Chapter Two
~~MARK~~
‘It’ll be just like old times.’
‘Sounds great.’
I should have added, ‘Except everything’s changed.’
I wasn’t against change as much as Henry, but I did like to keep things in their separate compartments. Of course, some things were the same as before. Henry. Mary. Highbury Foods, at least until Emma started whipping it into God knows what shape.
But she’d changed. She’d climbed out of her old compartment, the slightly grubby one labelled ‘Mouse’, filled with silly jokes and endless games of Monopoly, into a totally inappropriate one.
The one labelled ‘Sex’, dark with desire and velvet-padded to stifle sounds of pleasure.
The one I usually kept locked when not in use.
Now I wished I hadn’t agreed so readily to Henry’s request to mentor her. Never mind; I’d simply open up a new compartment, ‘Masochism’. I was sure I could handle it.
Then, as I rifled through my briefcase for my non-executive director contract, I found her photo.
I don’t know why I didn’t hand the magazine back to Mary and have done with it.
Maybe I thought the article might come in handy for the mentoring.
But why didn’t I file it with my Highbury Foods papers?
Instead, I found myself tearing it out, taking it home and looking at it far more than was good for me.
The next day Father and I went to Donwell Organics for a detailed handover.
I knew standing in as Managing Director would be a sharp contrast to my role in India.
Out there I had a free rein, because Father believed in empowerment rather than a more traditional command and control approach; here, it was more a case of maintaining the status quo until his return.
We’d reckoned without my stepmother Saffron, however; she was like her name — brightly coloured, horribly expensive and best in small doses.
Her first phone call came at five past nine and I was privileged to hear every word, despite Father holding his mobile close to his ear.
She was afraid four days wouldn’t be enough for her to do the packing, so could he take a few hours off to help?
Father declined as gracefully as he could and we got about ten minutes’ work done before she rang again.
She’d been thinking (always a worrying sign) — was it really necessary to put Tao (her shih-tzu) into kennels?
Couldn’t I look after him, with help from Mrs Burn who’d still be coming to cook and clean most days?
Father told her it was out of the question.
I was coming from a culture where people fed their dogs curried leftovers; far safer for Tao to live on sirloin steak at the Glen Beagles Hotel for Discerning Dogs.
At this point, he switched off his mobile and suggested we went out for a coffee.
‘Thanks, that was a lucky escape,’ I said, as we drove off in his Mercedes.
‘More than you’ll ever know. I had to dog sit when Saffron had her last facelift, I spent the whole time running Tao around.
Grooming salon, vet’s surgery, social engagements with its little furry friends, it was like having another woman in the house.
’ He grimaced. ‘For God’s sake, Mark, be careful who you marry.
Not that I’ve any regrets,’ he added quickly, ‘although I couldn’t have chosen anyone less like your mother. ’
‘No,’ I said, thinking of the tall, dignified woman who had died of a heart attack eight and a half years ago. Saffron had appeared on the scene almost immediately, when my father was in no state to resist, and his wallet had suffered the consequences ever since.
The coffee turned into a working lunch that lasted all afternoon. By the time evening came, I decided I would walk to Hartfield for some exercise. As I made my way along the bridle path, dusk was falling, cool and damp, a refreshing change from the intense heat of India.
Emma answered the door in faded jeans and a T-shirt, her face bare of make-up. At first glance she looked more like Mouse, thank God.
I handed her a bottle of Chateau Cheval Blanc. ‘I’m assuming Henry still drinks claret — for medicinal purposes only, of course.’
‘Of course,’ she said, with a giggle, ‘and this one’s still his favourite, thank you. Let me take your jacket, you won’t need it. Dad wanted a fire in case you felt cold and the room’s so hot I’ve had to change my clothes.’
I looked again; her T-shirt was low-cut, her jeans tight-fitting. I followed her across the hall, my gaze riveted to the easy swing of her hips.
At the entrance to the dining room, I paused.
It was just as I remembered — large, square and elegantly furnished with Italian pieces from Sophia’s childhood home and vibrant oil paintings of her beloved Tuscany.
The curtains were already drawn, the lamps lit, one end of the long rectangular table set for three.
Then, as I went in, a wall of heat hit me from what appeared to be a small inferno in the grate.
There were three assorted armchairs round it, with a bookcase, CD player and card table nearby; all the signs of a man reluctant to move from his own fireside, literally.
Henry was hibernating in the largest chair, a rug tucked round his knees. He stirred at my approach and smiled sleepily. ‘Come and sit here, Mark, you must be chilled through just walking from the car. I did the same earlier and now my arthritis is playing up terribly.’
Emma and I sat down on either side of him and immediately edged our chairs further from the fire.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I didn’t bring the car, I walked.’
His jaw dropped. ‘At this time of year? Your clothes will be wet through, you’ll catch your death. Darling, pop upstairs and bring Mark one of my flannelette shirts and those baggy fawn cords, they might fit him. If not—’
I laughed. ‘Henry, I’m fine, I enjoyed the fresh air and my clothes are perfectly dry. Look at my shoes, not a speck of mud on them.’
‘But how will you get home? Darling, order a taxi for Mark, shall we say about ten o’clock?’
‘That’s kind of you, Henry, but I’ll walk back. Along the road, of course, the bridle path will be pitch black.’
Emma, who had stayed seated despite Henry’s instructions, said briskly, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
I shuddered. ‘No thanks, I’ve heard all about your driving from John.’
Henry gave me a reproachful look. ‘Emma’s a wonderful driver, your brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about—’
Emma hastily held up the claret. ‘Look what Mark’s brought you, Dad.’
‘Thank you, so thoughtful.’ He beamed at me, then turned to Emma. ‘Shall we drink it tonight, or have you already opened something?’
‘I have, but I’m sure we can manage more than one bottle. After all, it’s a celebration, our first meal together in years.’
‘Not for lack of trying on my part,’ I said. ‘But whenever I was back in England, you were away.’
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Pure coincidence, nothing personal. And now I can’t avoid you even if I wanted to, because you’re mentoring me. Oh joy.’
‘Just like old times, Big Brother looking over your shoulder.’
She got up rather abruptly and walked towards the door with the wine.
‘You must notice a big difference in Emma since you last saw her,’ Henry said, gazing after her.
I watched her stop by a glass-fronted cabinet, put the wine down and start to re-arrange the figurines inside.
‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘And no.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s changed physically, filled out here and there, acquired a bit of sophistication. But when I look at her I see the same old Emma, and I suppose I always will.’
Across the room, Emma slammed the cabinet door shut, snatched up the wine and hurried out; leaving me to reflect that, when necessary, I could be a bloody good liar.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
‘Filled out here and there . . . acquired a bit of sophistication . . . but still the same old Emma’?
I kicked open the kitchen door. It was going to be an uphill battle to get him to treat me like an adult. At least he’d stopped short of calling me his little sister. If he had, I swear I would have inserted the Chateau Cheval bloody Blanc somewhere about his person, without an anaesthetic.
Mark Knightley had a reputation for being fair and honest, but always diplomatic. Except when it came to me. It was as if he judged me by different standards from everyone else, the lowest being perfection and the highest something beyond sainthood.
Several deep breaths later, I returned to the dining room with the decanted wine and three glasses.
As I sat down, Mark gave me one of his calculating looks. ‘I was about to come and see if you needed a hand.’
‘I think I can manage to open a bottle of wine, not much call for mentoring there. Dad, would you like a little of this before dinner?’
‘I shouldn’t, but I will.’ He watched me like a hawk as I poured him an eggcupful. ‘That’s far too much for me, darling. Never mind, as you said, it’s a celebration.’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health!’
‘And especially yours, Henry,’ Mark said, gravely. He turned to me. ‘Here’s to our new relationship. I mean, of course, the mentoring.’
I forced a smile. ‘Cheers.’
Dad sipped his wine. ‘I hope you change your mind about going back to India, Mark. Dreadful-sounding place, you’re lucky to have got out alive. I trust you’re going to have a full medical check-up, in case you’ve picked up any nasty diseases?’
‘I’m fit as a fiddle, Henry. India’s like anywhere, do as the locals do and you won’t go far wrong.’
‘But you are going back?’ I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice.
‘That’s the plan. Unless, after a life of leisure for six months, Father decides to retire and asks me to take over permanently. But I can’t see that happening.’
Dad shook his head. ‘Neither can I. George is like me, wants to keep his hand in. Of course, Emma will take over from me one day, but not until she’s got a lot more experience.’
‘How have your first couple of days gone, Emma?’ Mark asked.