Digestif
Hartfield, the following Christmas
~~EMMA~~
While Mark carved the turkey beside me, I studied the faces around the dining table. They were the same as last year, with the addition of George and Saffron. But in other respects this Christmas Day was completely different from the previous one.
So many changes in such a short time. My name: Mrs Emma Knightley.
My shape: I was five months pregnant. My relationship with Mark: the only tension between us today was whether I should risk a small glass of wine with my meal — although I gave up on that one as soon as Dad and Izzy weighed in with their expert advice.
And among our presents to each other were another bottle of Eau Pour Homme and another souvenir of Ashridge; only now we understood — and valued — their significance.
And the changes didn’t stop there.
Kate and Tom had called earlier with baby Anna, now six months old.
But this year they came without Flynn. It looked as though the only attraction Highbury had ever held for him was the girl whose skin he’d once compared to uncooked pastry.
He hadn’t set foot in our village since the previous January, apart from a fleeting visit with Jane to collect their belongings.
They were apparently working all hours to make Flynn’s Cook-in at the Brook Inn a success.
I’d only watched the TV programme once; I switched off in disgust when Flynn broadcast his secret recipe for minestrone soup, which was uncannily like the one I’d entrusted to him the first day we met.
At least Jane seemed to spare us the occasional thought.
She ordered several of my new Highbury Foods luxury hampers, to be delivered to Randalls and Kings Row; and further afield, to the Campbells in Weymouth and the Dixons in Ireland.
Tom, the eternal optimist, was even hopeful that she could persuade Flynn to come to Anna’s christening in a month’s time.
I thought Mark showed admirable restraint. All he said was, ‘I’ve always had a very high opinion of Jane Fairfax, but even she has her limitations.’
And I was actually warming to Robert Martin. He and Harriet were over from India for a couple of weeks and we’d been out with them several times. I began to think that they were quite well suited after all, in a Beauty and the Beast sort of way.
On the business front, there were three major developments.
First, the merger between Highbury Foods and Donwell Organics was going to plan and would be completed within six weeks.
Second, following some promising research results, I’d launched Harriet’s Secret Recipes; only a limited range of products to begin with, but sales were going extremely well.
Finally, Philip had handed in his resignation; this was no great loss and even less of a surprise.
Ever since Dad had announced the merger with Donwell Organics, Philip had been thoroughly disgruntled.
He assumed, quite rightly, that John would be Finance Director of the new company and started job hunting almost immediately.
As Gusty had never found the work she believed was waiting for her in Surrey, she was more than happy to leave Little Bassington behind.
When I bumped into her in the high street on Christmas Eve, she informed me that people round here hadn’t a clue how to run a proper business, so she and Philip were off to Bristol, where their talents would be appreciated.
And, by the way, her sister knew a man who’d had to share a house with his in-laws and the marriage had only lasted six months; how was dear Marrrk finding it?
I glanced at dear Marrrk now. He didn’t look at all the worse for wear after living with Dad for almost a year. In fact, he looked positively irresistible . . .
When we’d finished lunch, I got to my feet with a long-suffering smile. ‘Would you excuse me? I feel very nauseous, I’d better go upstairs and lie down for an hour or so.’
Izzy pursed her lips. ‘That nausea’s going on far too long, you really should see Doctor Perry about it. Or speak to one of my NCT contacts—’
‘No need for that,’ I said calmly. ‘Mark will soon sort me out with one of his little remedies. I believe it’s something to do with reiki, he has the most wonderful touch. Coming, Mark?’
‘You bet.’ He lifted a sleepy Emily off his knee and carefully handed her to John.
As we left the room, I heard Dad say, ‘Mark certainly seems to be very gifted in that department, Emma says he’s thinking of writing a book, The Joy of Reiki .’
John gave a snort of laughter. ‘I think she’s pulling your leg, sounds very like The Joy of Sex .’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Dad sounded aghast.
‘Haven’t you heard of it? Came out in the early seventies, been a bestseller ever since.’
Mark shut the door behind us and grinned. ‘Trust John to spoil our fun. Do you think Henry’ll believe him?’
‘Dad will believe exactly what he wants to,’ I said, tucking my arm through his. ‘I’m sure he still thinks we only share a room so that you can protect me from the Highbury Humper.’
By the time we reached the top of the stairs, the noise from the dining room was no more than a distant murmur; at the far end of the house, our bedroom was swathed in silence. We stood there for a few moments, just looking at each other.
Then the man of my dreams took me in his arms and kissed me, long and hard.
I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the joy of ‘reiki’.
THE END