Page 97 of The Importance of Being Emma
‘I’m going. I could have joined Steve and his mates for a piss-up round the villages but I can’t be bothered. Maybe I’m getting old.’
I reflected on this as I got ready for the Westons’ on New Year’s Eve. Shit, I was so reluctant to leave my own fireside that it felt like I was turning into Henry. But I knew that tonight it was better for me to be with others — even if they included Emma.
The evening got off to a good start. The meal was delicious, the conversation entertaining and the company far from disturbing. It couldn’t last, of course. At about half past eleven Emma arrived and my pulse quickened at the very sight of her: hair tousled, face aglow, tantalising glimpses of golden skin between her skimpy silver top and her hip-hugging jeans.
But it seemed that the only reason she’d come was to see in the New Year with Churchill — perfectly natural, I suppose. The first thing she did was ring him to find out where he was; and she couldn’t hide her excitement when he turned up with less than ten minutes to go until midnight.
Churchill seemed even more hyper than usual and I wondered if he’d indulged in a few drinks already on his way back from the Lakes. He downed a large whisky almost as soon as he came through the door and his gaze darted nervously round the room, coming to rest on Emma, Jane and Harriet who were standing by the Christmas tree. Just as he was walking over to them, Tom grabbed his arm and introduced him to the Perrys.
Churchill frowned in concentration. ‘Perry . . . Perry . . . Oh, aren’t you the couple whose son got expelled from school for his extra-curricular activities?’ He added, with a smug little smile,‘I did the same sort of thing myself and it hasn’t done me any harm.’
The effect of his words was dramatic. David almost choked on his drink, while Sandy went white as a sheet and turned abruptly to Mary.
‘I asked you to keep that to yourself,’ she said, icily.
Mary coloured. ‘I did. At least, I only told Jane, of course—’
‘He wasn’t expelled,’ David put in, curtly. ‘Only suspended.’
And then I saw Jane give Churchill a look of such intense reproach that I did a double take. It suggested an intimacy that I’d never suspected and I began to wonder . . .
Churchill sniggered. ‘No onetoldme, I’ve obviously got psychic powers. Only suspended, was he? That’s nothing these days, it suggests he’s got a healthy disrespect for authority, something to be admired really.’ He tried rather belatedly to turn on the charm. ‘Lovely dress, by the way, Mandy.’
Sandy turned her back on him and walked to the other side of the room, David at her heels. Poor Tom was saved from further embarrassment by the chimes of Big Ben on the TV.
‘Come on, everyone,’ he said, with a hollow attempt at his usual enthusiasm, ‘let’s join hands for “Auld Lang Syne”.’
I found myself crossing arms with Jane on my left and Harriet on my right. Emma was directly opposite, wedged between Churchill and Henry. As we sang the familiar words, they seemed even more poignant than usual. I knew that this would be my last visit to Highbury for a long time, especially once Emma announced her engagement. And so, when the kissing started, I kept my eyes firmly on the next person in line, giving myself no chance of seeing her in a passionate clinch withhim. I went from Jane, a brief and business-like brushing of the lips; to Harriet, wet, surprisingly persistent and interspersed with giggles; to Kate, firm and friendly; Sandy, prim and puckered; Izzy, smelling strongly of baby lotion; thenMary, leaving a dusty deposit of face powder on my cheek; and finally . . .
‘Happy New Year, Emma.’ I held her lightly by the waist and risked a glance at her face; if she’d been wearing lipstick, it had been well and truly kissed away . . .
Her arms hung defiantly at her sides and her gaze stayed fixed on my shirt buttons. ‘And to you, Mark.’
Given the bitterness of our last few conversations, I knew this was the nearest we’d get to a truce. And yet, when her eyes flicked upwards and met mine, I wondered if she was asking me to kiss her. But I couldn’t. Not while the memories were so raw: her mouth meeting mine on that lamplit bed, offering me everything I’d ever wanted. And, God, how I’d enjoyed taking it . . . Like a masochistic fool, I allowed my fingertips to brush the warm flesh of her back, before moving quickly away to shake hands with the men.
The Perrys left soon afterwards, with the excuse that their babysitter had to go at half past twelve. John and Izzy went too, with Henry, so that the Perrys could call at Hartfield on their way and take Sarah home with them.
For some reason, Tom decided the rest of us would play Scrabble. Maybe he wanted to show off the brand new set he’d got for Christmas, or maybe he was anxious to avoid more conversational faux pas by his son. I looked pointedly at my watch and muttered something about having lots to do the next day; but he insisted I stayed, for the first round at least.
Unfortunately, my mind wasn’t on the game at all; it was back in Forbury Manor . . .
‘Ooh Mark, is that the best you can do?’
Roused by Harriet’s breathless voice next to me, I frowned at the word I’d unwittingly placed on the board: BED.
‘You could make BEAD — no, you haven’t got an A,’ she went on, looking shamelessly over my shoulder. ‘What about BREED? You’d get a double word score then.’
‘Thank you,’ I said heavily, adding an R and another E.
‘I can use your B to make BABY!’ She screamed with delight, selected a couple of tiles from her rack and threw them down on the board.
Tom started arranging them, then stopped. ‘Harriet, have you got a B there?’
‘No, I’m using Mark’s B, from BREED.’
‘There are two Bs in BABY,’ he explained, with the patience of a saint.
‘Ooh, silly me. I don’t think I’ve got a B, can you check my letters, Mark, in case I’ve missed one?’ She pushed her Scrabble rack in front of me and leaned in close.
