Page 9 of The Importance of Being Emma
I smiled as I left them together in the boardroom; it looked as though my next matchmaking project was underway.
Mark was in my office, looking out of the window. I couldn’t see his face, but his hands were behind his back and he was fidgeting with his watch, always a sign he was worried.
No wonder; Izzy had told me all about Tamara and his carefree expat lifestyle in India. Now he was stuck on his own for six months in Highbury, where the old biddy mafia tracked your every move and the highlight of the social calendar was Batty’s Charity Bridge Drive.
I touched his sleeve. ‘Mark.’
He spun round and gave me a long, serious look. ‘Mouse. I mean Emma. Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Listen, why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? We can catch up properly and you can terrify Dad with tales of Delhi belly. Shall we say seven o’clock? It’ll be just like old times.’
He hesitated and for a moment I thought he was going to refuse.
Then he said simply, ‘Sounds great.’
Chapter Two
~~MARK~~
‘It’ll be just like old times.’
‘Sounds great.’
I should have added, ‘Except everything’s changed.’
I wasn’t against change as much as Henry, but I did like to keep things in their separate compartments. Of course, some things were the same as before. Henry. Mary. Highbury Foods, at least until Emma started whipping it into God knows what shape.
Butshe’dchanged. She’d climbed out of her old compartment, the slightly grubby one labelled ‘Mouse’, filled with silly jokes and endless games of Monopoly, into a totally inappropriate one. The one labelled ‘Sex’, dark with desire and velvet-padded to stifle sounds of pleasure. The one I usually kept locked when not in use.
Now I wished I hadn’t agreed so readily to Henry’s request to mentor her. Never mind; I’d simply open up a new compartment, ‘Masochism’. I was sure I could handle it.
Then, as I rifled through my briefcase for my non-executive director contract, I found her photo.
I don’t know why I didn’t hand the magazine back to Mary and have done with it. Maybe I thought the article might come in handy for the mentoring. But why didn’t I file it with my Highbury Foods papers? Instead, I found myself tearing it out, taking it home and looking at it far more than was good for me.
The next day Father and I went to Donwell Organics for a detailed handover. I knew standing in as Managing Director would be a sharp contrast to my role in India. Out there I had a free rein, because Father believed in empowerment rather thana more traditional command and control approach; here, it was more a case of maintaining the status quo until his return.
We’d reckoned without my stepmother Saffron, however; she was like her name — brightly coloured, horribly expensive and best in small doses. Her first phone call came at five past nine and I was privileged to hear every word, despite Father holding his mobile close to his ear. She was afraid four days wouldn’t be enough for her to do the packing, so could he take a few hours off to help? Father declined as gracefully as he could and we got about ten minutes’ work done before she rang again. She’d been thinking (always a worrying sign) — was it really necessary to put Tao (her shih-tzu) into kennels? Couldn’t I look after him, with help from Mrs Burn who’d still be coming to cook and clean most days? Father told her it was out of the question. I was coming from a culture where people fed their dogs curried leftovers; far safer for Tao to live on sirloin steak at the Glen Beagles Hotel for Discerning Dogs. At this point, he switched off his mobile and suggested we went out for a coffee.
‘Thanks, that was a lucky escape,’ I said, as we drove off in his Mercedes.
‘More than you’ll ever know. I had to dog sit when Saffron had her last facelift, I spent the whole time running Tao around. Grooming salon, vet’s surgery, social engagements with its little furry friends, it was like having another woman in the house.’ He grimaced. ‘For God’s sake, Mark, be careful who you marry. Not that I’ve any regrets,’ he added quickly, ‘although I couldn’t have chosen anyone less like your mother.’
‘No,’ I said, thinking of the tall, dignified woman who had died of a heart attack eight and a half years ago. Saffron had appeared on the scene almost immediately, when my father was in no state to resist, and his wallet had suffered the consequences ever since.
The coffee turned into a working lunch that lasted all afternoon. By the time evening came, I decided I would walk to Hartfield for some exercise. As I made my way along the bridle path, dusk was falling, cool and damp, a refreshing change from the intense heat of India.
Emma answered the door in faded jeans and a T-shirt, her face bare of make-up. At first glance she looked more like Mouse, thank God.
I handed her a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc. ‘I’m assuming Henry still drinks claret — for medicinal purposes only, of course.’
‘Of course,’ she said, with a giggle, ‘and this one’s still his favourite, thank you. Let me take your jacket, you won’t need it. Dad wanted a fire in case you felt cold and the room’s so hot I’ve had to change my clothes.’
I looked again; her T-shirt was low-cut, her jeans tight-fitting. I followed her across the hall, my gaze riveted to the easy swing of her hips.
At the entrance to the dining room, I paused. It was just as I remembered — large, square and elegantly furnished with Italian pieces from Sophia’s childhood home and vibrant oil paintings of her beloved Tuscany. The curtains were already drawn, the lamps lit, one end of the long rectangular table set for three. Then, as I went in, a wall of heat hit me from what appeared to be a small inferno in the grate. There were three assorted armchairs round it, with a bookcase, CD player and card table nearby; all the signs of a man reluctant to move from his own fireside, literally.
Henry was hibernating in the largest chair, a rug tucked round his knees. He stirred at my approach and smiled sleepily. ‘Come and sit here, Mark, you must be chilled through just walking from the car. I did the same earlier and now my arthritis is playing up terribly.’
