Chapter Six #4
We entered the house from a small courtyard and went along a plush corridor, past watercolours and drawings of Ashridge through the centuries, from its origins as a medieval monastery to the stately building of today.
We crossed the Reception area and walked into a room that took my breath away.
It was decorated in the same blue as my dress, with magnificent white plasterwork on the ceiling.
Around the walls were bookcases and portraits, including one of a sleeping, rosy-cheeked child.
Mark followed my gaze. ‘That’s a Joshua Reynolds, doesn’t it remind you of Emily? We should take a photo for Izzy’s collection.’
I laughed, and the tension between us eased. He handed me a glass of wine and introduced me to Judy Scott, the Alumni Association organiser. We hadn’t been talking long when a fat man in a crumpled suit swayed up to us, already the worse for drink.
‘Long time no see, Mark,’ he brayed. ‘Out in Africa, weren’t you?’
Within half a minute, I knew that his name was Baz Lorimer, he’d been at Ashridge at the same time as Mark and he was Head of Customer Relations for DK Clothing, which I hoped had absolutely nothing to do with Donna Karan.
I also discovered that, like most large, unfit men, he had a serious perspiration problem.
Judy and I continued our conversation, but it was impossible not to hear what Lorimer was saying.
‘High-class totty, the one in the blue.’ He let out an appreciative belch.
I didn’t catch Mark’s reply.
Then Lorimer bellowed, ‘Are you shagging her, or have I got a chance?’
Heads turned in our direction, while I blushed to the roots of my hair.
Judy gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Would you excuse me, Emma? Charles Durham’s just arrived with our Chief Exec and I need to check something.’
This time I heard every word Mark said, his voice deceptively even. ‘Yes, you’ve got a chance, arsehole — a chance of getting your face smashed in, nothing else.’
‘No need to be so touchy, you wanker.’ Lorimer stumbled off, while Mark and I stared at each other in embarrassed silence.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not your fault. And, believe me, I’ve been called worse than high-class totty.’
‘And I’ve been called far worse than a wanker,’ he said, with a rueful smile. ‘Come on, let’s go and talk to that guy in the pink shirt over there. I happen to know he’s a market research expert, so you can pick his brains about your focus groups. And I guarantee he’s not a bit like Lorimer.’
He guided me across the room, his hand in the small of my back under my jacket. Meaningless etiquette, nothing more; but I missed its warmth when he took it away.
It seemed no time at all until dinner was served.
If I’d been impressed by the elegant restraint of Hoskins, I was dazzled by the gilded opulence of the Lady Marian Alford room: huge pillars of rose marble, ornate fireplaces, and the most fabulous painted ceiling showing gods and goddesses at play.
Our table companions were entertaining, without being overpowering; the food was exquisitely cooked and presented; and Mark was on top form — charming, attentive, funny — as if he wasn’t missing Tamara one bit.
I knew better than to take him at face value, though; he was certainly putting on some sort of act.
I had my own problems, however. Although, as he’d predicted, I’d fallen in love with Ashridge, there was a most peculiar side effect.
During the meal, I found myself looking at Mark and imagining us together in that cosy little room for the night.
As there was nothing else to sleep on, we’d have to share the bed.
Would we lie rigid at its edges, or snuggle up to each other to keep warm?
Another scenario came to mind, but I dismissed it instantly.
That was why I was so determined to go back to Highbury tonight — to prove that I had no designs on him whatsoever.
It was fortunate that I’d arranged to ring Dad, as it provided a temporary distraction; I couldn’t resist describing the meal in mouthwatering detail.
He tut-tutted down the phone. ‘Far too much saturated fat, especially at this time of night. Crème br?lée for dessert, did you say?’
‘Yes, Mark says it’s acquired a cult status among the Alumni. And it was absolutely delicious, the topping caramelised to perfection and the custard so thick and creamy.’
He gave a faint moan, presumably of disgust, then asked to speak to Mark. I guessed this was to make sure he sounded sober enough to drive me home and we laughed about it later, over coffee.
‘All he supposedly wanted to know was whether there was a frost,’ Mark said. ‘I told him I hadn’t really noticed, which immediately put the fear of God into him. But I think I managed to reassure him I wasn’t paralytic, just unobservant.’
I sighed. ‘He still thinks I need protecting.’
Mark raised one eyebrow. ‘From me?’
‘Hardly,’ I said, trying not to blush. ‘I wasn’t thinking of anyone specific.’
‘Of course.’ That amused tone again. ‘Look, I think Charles Durham’s about to speak — do you want another coffee, or something from the bar?’
‘Coffee, please. I have a feeling you’re going to interrogate me afterwards, so I’ll need all my wits about me.’
A teasing look. ‘Am I really that bad?’
‘You know you are — with me, at least.’
For once, it seemed, those steely blue eyes softened. ‘I could change, if you wanted me to.’
I pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure I could cope with a changed Mark Knightley.’
Before he could respond, a man I assumed was the Chief Executive got to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce our speaker. He’s known to have extremely high principles and, more unusually, the integrity to live by them. Please welcome Charles Durham!’
During the polite applause that followed, I reflected that Ashridge seemed to have done Mark a power of good. He was more mellow, almost flirtatious; great company, provided you didn’t take his attentions seriously.
In the end, I spent far too much time thinking about Mark, at the expense of listening to Charles.
* * *
~~MARK~~
‘Good speech, wasn’t it?’ I said, as we walked back to the room. To pick up our bags, of course. Nothing more.
‘Brilliant.’
‘Was it what you expected?’
‘Definitely.’
Why so cagey? I decided to draw her out. ‘I thought you might object to his views on packaging.’
A pause; then, ‘Which views exactly?’
I tried desperately to remember the details. I’d been too busy reliving that scene in the bedroom to pay much attention to the speech, whereas she’d seemed totally absorbed by it.
‘The need for packaging at all,’ I said, hesitantly. ‘Didn’t he suggest going back to the old days, where far less food was pre-wrapped? I just don’t believe that’s a viable solution any more.’
‘Surely he didn’t say that?’
‘I must admit, after that huge meal I wasn’t concentrating all the time, so I may have misheard him.’
We’d reached the room; the bags were in front of me, ready to go. It was just a matter of putting out my hand and—
‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive?’ she said, and I drew back my hand instantly. ‘I mean, if your concentration’s not all it should be?’
‘I’m fine now, thanks.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Although if you want to see more of Ashridge, we could always stay . . . ’
My heart started to hammer so loudly that I barely caught her reply.
‘No, we’d better not,’ she said, with a frown. ‘Dad’s expecting me.’
‘I thought you told him not to wait up?’
‘I did, but he’ll probably be lying awake imagining the worst until he knows I’m home safely.’
She threw on her coat and rushed out of the room as if it was possessed. I let out a long breath, picked up the bags and followed her into the corridor.
We walked back towards the house in silence; this time, we took the longer, more open route that led to the car park.
Except for occasional snatches of laughter from the direction of the bar, the only sound was Emma’s heels tapping on the frosted path.
The moon glinted in the black velvet sky like a sliver of crystal. New moon, new hope . . .
I left her in the car with the heater on and went to Reception to drop off the room key and pay the bill.
Steph wanted to chat, but I brought the conversation to an end as soon as I could and hurried outside.
My eyes turned once more to the stone cross; or rather, to where I knew it stood in the darkness.
A simple but lasting expression of one man’s love for a woman.
Then it dawned on me. What I felt for Emma was much more than physical desire. I loved her, as I’d never loved anyone else. And I knew I’d been waiting my whole life for her; everyone else, even Tamara, had just been a distraction.
Tonight, whatever the consequences, I had to do something . . .
By the time I returned to the car, Emma was fast asleep. I sat watching her for a while, thinking things through. I’d taken a few risks in my life, but only when it didn’t seem to matter. With the things that were important, I’d always played safe.
Until now.
I recalled the three kisses on her birthday card; we were two down, one to go. I reached out my hand and stroked her cheek; but she didn’t stir.
Just as well. Be patient. Get her home first.
I turned the key in the ignition and set off for Hartfield.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
Drifting up through clouds of sleep, I found myself in a strange car and had a moment of panic. Then I saw Mark at the wheel. I remembered that he was taking me home from Ashridge in his father’s Mercedes and, reassured, I closed my eyes again.
When I next woke, we were drawing to a halt outside my house, the engine purring too softly to disturb Dad, whose bedroom overlooked the driveway. I smiled to myself. That was Mark all over, considerate to the last.