Emma used her normal diversion tactics. ‘Dad, I need you in the kitchen, to make sure I’ve got the right coloured chopping boards for the fruit and vegetables.’ As she propelled him towards the door, I heard her say coaxingly, ‘Don’t make a fuss about the cake, remember Mark couldn’t get to the wedding so he’ll be wanting to try it. And I bet he’s eaten far worse things out in India.’
She returned a few moments later for Harriet and then a second time, to ask us to fill up our plates and come through to watch the photo shoot. The lights were full on, the camera was ready on its tripod and Harriet was standing rigidly behind the kitchen table. In front of her was a dazzling array of kitchen equipment and food, both fresh and tinned.
Henry frowned. ‘What about gloves, darling? Shouldn’t Harriet be wearing some of those disposable plastic ones?’
‘No, Dad, I don’t think so.’
‘And where’s her cap and apron?’
‘No one under sixty wears an apron any more, unless it’s a rude one. And there’s no need for a cap if she’s got her hair tied back.’ She gave him one of her winning smiles, then turned to the rest of us. ‘Just to explain, I’ve thought up some scenarios to help Harriet get into character. In the first one she’s preparing for a very important date, her new boyfriend and his parents are coming to dinner and everything has to be perfect. Are you visualising the new boyfriend, Harriet? He’s a young, up-and-coming guy, director of an SME – ’
Harriet looked blank. ‘Annessemmee? That’s a designer label, innit?’
‘SME stands for Small or Medium-sized Enterprise,’ Elton said grandly. ‘Like Highbury Foods.’
Emma seemed to be trying not to laugh. ‘Exactly like Highbury Foods, Philip. Now, Harriet, you want to cook something impressive, yet foolproof. Don’t look so terrified, it’s just pretend, remember you ooze self-confidence from every pore. That’s better. You reach for something from the Harriet’s Secret Recipes range … Just hold up that tin to your right, it’s Betty’s Best Creamed Rice Pudding, but no one will be any the wiser. And smile – brilliant!’
She bent over the tripod in a very provocative pose, to which she seemed totally oblivious, and started snapping away. I switched my gaze to Harriet. She still looked tense and there was something odd about the whole scene …
‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘there’s a picture of a tree directly behind you, Harriet, and it looks as though it’s growing out of your head – which I’m sure isn’t the sophisticated image Emma has in mind. I suggest you move slightly to the left.’
My intervention did two things, as I’d intended. It made Harriet giggle, which meant she looked more relaxed and in character; and it reminded Emma that she needed to focus less on matchmaking and more on the task in hand.
Whether she paid the slightest attention remained to be seen.
~~EMMA~~
At half past three, with the photo shoot over, Harriet and I followed Philip to his house. There’d been some confusion over the transport arrangements; naturally, Harriet and Philip had brought their own cars to Hartfield and each of them offered me a lift to Little Bassington. However, I was determined to take my own car so that I could get away when it suited me and leave Harriet and Philip together for the evening. I persuaded Harriet to leave her old Nova at Hartfield and travel with Philip (I lingered on his name with great emphasis) or me.
The simpleton chose me.
Little Bassington must have been quite a pleasant village at one time. Unfortunately, it had been ‘enhanced’ by the addition of what I could only describe, in the style of Prince Charles, as carbuncles: pustules of tasteless modern architecture deforming the original rows of picturesque cottages that lined the high street. Philip guided us into one of these carbuncles, a small, newly built estate termed, rather optimistically I felt, Paradise View. From the outside, his house was a repellent neo-Georgian mock-Tudor monstrosity. Inside, words failed me; but they certainly didn’t fail Harriet.
She looked round the poky lounge and gabbled some sort of foreign language. ‘Oh, you’ve got a Klippan, so have we, isn’t that amazing? And some Gubbos, or are they Klappstas? And over there, don’t tell me, that’s a Lack.’
Philip grinned. ‘Correct, with a Dunker next to it.’
They both burst out laughing.
‘I don’t get the joke,’ I said, with a tight little smile.
Philip was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry, Emma, you’ve obviously never shopped at Ikea, they give their furniture the weirdest names. They’re Scandinavian,’ he added, as if that explained everything.
‘My little brother has a Fartfull,’ Harriet said, almost in hysterics.
I rolled my eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s a child’s desk – ’
‘And it means speedy in Swedish or Norwegian or something,’ Philip put in.
‘How interesting. Now, where’s your PC, Philip?’
Harriet and Philip exchanged knowing looks. Then she said, ‘On something called a Jerker, I’ll bet!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I tried not to let my irritation show; at least they were bonding nicely.
‘A computer table,’ Philip said, hastily. ‘It’s upstairs, I’ve turned one of my spare bedrooms into a study. Come on, girls.’
He led us up a narrow staircase to a little room with hardly enough space for the computer table (I couldn’t bring myself to call it by its Ikea name), a chair and a couple of bookcases. The idea of it being described as a spare bedroom was ridiculous, unless the guest was small enough to sleep on nothing bigger than a two-by-four-foot shelf. Philip suggested I sat in the chair while he and Harriet watched over my shoulder. This arrangement suited me perfectly until I lost my way in his photo editing software. At this point he started leaning over me and breathing heavily into my ear. I firmly suggested we swapped places.
During the photo shoot, I’d been convinced that hardly any editing would be required. Now I could see all sorts of problems – strange objects visible in the background, peculiar mannerisms from Harriet and the dreaded red eye. Thanks to Philip’s expert editing, however, we managed to salvage enough photos for my purposes: to circulate them as part of my proposal at the next Board meeting in late October and, subject to the directors’ approval, use them in some focus group research.
Afterwards, Philip went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea while Harriet and I sat in the lounge. I was past caring whether I was sitting on a Klippan or a Klappsta; all I knew was that it had been a long, tiring day and there was something bothering me.
I spoke my thoughts out loud. ‘We need a marketing strapline to go with the photos. It’s a good idea to have one from the start, even if we change it as a result of the research.’
Harriet stifled a yawn.
‘I’m after something inspiring that the target audience can identify with,’ I went on. ‘I can’t think what, though.’
Just then, Philip came in carrying a bright blue tray.
Harriet pointed at it and shrieked, ‘Blimp! Have you got any Groggy as well?’
I groaned inwardly; the Ikea name game was really getting on my nerves. ‘Philip,’ I said hurriedly, ‘any suggestions for our strapline? You know the sort of thing – “let Harriet’s Secret Recipes save your day!” Obviously, that’s not very inspiring, but I’m sure you get the picture.’
Philip handed each of us a mug of tea and settled himself on what passed for a sofa. ‘What you’re alluding to with this new range is freedom for a certain type of woman, someone who feels constrained by the demands of life today. As you so eloquently said at that first Board meeting, she’s juggling work and family and entertaining – and wanting to do it all perfectly. She needs to be released from her inhibitions, given the means to explore her adventurous side.’
That last bit sounded like some sort of sexual fantasy; I wondered whether to go straight home and leave him and Harriet to it. But I couldn’t resist prompting him further. ‘I think you may have something there, go on.’
He looked straight at me, his eyes glittering. ‘You see, Emma, the woman I’m thinking about is trapped by routine, burdened by responsibility, repressed by other people’s expectations. What she craves is – emancipation. Or rather – ema-ncipation!’ For some reason, he paused after the first two syllables and gave a mysterious smile.
I frowned. ‘Emancipation … Emancipation … No, not snappy enough.’
He leaned forward and said in a husky voice, ‘How about “Get ema-ncipated in the kitchen … with Harriet’s Secret Recipes”?’
I laughed. ‘D’you know, that’s not bad at all, it’ll definitely do until I find something better, which may not happen before the focus groups. So thank you, Philip.’ I picked up my handbag and got to my feet. ‘Well, I must be going, just need my camera, wherever that is.’
Harriet stood up too. ‘It’s upstairs, I’ll get it for you.’
She dashed out of the room. I went to follow her, but Philip blocked my path. His face was flushed and he was almost panting. ‘Emma, I’m only too happy to help Marketing out in any way I can, any way at all. And that strapline’ – he grinned, unpleasantly – ‘I’m sure it won’t take someone as clever as you very long to work out that it contains the name of my ideal woman – ’
‘It’s glaringly obvious,’ I put in, with a pitying look, ‘even Harriet – ’ I stopped as she came back into the room with my camera. ‘Thank you, Harriet, why don’t you stay and help Philip print those extra hard copies we discussed?’
Philip stepped away from me with a scowl. ‘Unfortunately, I have to go out now. And anyway, you need to take Harriet back to Hartfield to get her car.’
‘And the flowers,’ Harriet added. ‘I might have to borrow a vase thingy from you, Emma, there’s nothing like that at my house.’
I sighed. I felt like knocking their heads together, but on the other hand I was delighted at the way matters were progressing. ‘Come along then, Harriet. Thank you so much, Philip, see you tomorrow.’
‘I hope so, Emma. ’Bye, Harriet.’
As I drove off, I checked the mirror and saw him standing at his front door, gazing wistfully after us.
‘A very long but successful day,’ I said. ‘We’ve got our photos taken and printed off and we’ve even got a strapline. “Get emancipated in the kitchen … with Harriet’s Secret Recipes.” It’s growing on me.’ I paused. ‘While you were out of the room, Philip told me it contains the name of his ideal woman. He had the nerve to say it wouldn’t take me long to work it out. I mean, Harriet’s Secret Recipes – duh!’
Harriet said slowly, ‘But don’t you remember? When he said it, he made “emancipated” sound so-o-o like “Emma-ncipated”. So couldn’t he mean you?’
I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Harriet, really! You’ll be saying next that he brought that huge bunch of flowers to give to me. You’re far too modest for your own good, you know.’
She giggled. ‘Oh, you’re right, silly me, I wish I was clever like you, Emma.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘By the way, did I tell you I’m going out with Rob tonight? So I couldn’t have stayed at Philip’s anyway.’
It was an effort, but I said nothing. I made up my mind, though, to move things up a gear on the matchmaking front. Philip was obviously interested; I just had to get any notions about Robert Martin out of Harriet’s head and suggest to her that, in my humble opinion, Philip was far superior.
Harriet didn’t need to be clever; she had me to do all the brain work for her.
~~MARK~~
After Hartfield, I went to Abbey Mill Haulage to discuss the latest food transportation directive with Rob Martin. We sat drinking tea in his office, putting the European Union to rights and regretting that it was run by politicians rather than sensible people like us.
I liked Rob a lot. His bulk – he was built like the proverbial brick shithouse – and stern, craggy features put people off, but to me he was just a gentle giant.
When I mentioned I’d been at the photo shoot, his face lit up. ‘Harriet’s telling me all about it tonight. We’re going on our third date and I’m really looking forward to it.’ He gave me an anxious look. ‘How did she get on today?’
‘She did as well as could be expected, given the limitations of the photographer.’
‘That was Emma, wasn’t it? She’s been very friendly to Harriet, even invited her to Hartfield the other week. Surprised me, that did. Emma’s so posh, I wouldn’t have thought she’d bother with Harriet outside work. I hope it doesn’t give her the wrong idea, you know, that she could be like Emma Woodhouse.’
‘No one could be like Emma Woodhouse,’ I said drily. I almost added, ‘She has the attention span of a gnat, so when she loses interest in Harriet, make sure you’re there to pick up the pieces.’
But I didn’t. Experience told me that the most innocent of remarks had a tendency to come back and bite you, even years later.
~~EMMA~~
It was certainly Harriet’s week for flowers. A couple of days after the photo shoot, she received another bouquet, this time at Highbury Foods. Marie from Reception brought it up to my office.
At first I thought it might be from Philip again. But it was inferior to his in every way: size, style, quality of wrapping paper and the flowers themselves. Harriet buried her face in them, breathing in their non-existent scent.
I couldn’t help staring. ‘Good grief, I’ve never seen blue carnations before.’
She looked up and grinned. ‘I bet it’s because I support Saffend United.’
‘This came with them, Darren’s waiting downstairs for the answer.’ Marie held out a rather grubby-looking white envelope.
I resisted a strong temptation to snatch it out of her hand. ‘Darren?’
‘Darren Griffiths, he’s a driver with Abbey Mill Haulage.’
I knew immediately who’d sent the flowers.
Harriet placed the bouquet carefully on her desk, opened the envelope and read the note inside, over and over again. Then she lifted shining eyes to mine. ‘They’re from Rob.’
As if I hadn’t worked that one out! I moved swiftly into action. ‘Marie, perhaps you could go and see if Darren wants a coffee or something, while Harriet thinks about her answer. We’ll call you when it’s ready.’
As soon as Marie had gone, I said casually to Harriet, ‘Any particular reason for the flowers?’
‘You can read his note if you like, it’s so-o-o sweet.’
The note was on cheap paper and the handwriting rather immature, but I could tell he’d given it a lot of thought; there wasn’t a single spelling mistake or crossing out.
Dear Harriet,
I’ve been thinking a lot about Tuesday night, especially when we went back to your place. If only the girls hadn’t come home early and if only you weren’t sharing your room with Sharon’s friend until she moves into her own house …
Anyway, these flowers are to say ‘I love you’. They reminded me of your fantastic eyes as well as Southend United.
Also, Alison told me this morning that she and Tony can’t go to Amsterdam this weekend after all. Like the kind big sister she is, she’s offering me and you their places on the trip. Please, please say yes. You know what it means – two whole days to relax in each other’s company (oh, and with ten other people from the pub quiz team!) and two nights in a nice hotel room together, say no more.
I could have asked you about this over the phone but I didn’t want you to feel pressured. Just let me know as soon as possible if you can come.
Love,
Rob.
Harriet bobbed up and down on her chair. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good letter, Emma?’
‘Ye-e-es, I do,’ I said slowly. ‘Surprisingly good, someone must have helped him write it. I’ve never really spoken to the man, but I wouldn’t have thought him capable of this. On the other hand, there are men who can hardly string two words together, but express themselves quite nicely on paper.’ I handed the note back to her.
&n
bsp; ‘What do you think I should do?’ I was pleased to hear a hint of doubt in her voice.
I picked up the proposal she’d been typing for me. ‘Do? Oh, Harriet, you ask the strangest questions. Let him know as soon as possible, as he says.’
‘But what shall I say? And shall I do it over the phone?’
‘I would write, since Darren’s loitering around downstairs anyway. And be absolutely clear, give him no room to misunderstand you. You know, “really honoured … sorry to disappoint … no future in the relationship”. That sort of thing.’ I went quickly through into my room.
She came after me and stood at the door round-eyed. ‘You mean – say no?’
‘What else? I thought you were just asking me the best way to say it.’
She chewed her lip.
‘So you were going to say yes?’ I hoped I sounded suitably incredulous.
‘I – I don’t know. What would you do if you were me?’
‘Harriet, I can’t tell you whether you should have a dirty weekend in Amsterdam or not, that’s entirely up to you.’
‘I didn’t know he was so keen, you know, love and all that.’ Harriet unfolded the note and gazed vacantly at it. I waited for her to speak, but she didn’t.
After a few moments, I said briskly, ‘What I can say, from my considerable experience of men, is that if I don’t feel I can say yes to something immediately, then it’s just not meant to be. But I don’t want to influence you, Harriet, it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Yeah, I know, it’s up to me. And I really like him.’
‘I really like lots of people, but I wouldn’t sleep with the vast majority of them.’
She reflected on this. ‘It’s a big decision, innit, to go away with someone for the weekend? I mean, we got a bit carried away on Tuesday night but we were interrupted. And maybe that was a sign, you know? Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. It’s not as if I fancied him right from the start, is it? I think maybe it’s safer to say no?’
The Importance of Being Emma Page 7