When the doorbell rang just after half past nine, I was ready to give him whichever piece of my mind suited his mood.
I certainly wasn’t prepared for anything else; although you could say I’d spent years waiting for this very moment …
~~MARK~~
I slept well; so well, in fact, that I didn’t hear the alarm go off at half past eight. I woke – cursing – just before eleven, got showered and dressed in seven minutes flat and rushed downstairs.
No time for breakfast; anyway, there was bound to be something on offer at Hartfield. I could see it now: Emma and I rustling up bacon and eggs under Henry’s disapproving gaze – the first of many breakfasts together, I was sure.
I walked to the car with a spring in my step, pausing only to breathe in the crisp, apple-scented air. It was almost Hallowe’en. Maybe we’d go to John and Izzy’s this morning and take the children shopping for scary masks and pumpkins; on the way home we’d stop for lunch, then go back to Donwell for the rest of the day, and all night …
Exactly five minutes later I was at Hartfield, smoothing my hair and ringing the bell. As I waited for what seemed like ages, I began to wonder if I was being overconfident. In all the years I’d known her, dealing with Emma had never been straightforward.
At last the door opened; but it was only Henry, smiling benignly. ‘Good morning. Fully recovered, are we?’
‘Yes, thank you. Look, I’m sorry if I was rude last night – ’
‘No need to apologise, Mark. I understand – more than most people – the trials and tribulations of the digestive system.’ He gave a little morbid sigh.
‘And I’m a bit later than I intended.’ I hesitated. ‘Is Emma still around?’
‘Very much so,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘We’ve got another visitor, you know, besides you. I was just making them more coffee – would you like a cup?’
‘I’d love one.’ Another visitor? I cursed myself again for sleeping in, and glanced right and left; the only cars on the drive were Emma’s and mine.
‘Just go through to the drawing room.’ Henry shut the front door behind me and shuffled off towards the kitchen.
‘Who else is here?’ I called after him, but he didn’t reply. I frowned; if it was Mary, I wouldn’t get Emma on her own until lunch time.
Through the open drawing room door, I heard Emma give a throaty laugh of encouragement. This brought a smile to my face; the visitor definitely wasn’t Mary Bates! Then – a man’s voice, unfamiliar, his tone so low that I couldn’t make out the words, and another laugh from Emma.
I took a couple of steps forward, my legs strangely heavy.
That voice again, the words audible now, the accent marked. New Zealand, wasn’t it? Or maybe Australian … ‘Emma Woodhouse, it feels like we’ve known each other for years.’
I walked into the room and stopped short.
They were on the sofa together, their knees almost touching; he was half turned towards her, his hand on her arm. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. I couldn’t see all of his face, but I knew who he was, instantly.
Flynn Churchill.
Several seconds passed before Emma noticed me. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, dismissively, and looked straight back at him. ‘Flynn, this is Mark Knightley, I’m sure Tom will have mentioned the name.’
He jumped to his feet and tried to win me over with the same engaging grin I’d seen in that photo-shrine on the Westons’ sideboard. We shook hands – he wasn’t as limp-wristed as I’d have liked – and I schooled my features into a mask of polite indifference; inside, I was wishing him miles away.
So he’d finally shown up in Highbury, after all those false boasts and empty promises. Putting the Westons to great inconvenience, no doubt; I vaguely remembered Emma saying he wasn’t expected until the end of the week. And, with impeccable timing, he’d decided to visit Hartfield at a critical moment between Emma and me.
I took a seat opposite them and willed her to look at me. All in vain; it became increasingly obvious that I may as well not be in the room. He was centre stage, the focus of her attention.
I’d only just met him, yet I hated him – more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life.
~~EMMA~~
I was over the moon at seeing Flynn. For one thing, his arrival delayed that uncomfortable little chat with Mark. For another, the man himself was everything I’d dreamed he would be: gorgeous-looking, great fun – and here, in the flesh, at long last.
Mark, normally so socially adept, sat there in silence. Eventually, he got to his feet and announced that he had to go.
I glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and did a double take. ‘Twelve o’clock already? Would you like some lunch, Flynn? What about you, Mark?’ I risked a quick look and saw that his face was like thunder. ‘I’ve got home-made minestrone and freshly baked rolls,’ I added, addressing Flynn again.
‘I can never resist the offer of a roll,’ he said, and we both giggled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark’s mouth twist into an unconvincing smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got things to do. Are you around this afternoon, Emma?’
‘Oh dear, I’m not, I’m seeing Harriet at two thirty.’
‘This evening?’
I hesitated, searching frantically for a plausible excuse.
‘That reminds me,’ Flynn put in. ‘Kate’s organising a dinner tonight in my honour, seven for seven thirty, I’m cooking. You’re both invited, and Henry of course.’
‘I don’t think – ’ Mark began stiffly.
‘And it sounds as though you two are free, at least,’ Flynn continued, with a sly wink at me. ‘I’ve told Kate not to buy things in specially, I’ll work with what she’s got. It’ll be Flynn’s Cook-in comes to Highbury, without the TV cameras.’
I laughed. ‘Can’t wait.’ Then my face fell. ‘I’d better bring something for Dad, though. Don’t take it personally, he’s just very particular about what he eats.’
He wagged his finger at me. ‘I won’t hear of it, Em. I’ll sort Henry out, I’m an expert at managing fussy old fogies. God knows, I’ve had to keep Stella sweet for years.’
I couldn’t take offence, not with those mischievous green eyes looking into mine. In the distance, I heard Mark say something.
‘What was that?’ I tore my gaze away with an effort; when I looked round, he’d gone.
‘He said he’d see himself out,’ Flynn replied. ‘Not much of a talker, is he?’
As if in response, the front door slammed.
I breathed a sigh of relief. If I could avoid any one-to-ones with Mark for the next few days, I was sure we’d both forget about last night and things would return to normal between us. Anyway, now that Flynn was on the scene, a kiss from Mark Knightley was bloody irrelevant. And utterly forgettable.
Flynn interrupted my thoughts. ‘Shall I give you a hand with the lunch?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll try not to be intimidated by having a celebrity chef around.’
Not that I felt intimidated in the slightest; more as if all my Christmases had come at once. Until, as we crossed the hall, he came out with, ‘What do you think of Jane Fairfax?’
I stopped dead and tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible. ‘Jane Fairfax? How on earth do you know her?’
He stared past me and his eyes widened. ‘Wow, what a great kitchen! The layout reminds me of Stella’s, which I designed as it happens. It wasn’t difficult, the old bird gave me a free hand – and a blank cheque.’ He walked purposefully over to the island unit and ran his hand over the gleaming granite worktop.
I followed him, frowning. ‘But how do you know Saint Jane of Highbury?’
‘Saint Jane of – ?’ He looked puzzled, then he laughed. ‘Oh, that’s a good one, I’ll have to remember that.’ He strolled across to the Aga and fidgeted with the tea towels on the rail.
I was beginning to wonder if he could even remember my question from two seconds ago; I made one last effort. �
��You see, I’ve known Jane for years, but she’s never mentioned you.’
He spun round and disarmed me with that wicked grin. ‘How could she? We only met three weeks ago, when I was at The Mulberry Tree.’
‘Ah yes, I remember Tom saying you’d been asked to cook there. I didn’t realise it was in Weymouth, though.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not, the restaurant’s a good hour’s drive away. But the family Jane was staying with are loaded, you know, and they eat there all the time. They came on my first night and that’s how I met Jane … And the daughter and her husband as well, but they’ve moved to Ireland – ’
I couldn’t resist cutting in with, ‘I know, and I have a little theory about why Jane suddenly decided to move to Highbury.’
He gave me an appraising look. ‘Before you do your Sherlock Holmes impersonation, where’s that soup? I’m starving.’
‘It’s here, it just needs heating up.’ I turned on the hob under a large pan. ‘Give it a stir while I set the table. There’ll just be the two of us, Dad’s having his dry crackers and hot water in the study.’
I put out two bowls and side plates, with soup spoons and small knives. The rolls and butter were next, then a jug of fruit juice and two glasses, and finally a dish of grated Parmesan to sprinkle on the minestrone.
When I’d finished, Flynn said, ‘Soup’s ready. So, what’s this theory of yours?’
‘Could you bring the pan here?’ He carried it over and I ladled the soup carefully into the bowls. Then I went on, ‘Man trouble. Even Saint Jane can’t be a saint all the time, she was having a secret affair.’
Flynn almost sent the pan flying across the room – no mean feat with Le Creuset cast iron. He recovered himself quickly and put it back on the hob. ‘Sorry, not used to these things, they weigh a ton. A secret affair, did you say? Interesting. Who with?’
‘Charlotte’s husband, of course,’ I said.
‘Strewth, you mean Dan Dixon?’ He seemed genuinely stunned. ‘I’ve obviously underestimated the bloke. This is a revelation, Em. Has Jane talked about him much?’
My lip curled. ‘Does Jane talk about anything? Apart from her marketing expertise, that is. She’s never been very forthcoming about her personal life.’
‘I can understand that, I suppose,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I’m the same – for quite different reasons, I imagine. It’s one of the pitfalls of being a celebrity – every look, every comment is in the spotlight. It goes against the grain – I’m normally such a spontaneous sort of person, you know? And I’m being especially careful over here, with everything I’ve heard about the British press.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘It must be awful having no privacy.’ Then I smiled. ‘Although Highbury’s probably the safest place in England, the old biddy mafia will sniff out any paparazzi long before you do, and run them out of town!’
He laughed. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy Highbury.’
‘I hope so. Anyway, let’s have our soup before it gets cold.’
We sat at the table and ate in silence for a few minutes; but my mind was buzzing with this latest information. How weird – and annoying – that my bête noire had met Flynn Churchill before I had!
‘You’ve probably guessed that Jane and I aren’t exactly best friends,’ I said. ‘I’ve always found her very difficult to get close to, but perhaps she’s different when she’s away from Highbury. How well did you get to know her?’
He paused to swallow a large spoonful of minestrone. ‘This is delicious! You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Italy and sample the real thing, but there’s no need, I can come here instead. You’re a fantastic cook – and aren’t you half Italian?’
‘My mother was from Florence.’
‘That would account for your lovely colouring, of course.’ He stared at me, and I felt myself blush. ‘I’m fed up with pale skin,’ he said. ‘Makes me think of uncooked pastry.’
I giggled. ‘That’s a bit harsh. Some women with pale skin are considered very attractive. Jane, for example, everyone thinks she’s so pretty … How much did you see of her in Weymouth?’
Another disarming grin. ‘As much as I ever want to. The Campbells took a shine to me and invited me over whenever I was at a loose end, which was most days – until one of Stella’s spies turned up.’
‘Spies? Did she actually send someone to check up on you?’
‘Yes. She kicked up a big fuss, told me I was over here to work, not socialise, and threatened to put an end to my TV career in Australia.’
I gasped. ‘Can she really do that?’
‘Oh yes, she’s got her finger in lots of pies and, at the end of the day, money talks.’ He scowled, then his mood changed abruptly. He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. ‘D’you know what? I think there might be something in your little theory. Dan was very attentive to Jane, even when Charlotte was there, as though he couldn’t help himself. And I bet I know how it all started – when he saved her from drowning.’
‘Which would hardly be necessary since she walks on water,’ I said, with a derisive laugh. ‘But I’m intrigued – what happened?’
He leaned even further forward, until I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. ‘Apparently – mind, I only heard this second hand – Dan and Jane were out in the Campbells’ boat. On their own – Charlotte was off somewhere with her mother. Everything was fine until they got into some choppy water, and Dan had to hold onto Jane all the time, to stop her going overboard, even though she was wearing a safety jacket. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave her the kiss of life, just as a precaution … And the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘Poor Charlotte! I wonder if she suspects anything?’ I frowned as I refilled our glasses. ‘Jane looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but she’s always been far too reserved for my liking. Ask her a simple question and she gives you some wishy-washy answer that means nothing. I don’t think you’d even get her to say the Pope’s Catholic.’
His face darkened. ‘I know. Some people are so scared of committing themselves, they go for the safest option every time, complete silence. Well, it may be safe but it’s a bloody pain and I – ’ He stopped and ran his fingers through his copper curls. I watched, fascinated, as they sprang back, but in a different direction. Everything about him was like that, new and shiny and exciting; even now, when he was scowling. Then, ‘Sorry, Em, didn’t mean to go on like that. It’s just I don’t think I’m cut out for someone reserved, I’m such an open, in-your-face sort of person.’
I smiled. ‘I know you are. But I suppose a certain amount of reserve can be very appealing, provided you get the odd glimpse behind the mask.’ For some reason Mark came to mind; the relaxed Mark I’d seen at Ashridge, the totally uninhibited Mark who’d kissed me. Now it was my turn to frown. He was the last person I should be thinking about, especially with Flynn around.
I got abruptly to my feet. ‘More soup?’
‘Sure, and I’d love the recipe – if it’s not a family secret.’
‘Of course it is – but I know I can trust you, I’ll write it down before you go. By the way, would you like a lift back to Randalls? I could drop you there at quarter past two, when I go to meet Harriet.’
He hesitated. ‘Actually, could you drop me in Highbury? Kate thinks I should call on Jane and introduce myself to the dreaded aunt. Jane may not be one for conversation, but apparently Mary Bates more than makes up for it. No wonder her mother’s gone deaf.’
I groaned. ‘You don’t need to tell me about Batty, I’ve known her all my life.’
‘Batty? Great nickname, must remember not to use it to her face.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Can’t say I’m thrilled about seeing them, but I’d do anything for my lovely stepmother. And it fills in the time until Dad can take me to fetch my hire car – had a bit of an argument with a lamp post in London and the front headlight’s had to be replaced.’ He paused and looked me straight in the eye. ‘You know, if these talks with the BBC go well, I co
uld be staying in Highbury for some time. And believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better.’
I took this as a very encouraging sign.
~~MARK~~
I wanted to call Kate as soon as I left Hartfield and give my apologies for tonight; but I didn’t have the number for Randalls on my mobile, so it was a question of waiting until I got home and found Father’s address book.
Just as I got in the door, Kate herself rang. I was about to launch into a half-baked excuse – an urgent business proposal or something – when she forestalled me.
‘Flynn’s sent me a text to say you can come to dinner tonight. I’m so glad, because I’ve got a little favour to ask.’
That bastard Churchill. He’d made sure I couldn’t escape watching him move in on Emma.
‘What sort of favour?’ I said guardedly.
‘Could you give Mary and Jane a lift? Mary’s car wouldn’t start this morning and it’s had to be towed to the garage. I know she’ll offer to get a taxi, but – ’
‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Thanks, Mark, I’ll tell her you’ll call for them at seven.’
She hung up, leaving me with a sickening sense of déjà vu. Was it only a week since I’d given Mary and her mother a lift to Randalls? I’d spent the whole evening going through the motions of a relationship with Tamara, when I ached to be with Emma. Even when Tamara and I split up two days later, a future with Emma still seemed inconceivable.
Until last night …
Now Churchill had arrived – and I had an even tougher fight on my hands.
~~EMMA~~
As part of my secret campaign to rid Harriet of her infatuation with Philip, I’d suggested a get-together away from the office. She wanted to go to The Ploughman one evening, but I knocked that idea on the head immediately; we were sure to bump into Philip himself or, even worse, Robert Martin. So I invited her to meet me at Tilly’s Tea Rooms in nearby Findlesham on Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t spoken to her since I’d heard about Philip’s whirlwind romance with the mysterious Gusty, just before I left for Ashridge on Friday. In theory, this would make it easier to convince Harriet that she had no chance with him, but I couldn’t be sure.
The Importance of Being Emma Page 16