Page 99 of The Importance of Being Emma
As soon as we finished the first round of Scrabble, he got up to leave. Strange, there was no mention of Jane leaving with him, but then theirs was obviously not a straightforward relationship. When Tom went out of the room to fetch Mark’s coat, I followed and waited outside by the porch. I wrapped my arms round myself and looked up at the sky. It was a crystal clear night, like that time at Ashridge; I shivered, and it wasn’t just with the cold.
‘Emma?’ Mark’s voice, warming me instantly; but then — ‘Get inside, you little idiot, you’ll freeze out here!’
Bloody typical, still treating me like a kid.
I turned towards him, half ready to pick a fight. But when I saw him in his dark overcoat, with the collar turned up, all Icould think of was snuggling up to him and sharing a long, deep kiss.
‘I need to speak to you,’ was all I said, more curtly than I’d intended.
‘Can’t it wait?’ He sounded impatient and I wondered if he had a secret assignation with Jane, something along the lines of ‘I’ll go first, then you leave five minutes later, drop Mary home and come on to Donwell’. Lucky old Jane, spending the night in Mark Knightley’s arms. But, for the moment, lucky old Jane was nowhere to be seen; and this was my chance to warn him about her.
I took a deep breath. ‘There’s no time like the present. Especially as we don’t seem to find it easy to talk these days.’
He frowned. ‘OK, but get in the car where it’s warm.’
And more private for what I had to say, I added to myself.
He led the way down the sparkling gravel path to the Mercedes. It was only a few steps, yet it felt as though I was jumping over an abyss. And then I was in the passenger seat next to him, just like on the way home from Ashridge, and I felt safe and — and cherished, somehow. He had the engine running and the interior light on and the heater was going full blast. I didn’t look at his face; I just watched his fingers drumming on the leather-clad steering wheel and gave in to all sorts of wild, impetuous imaginings . . .
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
I started and glanced nervously across at him, twisting my hands together in my lap. ‘It’s just, um, I’m not sure if you know who Dixon is.’
‘Dixon?’ he said, blankly.
‘The word Flynn made from my letters.’
He stiffened and looked away. ‘Oh, that. I don’t want to know, I’m not interested in little private jokes between the two of you.’
I swallowed. This was going to be even more difficult than I’d thought. ‘It wasn’t just something between Flynn and me, it involved Jane too. You see, we were referring to Dan Dixon. He’s a friend of hers.’
‘So?’
‘More than a friend, if you know what I mean.’
‘What’s that to me?’
I gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Surely you don’t have to be so discreet all the bloody time? Everyone knows you’re — well, Kate’s been speculating for weeks that — oh, you know what I’m saying, that Jane and you . . .’ I let my voice trail off, desperate for him to bail me out.
He stared at the windscreen, his face expressionless. ‘That Jane and I — what?’
‘Come off it, giving her the Jag, taking her out for expensive lunches, then asking her to partner you to the Donwell Organics do. Not forgetting how much you’ve always gone on and on about how marvellous she is.’
At last he looked straight at me. ‘You mean you — and Kate, and God knows who else in Highbury from the sound of it — think that I’m sleeping with Jane?’
Just saying it made it seem real, too real. I felt tears sting the back of my eyes, but I nodded and managed a nonchalant smile.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Sometimes I hate this place — people adding two and two together and making at least eight!’ He let out a long uneven breath, then went on, ‘Look, I certainly didn’t give her the Jag, I thought it was from her friends, the Campbells or whatever they’re called, although now I’m not so sure . . . And the lunches were only for our mentoring sessions, I felt it would be more relaxing for her than my office. As for the Donwell Organics party — well, she was the obvious choice in the absence of — of anyone more suitable. Of course I think very highly of her and I don’t mind who knows it, but that’sas far as it goes.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘I have absolutely no plans to get her into bed. She’s not my type at all.’
I didn’t buy that for one moment. ‘But she’s so like Tamara, all long black hair and white skin—’
‘I don’t mean her looks, I mean her personality. Too reserved, secretive almost. I may as well be mentoring a block of wood. I prefer a woman who’s much more spontaneous and in your face and—’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘Just believe me when I say that I don’t want to sleep with Jane and I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual. Oh, and please make sure the rest of Highbury gets the message.’
There was a pause while I digested this information. I should have felt ecstatic that he didn’t fancy Saint Jane of Highbury, of all people. But my mind was off at a tangent. Did that mean he fancied someone else? If so, who? And if not, then maybe, just maybe . . . Oh, what was the point of even thinking about it! He’d told me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t as good in bed as Tamara. And yet . . . a little voice inside me begged for another chance.
Then, out of the blue, he said, ‘How long has Jane known Churchill?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ I was genuinely puzzled; he’d just denied being interested in her, hadn’t he?
