Chapter Three #2
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.’
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.’