Chapter Seven
~~EMMA~~
After only a few hours’ sleep I got up, anxious to prepare myself for Mark’s visit.
Because he would come to sort things out, I knew.
In the kitchen I made bread and imagined how it would go.
It was possible, of course, that he’d simply take me in his arms and tell me he loved me with a passion he’d never felt for Tamara or anyone else. Possible, but impossible.
I pummelled the dough as I rehearsed far more likely scenarios.
There was the contrite Mark: ‘I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that. Can you ever forgive me, dear sweet little Emma?’
The angry Mark: ‘Why the hell didn’t you stop me making such a complete fool of myself?’
The philosophical Mark: ‘These things happen, even between friends. Remember that film, When Harry Met Sally ? We’re not like them, though. Let’s just gloss over it and carry on as before.’
There was even a version that had him down on his knees, begging: ‘Surely you understand a man’s needs, especially after a woman like Tamara?
If you’re interested, why don’t we come to a little arrangement while I’m over here?
Sex without any strings, so to speak.’ At this point, naturally, I would take great pleasure in slapping his face.
When the doorbell rang just after half past nine, I was ready to give him whichever piece of my mind suited his mood.
I certainly wasn’t prepared for anything else; although you could say I’d spent years waiting for this very moment . . .
* * *
~~MARK~~
I slept well; so well, in fact, that I didn’t hear the alarm go off at half past eight. I woke — cursing — just before eleven, got showered and dressed in seven minutes flat and rushed downstairs.
No time for breakfast; anyway, there was bound to be something on offer at Hartfield. I could see it now: Emma and I rustling up bacon and eggs under Henry’s disapproving gaze — the first of many breakfasts together, I was sure.
I walked to the car with a spring in my step, pausing only to breathe in the crisp, apple-scented air.
It was almost Hallowe’en. Maybe we’d go to John and Izzy’s this morning and take the children shopping for scary masks and pumpkins; on the way home we’d stop for lunch, then go back to Donwell for the rest of the day, and all night . . .
Exactly five minutes later I was at Hartfield, smoothing my hair and ringing the bell. As I waited for what seemed like ages, I began to wonder if I was being overconfident. In all the years I’d known her, dealing with Emma had never been straightforward.
At last the door opened; but it was only Henry, smiling benignly. ‘Good morning. Fully recovered, are we?’
‘Yes, thank you. Look, I’m sorry if I was rude last night—’
‘No need to apologise, Mark. I understand — more than most people — the trials and tribulations of the digestive system.’ He gave a little morbid sigh.
‘And I’m a bit later than I intended.’ I hesitated. ‘Is Emma still around?’
‘Very much so,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘We’ve got another visitor, you know, besides you. I was just making them more coffee — would you like a cup?’
‘I’d love one.’ Another visitor? I cursed myself again for sleeping in, and glanced right and left; the only cars on the drive were Emma’s and mine.
‘Just go through to the drawing room.’ Henry shut the front door behind me and shuffled off towards the kitchen.
‘Who else is here?’ I called after him, but he didn’t reply. I frowned; if it was Mary, I wouldn’t get Emma on her own until lunch time.
Through the open drawing room door, I heard Emma give a throaty laugh of encouragement. This brought a smile to my face; the visitor definitely wasn’t Mary Bates! Then — a man’s voice, unfamiliar, his tone so low that I couldn’t make out the words, and another laugh from Emma.
I took a couple of steps forward, my legs strangely heavy.
That voice again, the words audible now, the accent marked. New Zealand, wasn’t it? Or maybe Australian . . . ‘Emma Woodhouse, it feels like we’ve known each other for years.’
I walked into the room and stopped short.
They were on the sofa together, their knees almost touching; he was half turned towards her, his hand on her arm. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. I couldn’t see all of his face, but I knew who he was, instantly.
Flynn Churchill.
Several seconds passed before Emma noticed me. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, dismissively, and looked straight back at him. ‘Flynn, this is Mark Knightley, I’m sure Tom will have mentioned the name.’
He jumped to his feet and tried to win me over with the same engaging grin I’d seen in that photo-shrine on the Westons’ sideboard. We shook hands — he wasn’t as limp-wristed as I’d have liked — and I schooled my features into a mask of polite indifference; inside, I was wishing him miles away.
So he’d finally shown up in Highbury, after all those false boasts and empty promises.
Putting the Westons to great inconvenience, no doubt; I vaguely remembered Emma saying he wasn’t expected until the end of the week.
And, with impeccable timing, he’d decided to visit Hartfield at a critical moment between Emma and me.
I took a seat opposite them and willed her to look at me. All in vain; it became increasingly obvious that I may as well not be in the room. He was centre stage, the focus of her attention.
I’d only just met him, yet I hated him — more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life.
* * *
~~EMMA~~
I was over the moon at seeing Flynn. For one thing, his arrival delayed that uncomfortable little chat with Mark. For another, the man himself was everything I’d dreamed he would be: gorgeous-looking, great fun — and here, in the flesh, at long last.
Mark, normally so socially adept, sat there in silence. Eventually, he got to his feet and announced that he had to go.
I glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and did a double take. ‘Twelve o’clock already? Would you like some lunch, Flynn? What about you, Mark?’ I risked a quick look and saw that his face was like thunder. ‘I’ve got home-made minestrone and freshly baked rolls,’ I added, addressing Flynn again.
‘I can never resist the offer of a roll,’ he said, and we both giggled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark’s mouth twist into an unconvincing smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got things to do. Are you around this afternoon, Emma?’
‘Oh dear, I’m not, I’m seeing Harriet at two thirty.’
‘This evening?’
I hesitated, searching frantically for a plausible excuse.
‘That reminds me,’ Flynn put in. ‘Kate’s organising a dinner tonight in my honour, seven for seven thirty, I’m cooking. You’re both invited, and Henry of course.’
‘I don’t think—’ Mark began stiffly.
‘And it sounds as though you two are free, at least,’ Flynn continued, with a sly wink at me. ‘I’ve told Kate not to buy things in specially, I’ll work with what she’s got. It’ll be Flynn’s Cook-in comes to Highbury, without the TV cameras.’
I laughed. ‘Can’t wait.’ Then my face fell. ‘I’d better bring something for Dad, though. Don’t take it personally, he’s just very particular about what he eats.’
He wagged his finger at me. ‘I won’t hear of it, Em. I’ll sort Henry out, I’m an expert at managing fussy old fogies. God knows, I’ve had to keep Stella sweet for years.’
I couldn’t take offence, not with those mischievous green eyes looking into mine. In the distance, I heard Mark say something.
‘What was that?’ I tore my gaze away with an effort; when I looked round, he’d gone.
‘He said he’d see himself out,’ Flynn replied. ‘Not much of a talker, is he?’
As if in response, the front door slammed.
I breathed a sigh of relief. If I could avoid any one-to-ones with Mark for the next few days, I was sure we’d both forget about last night and things would return to normal between us.
Anyway, now that Flynn was on the scene, a kiss from Mark Knightley was bloody irrelevant. And utterly forgettable.
Flynn interrupted my thoughts. ‘Shall I give you a hand with the lunch?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll try not to be intimidated by having a celebrity chef around.’
Not that I felt intimidated in the slightest; more as if all my Christmases had come at once. Until, as we crossed the hall, he came out with, ‘What do you think of Jane Fairfax?’
I stopped dead and tried to keep my tone as neutral as possible. ‘Jane Fairfax? How on earth do you know her ?’
He stared past me and his eyes widened. ‘Wow, what a great kitchen! The layout reminds me of Stella’s, which I designed as it happens.
It wasn’t difficult, the old bird gave me a free hand — and a blank cheque.
’ He walked purposefully over to the island unit and ran his hand over the gleaming granite worktop.
I followed him, frowning. ‘But how do you know Saint Jane of Highbury?’
‘Saint Jane of — ?’ He looked puzzled, then he laughed. ‘Oh, that’s a good one, I’ll have to remember that.’ He strolled across to the Aga and fidgeted with the tea towels on the rail.
I was beginning to wonder if he could even remember my question from two seconds ago; I made one last effort. ‘You see, I’ve known Jane for years, but she’s never mentioned you.’
He spun round and disarmed me with that wicked grin. ‘How could she? We only met three weeks ago, when I was at The Mulberry Tree.’
‘Ah yes, I remember Tom saying you’d been asked to cook there. I didn’t realise it was in Weymouth, though.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not, the restaurant’s a good hour’s drive away. But the family Jane was staying with are loaded, you know, and they eat there all the time. They came on my first night and that’s how I met Jane . . . And the daughter and her husband as well, but they’ve moved to Ireland—’
I couldn’t resist cutting in with, ‘I know, and I have a little theory about why Jane suddenly decided to move to Highbury.’
He gave me an appraising look. ‘Before you do your Sherlock Holmes impersonation, where’s that soup? I’m starving.’