The Importance of Being Emma

by Juliet Archer

  ‘I had noticed.’

  ‘Every time I see her, I think she looks more stunning than last time.’

  ‘She’s certainly prettier than she used to be,’ I said, getting up and walking to the French windows.

  ‘Pretty?’ Kate sounded outraged. ‘I’d call someone like Harriet pretty, but Emma’s absolutely gorgeous, she could easily have been a model.’

  ‘Too curvy,’ I said, staring out at the garden.

  ‘Nonsense, look at Sophie Dahl. And Emma’s one of those lucky women who don’t need make-up, such a beautiful complexion, Tom says she’d make a fortune promoting vitamin tablets.’ She paused. ‘You must see a huge change in her after eight years, surely?’

  Henry had asked me the same question; this time, Emma wasn’t around to hear my answer. I watched a robin hop onto the edge of the bird bath, its vivid red breast a reminder that winter was on its way; and when winter was over, I’d be going back to India.

  I took a deep breath and let down my guard. ‘I do see a big change, I hardly recognised her at first. As you say, she’s gorgeous. And she doesn’t seem to realise how attractive she is. She’s never been vain, at least not about her looks – ’

  I jerked round as the door burst open and Emma came in, looking extremely pleased with herself. ‘Harriet’s had to go, but we’ve had a great time.’

  Kate stood up and turned to me. ‘Told you it would do her good,’ she said, under her breath.

  Emma’s face fell. ‘No need for you to go too, Kate. Mark and I want to hear all about Tenerife.’

  ‘Mark and you need to have your meeting, I’ll tell you about Tenerife tomorrow when you and Henry come for lunch. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.’

  And then it was just Emma and I, at last.

  She picked up the tea tray. ‘I’ll make some fresh, won’t be a moment.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, we can start the meeting in the kitchen.’ I was determined not to let her out of my sight in case she invented more delays.

  I sat at the kitchen table while she made the tea. I told her the ground rules for mentoring; when and where we’d meet, what information I’d expect her to provide, and so on. I explained that a mentor would help her deal with the longer term, with strategic business goals and career objectives, whereas her line manager, Henry, was there for day-to-day performance issues.

  As I spoke the words I’d rehearsed, I watched her. The swing of her hair when she turned to refill the milk jug. The little frown when she prised the lid off the tea caddy. The curve of her breasts when she reached up to a shelf for more sugar. And those slender fingers caressing the handle of the kettle as it came to the boil, then directing its flow expertly into the silver teapot.

  How could she make such a simple everyday task look so sexy?

  ‘By the way,’ she said, as she brought the tea tray over, hips swaying in time to the throb of my pulse, ‘I read something interesting the other day about organic farming in India.’

  ‘Checking up on me?’ I said.

  She avoided my gaze and set out the cups and saucers. ‘Actually, it does give me a bit of an issue with your so-called successful track record. I hadn’t realised that organic methods were causing such massive environmental problems in India.’

  I frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  She sat down and poured the milk into the cups. ‘All the irrigation water that’s needed to produce organic foods and manure and animal fodder. It has to be pumped from deep underground, so it’s draining reserves without replacing them. Rather irresponsible, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Not if – ’

  She ignored me and pressed on, filling the cups with tea as she spoke. ‘Apparently it takes two thousand litres of water a year to grow the fodder to yield just one litre of milk. That’s not just unsustainable, it’s unethical!’ She looked across at me, her eyes bright with triumph.

  I took one of the cups and helped myself to sugar. ‘Is this an attempt to discredit me and persuade Henry to abandon the mentoring?’

  ‘Of course not, I just thought it was interesting. Although, now you come to mention it, I’m sure Dad would have something to say.’

  ‘I’m sure he would, if those statistics were true of Donwell Organics’ growers. But they’re not, and maybe you should have checked your facts first.’

  I took a sip of tea and watched the gleam in her eyes fade.

  ‘You see, Emma,’ I said, half amused, half exasperated, ‘I have a very good Indian friend called Vivek, a retired civil servant and a great reader. He discovered that a form of irrigation known as rainwater harvesting was used in India until the early nineteenth century and decided that this practice needed to be revived. Donwell buys all of his village’s organic produce, so he came to me to explain what he planned to do and ask for some financial assistance.’

  I paused to drink my tea while she stared down at the table, her face like thunder.

  ‘With our backing,’ I continued, ‘Vivek redesigned his village’s drainage system to slow the passage of the monsoon rain long enough for it to collect in specially dug ponds. The water percolates into the soil and refills underground reserves. This means wells can find water at seven metres instead of thirty metres previously. It’s a truly sustainable system. So, yes, in general terms organic farming is causing India a major environmental problem. But Donwell is repairing whatever damage it’s responsible for, we’re funding initiatives like Vivek’s right across the country. Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not being unethical.’

  She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Thanks for the lecture, didn’t you say you had to be somewhere at six?’

  As she reached over for my half-empty cup, I seized her hand. Our eyes locked. That jumper really did bring out the green in her irises …

  ‘No rush,’ I said softly. ‘I’ve put off seeing Steve until seven thirty, I thought it only fair since you couldn’t have known that Harriet and Kate would turn up so unexpectedly this afternoon.’

  She looked startled, then she laughed. ‘God, I’d forgotten how bloody devious you can be.’

  I grinned back at her. ‘Takes one to know one.’ Her hand stirred in mine and, as if responding to some deep dark instinct, I ran my thumb over her smooth warm skin. It was more the gesture of a lover than an old friend. She didn’t even flinch, as if to her it was nothing remarkable.

  I abruptly let go of her hand and took a long drink of lukewarm tea. Then I pictured a little girl with plaits and braces and no boobs and spent the next hour discussing her personal goals, business strategy and marketing plans. It felt odd talking about such things with her, but of course she’d always been a precocious child.

  I’d cracked it. All it involved was doing two things in parallel: making my mouth say ‘Emma’ and my eyes see ‘Mouse’.

  Chapter Three

  ~~EMMA~~

  After several delays, including Harriet catching a nasty cold, the day of the photo shoot arrived. It seemed that half of Highbury was planning to attend.

  First, Philip wanted to be involved, from the crack of dawn if need be. I managed to put him off until lunch time, when Harriet would be dressed, made up and ready to be admired. I arranged that the three of us would go to his house after I’d taken the photos, to do all the editing and printing. My plan was then to leave the two of them together and let nature take its course.

  Next, Dad decided he’d better be on hand, to give us the benefit of his food hygiene expertise. Even though Harriet wouldn’t actually be cooking and the photos were for market research purposes only, he felt duty bound to comply with health and safety requirements.

  Then Mark phoned to say he’d like to come for some input to my mentoring. When I asked him what input he could possibly get from a photo shoot, he told me he’d learn a lot from watching me with Harriet and Philip; or, if I preferred business jargon, ‘observing me interact with my subordinates and peers’.

  The day was looking more stressful by the
minute.

  Finally, to my relief, Kate volunteered to help with the lunch. Whereas Harriet and I would have made do with a couple of sandwiches while we worked, I now had six to feed. And we covered a whole culinary continuum: from Dad, with his poor appetite and fastidious tastes, to Mark, who could eat not just a horse but an entire stable.

  Harriet and I had the house to ourselves for most of the morning. After we’d set out a buffet in the dining room, she prepared the kitchen, under my instruction, while I set up my high-spec digital camera and tripod. That took far longer than expected, because I hadn’t used them since my brief interest in photography a couple of years back. Then I dressed Harriet in the outfit I’d chosen, a grey suit with a pink polo-necked jumper underneath. I tied her hair back – just as Philip liked it, I reminded her – and toned down her make-up.

  At half past eleven, the doorbell rang. When I opened the front door, I found myself grappling with an enormous bouquet of red roses, orange gerbera and golden lilies.

  ‘For Highbury Foods’ new star,’ said a smarmy voice. Philip, evidently hoping to impress Harriet with flower power – but mistaking me for her.

  I thrust the bouquet back at him. ‘How lovely! Now don’t be shy, go and give them to Harriet yourself.’

  He seemed about to object; but I marched him straight to the kitchen, where Harriet was painting her nails, and announced his arrival with a flourish.

  ‘Ta-da, special delivery for Miss Harriet Smith.’

  Her eyes were like saucers. ‘Th-these are for me?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Philip said, rather tersely, and I guessed he was a little in awe of Harriet’s new image.

  I’d hardly put the bouquet in water when the doorbell rang again. It was Kate, with two foil-wrapped parcels.

  ‘This one’s a quiche, fresh out of the oven, and the other’s some of our wedding cake.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m afraid Henry won’t touch either with a barge pole, but I know you’ll have catered for him separately.’

  As if on cue, Dad came in and informed me that he’d just seen Mark’s car coming up the drive. I took a deep breath, added the finishing touches to the buffet and called everyone through to the dining room.

  I wanted Harriet to eat quickly, so that I could get the photo shoot underway; the others could eat at a more leisurely pace, watching us at work in the kitchen if they wished. But Harriet wandered slowly round the room, staring at the furniture and paintings in stunned silence. Then she stopped right beside Philip, who was droning on to Mark about something, and beckoned me over excitedly. It seemed too good a matchmaking opportunity to miss; I curbed my impatience and went across to her.

  She was studying a group of black-and-white photos in heavy silver frames. ‘These kids are so cute, who are they?’ She giggled. ‘That man’s got a funny look on his face, as if he’s constipated. The woman’s a bit like you, isn’t she?’

  It worked beautifully. Philip broke off in mid-sentence and gave us his undivided attention.

  ‘That’s my sister Izzy, her husband John – he’s Mark’s brother – and their children,’ I said. ‘I took these photos at their house the January before last. Not quite up to a professional’s standard, I know, too much clutter in the background. And the children were misbehaving, that’s why Izzy looks sort of distracted. Although I’m rather proud of this photo, because it’s her to a T.’

  Mark laughed. ‘Not quite. I’ve never seen her sitting as still as that, she’s normally up and down like a yo-yo.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Mark’s got this theory that Izzy is totally at the beck and call of her kids. But he’s wrong. I’ve seen her be very assertive with them, especially in front of John.’

  ‘I’m sure you have, she’s totally inconsistent as well as everything else,’ Mark said. ‘My other theory is that she secretly loves being bossed about by precocious children. Perhaps it reminds her of when she lived at Hartfield.’

  ‘Is that a nasty little dig at me?’ I put on an injured expression.

  ‘Not at all, I was just stating a vague possibility, you’re reading far too much into it as usual.’ He sipped his orange juice and watched me over the rim of the glass, a wicked gleam in his eye. And I remembered that this was why I’d once adored him; he was the only one who could outwit me with words.

  I lifted my chin. ‘You were asking about the children, Harriet. These are the three eldest. That’s Harry on the left, his real name’s Henry, after Dad, he was eight when this photo was taken. That’s James, who was five, and Bella, three. James is half turning away because he was about to rush off and be sick. We found out afterwards that he’d eaten a whole packet of chocolate biscuits. Really rich ones, Izzy had bought them specially for her NCT meeting.’

  ‘Ah, the National Childbirth Trust,’ Philip said. ‘A wonderful organisation, or so my sister tells me. I’ve no experience of it myself yet, but who knows in the future?’

  Mark gave a sardonic smile. ‘Izzy certainly seems to have signed up as a lifetime member.’

  I nodded. ‘Five children already and maybe more to come. Anyway, on to the next photo, her youngest son Mark when he was a year old. He’s good as gold, never says a cross word, unlike his uncle here. This is my favourite photo of them all – his hair’s standing up in those adorable little tufts, I could just kiss him to bits.’

  ‘Apparently my hair used to be like that,’ Mark said, as if to wind me up.

  Philip was not to be outdone. ‘Mine goes like that even now, if I don’t slick it down with gel.’ He glanced across at the mirror above the fireplace and preened himself.

  This impromptu mating ritual was completely lost on Harriet. She frowned and started counting on her fingers. ‘That’s one, two, three nephews and one niece – only four children. Didn’t you just say your sister had five?’

  ‘Yes, but Emily hadn’t been born when I took these, she’s only nine months old now.’ I indicated the last photo. ‘And finally John, the man you thought looked constipated. I must admit, he does have rather a pained expression.’

  ‘He was probably irritated at having his precious time wasted by someone who thought she could teach David Bailey a thing or two,’ Mark said.

  I ignored him and went on, ‘Izzy hates this photo, every time she sees it she says I’ve turned her gorgeous husband into Nicolas Cage with a hangover. I think she wanted him to come across as a doting father, which he is, but it’s nothing to do with my technique, he always looks grumpy. Anyway, today there are no couples involved so I can take my photos just as I like.’

  Philip smirked. ‘That’s right, Emma, no couples involved, at least not yet.’

  ‘And what could you possibly mean by that, Philip?’ I gave him a teasing look, then put my arm firmly through Harriet’s; now would be a good time to leave him dangling. ‘Excuse us, please. The sooner Harriet and I eat, the sooner we can take the photos and be on our way to your place.’

  Philip didn’t reply, but I noticed him staring soulfully after us. That was all the answer I needed.

  ~~MARK~~

  Elton’s gaze was fixed on Emma and Harriet as they walked away.

  ‘Poetry in motion,’ he said, under his breath.

  I couldn’t resist asking, ‘Which one, Emma or Harriet?’

  He flushed, as though annoyed that I’d overheard. ‘Both of them, naturally.’

  ‘But they’re so different.’

  ‘Yes, just as a man can like different types of poetry, surely.’

  ‘In my experience, a man who’s inspired by Byron doesn’t care much for Betjeman and vice versa.’

  He stalked off, saying over his shoulder, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about.’

  I remained where I was, content to watch everyone else, listen to snatches of conversation and speculate on hidden agendas.

  Henry was trying to convert Harriet to an invalid diet, his plaintive voice laced with persuasion. ‘I’ve eaten one boiled egg, but I’m afraid I couldn’t manage th
e second … Emma does them exactly right, not too soft-boiled of course, in case of listeria … You must be feeling very nervous, Harriet, this would be perfect for your digestion … ’

  Harriet giggled and fluttered her eyelashes and generally seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention. She looked frequently in my direction, going bright red whenever I smiled at her.

  Elton spoke to nobody except Emma and Harriet. I couldn’t decide which one he was after; I certainly didn’t think it was both, as he’d suggested. If it was Emma – well, I couldn’t blame him. And, as he was one of those men who truly believed he was God’s gift to women, it wouldn’t enter his head that she didn’t fancy him. If it was Harriet, then I had to question my judgement; I’d marked him down as more of a social climber. At any rate, when he wasn’t chatting them up, he was either shovelling food into his mouth at a rate of knots or grooming himself surreptitiously in the mirror.

  Kate was calmly ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and that Henry didn’t get too fractious. This was usually Emma’s role, but she was too busy with Harriet: on the one hand protecting her from Henry’s ridiculous notions about food, on the other encouraging her to hang on Elton’s every word.

  It was Emma I watched most; every elegant turn of her body in her figure-hugging red jumper and black trousers; every graceful flick of her hand as she tucked a stray tendril of glossy hair behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled as she constantly checked what everyone was doing – apart from me, it seemed; and her full, well-shaped lips were never still as she talked, smiled, ate and drank …

  Then Henry gave a loud moan of disgust. ‘I hope that’s not some of your wedding cake, Kate, we’ll all be ill. I haven’t allowed dried fruit in this house for six years.’