Chapter 7
Emma woke early, lying in the warmth of her bed, the duvet up around her face, listening to the early-morning sounds of the city.
The electric milk float was approaching.
She heard the rattle of bottles as the milkman walked to a door nearby.
Further away was the hum of traffic, already busy at this hour before dawn.
She looked around the room, the ghastly wallpaper in purples and browns that she had loathed to start with, the tiny wardrobe, too small for even her dresses and coats.
After almost two years it now felt like home and she was loath to leave it, or to leave the comforting presence of her flatmates.
Then she gave herself a good talking to.
“Don’t be such a ninny,” she said. “You’re going to the country for a few days.
Just as long as it takes to read the book.
You’ll read it, decide you couldn’t possibly write anything close to Iris Blackburn’s brilliant prose, you’ll thank her politely for the opportunity and you’ll come back to London. End of story.”
With those words she got up, went to wash and brush her teeth.
But as she was looking at herself in the mirror the thought came to her that this opportunity would get her writing again, force her to write.
It might be just the spur she needed. She was going to give it a go.
She went back to the bedroom to get dressed.
This time she had chosen more carefully from amongst her meagre collection of clothing.
She had acquired, thanks to Jilly, who got a great discount at her boutique on Carnaby Street, a dark green pantsuit—the latest thing, according to Jilly.
It was smart and businesslike and could be worn with a turtleneck jumper under it if the weather turned colder.
She had also packed a couple of merino jumpers she had brought from Australia, her grey skirt, a pair of tweed slacks and her suede jacket.
She left out her mack in case she had to wear it over the pantsuit, but so far the day looked bright enough.
However, Emma had been in England long enough to know that the saying “fine before seven, rain by eleven” often proved to be true.
She shoved her sponge bag into her tote, along with the notebooks she was never without.
Even if the writing with Iris didn’t work out, she’d jot down impressions of an English country house for a potential future novel.
Murder of a Famous Writer? she thought wickedly.
She went to the kitchen and put on the kettle for a cup of tea, but she found she was so nervous that she couldn’t swallow a bite of toast.
Neither Robyn nor Jilly had put in an appearance yet, and Emma wondered if she’d be wise to slip out now, to avoid embarrassing goodbyes. But she was just retrieving her suitcase when Robyn’s door opened and she came out, hair tousled and looking bleary-eyed.
“Oh, you’re going already?”
Emma nodded. “I thought it might be easier not to have to say goodbye.”
Robyn came over to her. “You’re making it sound so final. Aren’t you just going for a few days?”
“That’s right,” Emma said. “But I’m thinking there’s a chance that I like what she’s written and I might want to finish her book.
I’d really like to if I really believed I could do it.
” She put her hands on Robyn’s shoulders.
“Just think, Rob. If I get a cut of what Iris Blackburn earns with every book I’d be bloody rich.
And if the world knew that I was the cowriter, I wouldn’t have trouble selling another book ever. ”
“Just make sure they don’t stiff you then,” Robyn said, looking at her kindly. “Make sure you get a contract that suits you, that gives you a fair share of the royalties, not pays you off with a few pounds as a writer for hire.”
Emma held her gaze. “You’re right. Not that I think I’d have much say in the matter. If they offer me a decent sum I think I’d have to take it, but I would like some sort of credit for my contribution.”
“You said she was really keen to have you as the writer,” Robyn said. “Remember that. You’re not the hired help, you are her rescuer.”
Emma gave a nervous chuckle. “Golly. You should be doing this, not me.”
“Not me, darling,” Robyn said. “I have trouble writing a shopping list. You’re a bloody good writer and don’t you forget it. Iris Blackburn is lucky to have you.” She planted a kiss on Emma’s cheek. “Now go and be brilliant.”
“Give my love to Jilly,” Emma said. “See you soon.”
Emma picked up her suitcase and off she went into the morning bustle that was the Earl’s Court Road.
After the Tube she negotiated the crowd surging into Victoria Station, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream, then boarded a delightfully empty train to Tunbridge Wells, arriving at nine thirty.
As she approached the telephone kiosk she hesitated.
Had she arrived too early? What time did solicitors start work?
Then she decided that if she was early, at least it showed she was keen.
She took out Tony Gordon’s card and dialed the number on it.
“Gordon and Tate, Solicitors,” said a crisp female voice.
Emma asked for Mr Tony Gordon and he came to the line. “I’ll be right over to pick you up,” he said. “Look for a decrepit Morris Minor.”
She went outside the station and stood waiting on the street.
All around her the town was busy with morning commerce although not at the frantic pace of London.
It seemed a pleasant place, Emma thought, as if life was simpler and slower here.
Then she heard the toot of a horn and the Morris Minor drew up.
Tony leaned across to open the door for her.
“Hello, you’re bright and early,” he said. “Jump in.”
Emma climbed cautiously into a front seat with a couple of rips in the upholstery.
“You look nice,” Tony said. “Fashionable. Quite Carnaby Street.”
Emma gave an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. My one good outfit. My flatmate works in a boutique. I wish I’d worn something better yesterday but I wasn’t given any warning.”
“I thought you looked fine.” He gave her that reassuring smile that made her feel warm inside.
“Sorry about the state of the car,” Tony said as they drove off. “It does have a rather lived-in feel to it. I’ve had it since my Oxford days and plan to replace it when I officially become a partner, which should be going through as we speak.”
“Congratulations,” she said. “A partner in a law firm at your age. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
Tony’s face became guarded. “It wouldn’t have happened for quite a while if my father’s health hadn’t gone downhill.
He’s needed me to learn the business in a hurry.
Luckily every solicitor’s office has an old biddy working there who knows everything and secretly runs the place. You’ll meet Margo and you’ll see.”
As he spoke they turned on to a high street. “I should warn you that we’re popping in to see my father first, before we go to Iris’s,” Tony said. “He wants to give you the once over.”
“That sounds alarming.” Emma shot him an anxious look.
“Don’t worry. He’s always been most protective of Iris Blackburn’s best interests. He probably wants to see for himself that you’re not a fraud or an imposter.”
“Goodness,” Emma said. “I don’t see how he could think that, when I was brought to Iris by David Spencer, who she’s known for donkey’s years. And Iris has read my book.”
“I’m sure it’s just a formality,” Tony said. “My father does like to see for himself, to make his own judgments.”
“On whether I’m trustworthy?” Emma said sharply. “Look, if this whole thing is going to be unpleasant I’ll just go back to London and get on with my life. I don’t need to be here.”
“Hold your horses, old thing,” Tony said. “Nobody wants to make it unpleasant for you, I’m sure. Just humour my father and we’ll be on our way.” The car pulled up outside a square brick Georgian house. A brass plate beside the front door stated “Gordon and Tate, Solicitors.”
“So who is Mr Tate?” Emma asked.
“Long dead,” Tony replied. “He was my grandfather’s partner when they started this company, back in Edwardian days.”
“But you still have his name on the business?”
“Quaint English tradition.” Tony grinned as he got out, then came around to open the door for her. “I expect you’ve found that we’re all about tradition here. Horribly stuffy, too. I expect Australia is like a breath of fresh air compared to us.”
“In some ways,” she agreed. “Australians believe that everybody is as good as everyone else. There’s no class system.
But we still cling to a lot of ties to the old country.
You’ll find a picture of the queen inside every pub in Australia, and they play the national anthem at the end of the cinema every night. ”
“That’s funny,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go and face the dragon.”
“Dragon?” Emma glanced at him apprehensively.
“My father. He can be a bit . . . well, a little bit brusque at times.” He gave her an encouraging grin. “But don’t worry, his bark is worse than his bite and I’ll protect you!”
Tony opened the front door for Emma and they stepped into a narrow hallway. From the open door on the right came the clatter of a typewriter.
“We’re here, Margo,” Tony called. The clattering stopped. “Is it all right to go through to Mr Arthur?”
A face appeared in the doorway—a rather alarming-looking woman with grey hair drawn back into a severe bun, a shapeless grey cardigan, sharp, birdlike features and dark, little eyes that darted, fixing on Emma. Emma could see that she was deciding whether she was worthy to enter the inner sanctum.
“He’s expecting you, Mr Tony,” she said. “You may proceed.”
“The royal seal of approval,” Tony muttered as he led her down the hall and knocked on a door at the back of the building. “No one is allowed to venture further without Margo’s approval. Woe to anyone who dares to tiptoe down the hall.”
“Come!” said a sharp voice.