Page 92 of The Importance of Being Emma
He hesitated, then said in a low voice, ‘I was going to give them to a certain person we both know, but I was scared she’d hate them so I bottled out. And Kate and Dad assumed they were for you, so I decided I’d better play along. You see, I’m in their bad books because of all the time I’m spending away from Highbury.’ He added, with a beguiling grin, ‘Don’t suppose you’d wear them, just while we’re here? It’d do my credibility a power of good.’
Fortunately for him, this last revelation deprived me of the power of speech.
He went on, ‘I’d need them back, of course, but there’s no rush. How about it?’
I took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I don’t think so. If “a certain person” means so much to you, surely you’d want her to be the first to wear them. And remember, she works for me. I know she’ll love them, she might just need some persuading to accept them. It’s early days, after all.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right, I need to be patient, she’s not used to being showered with expensive gifts. Em, you’re a star!’ He hugged me with such enthusiasm that Emily got almost crushed between us and started to cry.
I drew back with a tight little smile. ‘See if you can calm Emily down, you obviously need the practice. Excuse me while I go and check on the lunch.’
It was a relief to escape to the kitchen and busy myself with undemanding tasks; I steamed the green vegetables, made the gravy and added the finishing touches to Dad’s alternative Christmas meal, which this year was a daring combination of poached lemon sole followed by natural yogurt.
At half past two, when Kate, Tom and Flynn had left, the rest of us sat down to lunch. Dad and I were at opposite ends of the dining table and I put Mark next to Dad, as far away from me as possible. Only trouble was, every time I spoke to Dad, I found myself looking athim.
Needless to say, Izzy’s sole topic of conversation was Kate’s pregnancy. Over the turkey, she and Dad commiserated about all the possible complications Kate’s age might cause. By the time I handed round the Christmas pudding and mince pies, she’d moved on to the subject of Randalls.
‘They’ll have far too much work to do on that house before June,’ she said, disapprovingly. ‘It’s not at all suitable for a baby, you’d think they’d have sorted that first before she got pregnant.’
‘Accidents can happen,’ Mark said shortly.
At his words, my spoon clattered loudly against my plate.
Izzy gave him a frosty look. ‘But they’re old enough to know better—’
‘Aren’t we all?’ he countered. ‘Anyway, it’s entirely their business. Henry, would you like me to pass you a mince pie to liven up that yogurt?’
Dad shuddered. ‘No thank you, Mark, you’ve obviously forgotten what dried fruit does to me or you wouldn’t even suggest it . . . But now I come to think about it, Emma, is there any of that nice stewed apple left from the other day?’
‘I’m sure there is.’ I stood up, glad to have an excuse to leave the table. As well as the conversation making me uncomfortable, I felt as though I’d eaten too much. Or maybe it was somethingelse. As I crossed the hall, I stopped. I hadn’t been mistaken; there it was again, a familiar dull ache in my stomach.
Instead of going to the kitchen, I made my way slowly upstairs to the bathroom.
* * *
~~MARK~~
When Churchill gave Emma a little jeweller’s box, any relief I’d felt at Tom’s announcement evaporated. I just knew it contained an engagement ring. Sick to my stomach, I watched her look at it in awe and presumably suggest they held off a while, so as not to steal Kate and Tom’s thunder. And then the bastard took her in his arms, right there, in front of everyone. At that point, I became intensely interested in Bella’s new Barbie doll.
Things improved after he left. Over lunch, Emma appeared to be heeding my words about making an effort in front of the family. But Izzy had to go and spoil it all, harping on about Kate’s pregnancy. Naturally, she had no idea it was such a sensitive topic for some of us; she just saw it as the ideal opportunity to demonstrate her expertise in such matters. Eventually I changed the subject to Henry’s diet, which could usually be guaranteed to dominate any conversation.
I sensed that Emma was as dismayed as I was by Izzy’s comments. She certainly took a long time to fetch Henry’s stewed apple and, when she returned, she looked pale and drawn. In fact, during our customary walk after lunch she barely said a word, even to the kids.
As soon as we got back to Hartfield, I decided I’d had enough. I said my goodbyes and fended off the kids’ pleas to come back to Donwell Abbey, knowing that the only company I’d be fit for that evening was a bottle of whisky.
Emma had gone to the kitchen to make some tea. I popped my head round the door, intending to say thank you andgoodbye as quickly as possible. But the words died on my lips. She was standing with her back to me, the tea tray all ready on the table next to her. At first glance, I thought she was just daydreaming; then I noticed she was hugging her stomach and her shoulders were shaking, as though she was crying. I paused in the doorway, paralysed by indecision. Should I go to her, or not?
At last I spoke, my voice hoarse with a cocktail of emotions — fear, frustration, yearning, love. ‘Emma — what is it, what’s wrong?’
She straightened up immediately, lifted the lid of the teapot and stirred the contents with a spoon. I couldn’t see her face, but she sounded calm enough, matter-of-fact even.
‘It’s only stomach cramps, the ones I get every month. They can be quite painful until the ibuprofen takes effect.’
It took a few seconds for the message to sink in. ‘So you’re not pregnant,’ I said, quietly. I stepped forward, arms outstretched, aching to offer comfort.
‘No, I’m not . . . Thank God.’ She spoke loudly and distinctly, her meaning unmistakable.
I stopped short and let my arms fall to my sides. What good was comfort if she felt only relief? ‘You’re right, perhaps it’s for the best,’ I heard myself say.
