to handing out my other presents.
Shortly afterwards, however, when she left the room, I followed her. I stood at the door of the kitchen, watching her pour the champagne and trying not to think what might have been. If Churchill didn’t exist, I would have won her round after Forbury Manor, I was sure. And right now I would have taken her in my arms, laughed off her uninspired Christmas present and urged her to come back with me to Donwell Abbey for the evening, if not the night . . .
But Churchill did exist. And she wanted him, not me.
Still, things couldn’t go on as they were. I took a deep breath. ‘Emma.’
