Preview

The Importance of Being Ema

by Juliet Archer

Apéritif

~~EMMA~~

‘You could take me, Mark.’

‘You, Mouse? To a posh ball like that?’

‘Yes.’ I tucked my hand in his as we crossed Donwell Abbey’s vast entrance hall, our footsteps drumming on the ancient stone flags. ‘Batty said the other day I looked a lot older than fourteen.’

A basic requirement, of course, for the girl lucky enough to partner Mark Knightley: twenty-five, tall, dark and handsome, and known among my older sister’s crowd as the Sex God.

He laughed. ‘Mary Bates says whatever she thinks you want to hear. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, it’s not that great.’

And he gently disengaged his hand to open the oak front door. Outside, soft summer rain stained the garden paths and muffled the sounds of men and machinery from nearby fields.

‘But you’ll take me?’ I went on. ‘I’ll get my braces removed, or maybe I’ll just smile enigmatically all evening, and I’ve seen the perfect dress in Kingston.’

He frowned and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I can’t, it would be like taking my little sister.’

I stared up at him. ‘But I’m not your sister.’

‘You are, in a way. Your sister’s married to my brother.’

‘That’s not the same thing at all.’

‘I still think of you as my little sister.’

My eyes filled with tears. I turned away so that he couldn’t see, but it was too late. When he pulled me round to face him, I fixed my gaze on the floor.

‘Mouse?’ He paused, then I heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh God … You can’t possibly … You haven’t got a crush on me, have you?’

I said nothing, but my cheeks burned.

‘Shit! You have.’

I pushed past him and ran through the rain, towards the bridle path and home. His voice trailed after me, encumbered by a rare note of entreaty.

‘Mouse … Emma … Wait! Come back.’

But I didn’t. Not until a week or so later, when it was all over – both the ball, which he apparently enjoyed in the company of a giggly blonde, and the crush. No crush could survive such a rejection. The bluntness of a big brother, dismissively served. With a double helping of disbelief.

In any case, it was only a short-lived, typically teenage crush. My deeper, longer-lasting passion was for someone else. A man just as handsome, clever and rich as Mark Knightley but far more elusive. A true romantic hero, surrounded by almost myth-like mystery and spin.

Flynn Churchill.

Just his name set my pulses racing. Whenever I heard it, my heart fluttered in some sort of Pavlovian response. Whenever I said it aloud, in the privacy of my room, I punctuated it with a yearning sigh.

You see, although people talked about it each year as something inevitable, like Christmas, Flynn had never set foot in his father’s home town of Highbury. But nobody minded. His progress was still followed with unfailing enthusiasm, his arrival was always contemplated with breathless anticipation.

And from the age of ten I knew that I, Emma Woodhouse, was destined to become Mrs Emma Churchill. It was meant to be. Our lives were inextricably linked.

I never discussed these thoughts with anyone, of course. Especially Mark Knightley. He’d just laugh at me.

I could wait.

Some day my prince would come.

Chapter One

~~EMMA~~

Good, the boardroom was deserted.

When I was a child, it filled me with awe; dark panelling, solid mahogany furniture, large leather-bound minute books and forbidding photographs of former Highbury Foods Board members, their names usually ending in Woodhouse. Now, although there were no obvious signs of change, it all looked the worse for wear; the photographs faded, the furniture scuffed.

I closed the door and selected a seat at the long table with care. I’d have more privacy here than in my own office, but I still wanted advance warning of anyone approaching.

I flicked through the magazine I’d brought with me and found what I was looking for on page thirty:

Change is in the air at Highbury Foods, one of the nation’s most traditional small companies, in the glamorous form of new Marketing Director Emma Woodhouse. But has this enthusiastic novice bitten off more than she can chew?

Emma has everything going for her. She’s stunning, highly intelligent and wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of mere mortals, thanks to some shrewd property investment by her great-grandfather. She has one of the most sought-after addresses in England: Highbury. Not the old Arsenal football ground, but a picturesque and prestigious village in Surrey, where her family is well known for its charitable giving, courtesy of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust. And, for someone whose life reeks of privilege and plenty, Emma seems refreshingly grateful for her good fortune.

Now, at only twenty-three, she has decided that the family business is in need of her talents. Her father Henry has run Highbury Foods along very conservative lines for two decades, following faithfully in the footsteps of previous generations. In fact, the company has had the same game plan for the last 52 years: supplying a range of non-perishable delicacies to upmarket homes and hotels via mail order. It has yet to discover the advantages of selling over the Internet and, until now, did not even see the need for a Marketing Director.

But Emma wants to drag the company into the 21st century and has set herself only twelve months to achieve this.

We say it’s mission impossible. Even with an MBA from Stanford, USA. But Ms Woodhouse says, ‘Watch this space.’

I threw the magazine down. They’d got it completely wrong; it was Harvard, not Stanford. Hadn’t that cretin of a journalist listened – or had he been too busy ogling my legs? He’d certainly chosen a photo that showed not much else; the angle suggested I’d ordered the photographer to grovel at my feet.

If I had, I couldn’t remember it.

I didn’t read on. It was the usual witless blurb they published in those glossy magazines that came with a couple of forests’ worth of Sunday papers. I should have guessed as much from the saucy headline, ‘Gentleman’s Relish’, a reference to the highly seasoned anchovy paste that was one of our most established and successful products.

But this was my first press interview and I’d hoped for something better. I hadn’t even expected to see it in print until next weekend, so I was taken aback when Batty, our Company Secretary, handed it to me this morning with a squeal of excitement. Knowing her, she’d already have shown it to the other directors, just when I wanted to make a good impression. This fatuous nonsense portrayed me as having all the subtlety of an Exocet missile.

The September sun warmed my back. I turned my head and gazed at its low rays slanting in through the long dusty windows. I could see the factory, a jumble of squat brick buildings, and, in the distance, the tall copper beech hedge that hid my home from view. Mark Knightley had once observed that it was actually the other way round; the hedge was designed to hide the grim reality of work from the pampered occupants of Hartfield Hall.

Meaning me.

He was wrong, of course. I’d been fascinated by Highbury Foods for as long as I could remember. I came here during school holidays, University vacations, even occasional weekends when only the maintenance team was in. I studied production methods, analysed sales trends and talked to employees – about themselves, as well as their jobs. Our company culture was like that; relationships mattered more than results. And it worked. We turned a nice profit most years while still employing people who were long past their sell-by date, like Batty …

Lost in thought, I wasn’t aware of footsteps outside in the corridor until it was almost too late. The door creaked open and I heard a familiar twittering sound. Talk of the devil: Batty, in full flow. I dived for cover under the table.

‘This is where the Board will be meeting, dear – no, don’t go in now, I’ll show you after we’ve had a cuppa. That’s your main job this morning, to take the minutes at the … I’ll be sitting beside you, in case you need any help. Henry – that’s the Managing Director – speaks awfully quietly at times, such a martyr to his chest. You’ll be PA to him and his daughter – lovely family, so caring. And I should know, I started work here under Henry’s father more years ago than I like to … I must say, dear, that was a glowing reference from your last temping job at Abbey Mill Haulage, Robert Martin couldn’t praise you highly enough and he’s never one to … This way to my office, dear, then I’ll tell you all about … ’ At last, Batty and her unfortunate victim moved out of earshot, leaving the door ajar.

With a sigh of relief, I crawled from my hiding place and brushed myself down. I was in no hurry to see Batty again and have her fawning about the magazine article. She might surprise me, of course, and ask exactly how I proposed to drag Highbury Foods into this century; but somehow I doubted it.

Modernising the company was a challenge I’d prepared for over the past five years. I’d focused on the academic side, starting with a BSc at the London School of Economics and following it immediately with my MBA. Wherever possible, I’d made Highbury Foods the subject of my essays and assignments, usually scoring top marks for perception and ingenuity.

Now that I had a formal position with the power – and the budget – to make a difference, I could put my plans into action. And I would start at today’s Board meeting …

Once again a noise interrupted my thoughts. This time it was the buzz of a wasp, high up on the window, sluggishly searching for a way out. I frowned. If Dad saw it, he would postpone the meeting. Convinced he was allergic to any sort of sting or bite, he kept an EpiPen on him at all times although, to my knowledge, he never used it.

I placed a chair next to the window, rolled up the magazine – it might do nothing for my CV, but it made a great wasp zapper – kicked off my Dior shoes and used the chair to climb onto the sill. My stockinged feet slithered on the wood and I had to grip the sash with my free hand to steady myself.

Eyeball to eyeball with the wasp, I drew back my other arm, took aim and –

‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’

Only one person called me Mouse.

The magazine fell to the floor. For a moment there was silence, except for the wasp buzzing nonchalantly, unaware it had escaped certain death.

I took a deep breath and turned round, forcing a smile. ‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’

~~MARK~~

Strange being at Highbury Foods. Strange being back in England, full stop. If only temporarily, to take over the reins of Donwell Organics while Father indulged my stepmother in another of her whims, this time a specially extended round-the-world cruise. Several months of binge eating and drinking, constantly in each other’s company; no doubt to be followed by an equally long period at a health farm and/or psychiatric unit, to repair the damage.

I could understand Father wanting to leave Donwell in a safe pair of hands; what I couldn’t understand was why the hands had to be mine or my younger brother John’s. But Father refused point-blank to consider an external interim appointment. And John, who was also our Finance Director, opted out before I could. So I had to come over from India, where I’d spent the last eight years setting up and running our regional operation in Mumbai.

To add to the culture shock, I’d taken on some of Father’s other duties. Occasional speaker at local Chamber of Commerce events; chief judge at the Autumn Flower and Produce Show, a perilous responsibility which I hastily delegated to John; chairman of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust; and, last but by no means least, non-executive director at Highbury Foods, only two miles down the road from Donwell but light years away in terms of how it was run.

That’s how I came to be invited to their Board meeting, a commitment I could have done without on this particular morning. I’d landed at Gatwick barely four hours earlier, after a delayed flight, and I needed to put in a few phone calls to India before business there closed for the day.

On my way to Henry’s office, I noticed that the boardroom door was open. I glanced in, assuming it was his PA, Kate Taylor, doing what she liked to call her ‘last minute’ preparation – a full hour before the start of the meeting. Then I remembered. Kate Taylor was no more; as of two days ago, she was Mrs Kate Weston. And, although she was coming back to live in the village after her honeymoon, I’d heard she had no intention of returning to Highbury Foods.

My eyes widened as I took in the view from the doorway. Long legs silhouetted against the window, lines and curves in perfect proportion. Short beige skirt stretched taut across more curves – nicely rounded, a pert promise of pleasure. Matching jacket with side vents, no doubt designed to draw the male eye to the symmetry below.

Then, as the vision brandished a rolled-up magazine, I saw her face in profile. It couldn’t be, surely …

It was.

‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’

She jumped, dropped the magazine and, after a pause, turned round.

‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’

There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her voice. I put down my briefcase and held out my arms.

‘I think I deserve a warmer welcome than that.’

She hesitated, then climbed carefully down from the sill and slipped into four-inch heels; this meant that, when I gave her the usual bear hug, there was less of a height difference than I remembered. I rested my cheek against her dark brown hair and smiled to myself. Underneath all that gloss, I knew she’d still be the same maddening little Mouse.

But she’d certainly overdone the gloss. I leaned back slightly and inspected her face. The hazel eyes flashed and the full red lips tightened, as if she could read my mind.

Undeterred, I gave it to her straight. ‘Too much makeup, you don’t need any at all. Most women would die for your skin, and that stuff round your eyes makes you look like a panda.’

The panda glared at me. ‘Bloody cheek. How would you feel if I criticised your appearance?’

‘Go ahead. You can hardly accuse me of wearing too much make-up.’

‘While you’ve been away I’ve grown up, believe it or not.’

‘Apparently. Although it didn’t look like it when you were dancing about on the window sill. Put me out of my misery, Mouse, what were you doing?’

She moved abruptly away. ‘There was a wasp. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me Mouse.’

‘You’re right, it’s not appropriate here. Whenever I’m at Highbury Foods, I’ll forget I know anyone called Mouse.’

Her voice was edgy. ‘I’d prefer you to stop calling me that, period.’

This was something of a turnaround, since I’d called her Mouse for at least fifteen years. It started when she accidentally introduced herself to someone as Emma Woodmouse. I teased her about it, called her Mouse for short and it stuck. Back then it suited her perfectly: such a small, scrawny thing, with big bright eyes. But now …

Maybe she’d outgrown it. She certainly didn’t look like a mouse any longer; and she’d never behaved much like one.

I grinned. ‘OK, Emma. Where’s the wasp?’

‘Up there, on the middle window. I need to get rid of it before Dad comes.’

‘Naturally.’

Henry Woodhouse was the biggest hypochondriac I’d ever known. He was so obsessed with his ‘fragile’ state of health that he’d become a walking medical dictionary. He was so risk-averse that he was practically a recluse, hardly venturing beyond his home and his company, just a mile apart. Whenever I visited Hartfield, I half expected to be given a clean suit and mask or, at the very least, an antiseptic foot bath and hand wash. Accordingly, he prized the use of conventional pesticides, fertilisers and irradiation to safeguard his company’s products from contamination, almost as much as I valued organic methods to produce mine. In spite of such precautions, he never ate anything labelled ‘Highbury Foods’; he said his digestion was far too delicate.

Nevertheless, he was a long-standing friend of my family and, well, I respected his views and liked him enormously.

‘I’ll sort it,’ I went on. ‘India’s given me plenty of practice in dealing with insects, the humane way of course.’ Crossing to the window, I picked up the magazine, stood on the chair, pulled down the sash and gently manoeuvred the wasp outside, before securing the catch.

As I stepped down from the chair, I unrolled the magazine. What an intriguing headline. And that photo – legs a mile long, inviting smile, eyes looking deep into mine as if we were …

I gave a disparaging laugh. ‘So fame hasn’t gone to your head – yet. You obviously weren’t planning to keep this for your scrapbook.’

She folded her arms. ‘No, I wasn’t, it’s a pack of lies. I thought they’d at least get their facts right.’

‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Give the press an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ I looked again at the legs in the photo. ‘Shall I dispose of this for you?’

‘Give it back to Batty, she brought it in for me. So helpful, as always.’

‘Still going strong, is she?’ I said, slipping the magazine into my briefcase. ‘Poor Henry, he’s only got you and her to cosset him now that Kate’s gone.’

This was evidently more comfortable ground; she unfolded her arms and managed a pale imitation of the smile in the photo.

‘That’s a sore point. Dad thinks Kate’ll come back, he says she doesn’t really want to set up an antique wine business with her new husband. That’s why he refused to find a permanent replacement, but fortunately Batty’s got a temp in. I’m hoping he’ll soon forget all about Kate and then we can advertise her job.’

‘From what I remember, she’ll be a hard act to follow.’

‘Definitely, she kept this place running like clockwork. And she’s been such a good friend. If she hadn’t been willing to move into Hartfield to keep an eye on Dad, I’d never have gone to Harvard.’

‘Ah yes, you went there straight after University.’ I paused. ‘You know, there’s a lot more value in an MBA if you’ve worked for a few years first.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose.’ Then she sighed. ‘Anyway, there’s Kate married at last – and it’s all down to me.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘I’ve discovered I’m an expert at matchmaking. When Tom Weston came back here four years ago, I knew he’d be perfect for Kate. And it didn’t take much to arrange, even though people said he’d never settle down at his age.’

‘So you controlled their every move?’

She nodded, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Mind you, there were one or two hiccups. For one thing, I would have preferred it if they’d lived together before they got married. Then Tom could have moved into Hartfield with Kate while I was away, which means Dad would have got used to a man about the house.’

‘Oh? Why would he want to do that?’

She gave an impish grin. ‘In case I meet the man of my dreams. I couldn’t possibly leave Dad on his own, so he – whoever he is – would have to live at Hartfield.’

‘Lucky man,’ I said drily. ‘And why didn’t Tom move in with Kate as ordered – sorry, suggested?’

‘Because he’d set his mind on them living together at Randalls and nowhere else. At the time, Randalls wasn’t even on the market and, when he did manage to buy the place, it needed a lot of work. Remember, Mrs Sanderson lived there for centuries and never spent anything on it.’

‘How annoying for you, to be outmanoeuvred so easily.’ I raised one eyebrow. ‘Presumably their wedding turned out as you planned?’

‘Oh, it was lovely. I know it’s a cliché, but Kate looked radiant. And I thought Tom might look old enough to be her father, but he didn’t.’

I frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only fifty or so and Kate must be at least thirty-five.’

‘She’s thirty-eight, he’s forty-nine. Quite an age difference.’

I thought of my girlfriend back in India – she was twenty-six, I was going to be thirty-five in a few weeks – and decided to change the subject.

‘Did Flynn Churchill make it to the wedding?’ I was referring to Tom’s son, who’d achieved cult status in Highbury over the years. All the more incomprehensible since nobody had ever met him, except his doting father.

Emma’s face clouded. ‘No, he didn’t. Kate and Tom were very upset.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘He was coming, right up to the last minute, then something cropped up.’

‘That man wouldn’t turn up to his own funeral if he had the choice.’ I added, casually, ‘What about me, was I missed?’

‘Probably, since you’re still meant to be one of the most eligible bachelors in Surrey. And you know what they say, even these days – one wedding leads to another. I’m sure some of the women only accepted the invitation in the hope of seeing you reduced to a romance-sodden wreck at the sight of confetti.’

‘Thank God I couldn’t get home until today, then.’

She gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Still seeing Tamara what’s-her-name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it about time you got married?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve been together for five years.’ Her lips tightened. ‘What’s the point if it’s not leading anywhere?’

‘We each have certain needs and our arrangement suits us both very well.’

‘So it’s just for sex?’ she said, rather bluntly I thought.

‘No, it’s not. We help each other out when we need a partner, either for a particular function or simply to scare other people off.’ I grimaced. ‘If I’d been coming to Kate and Tom’s wedding, I’d definitely have brought Tamara.’

She moved towards the door. ‘Sounds positively dreary and, you’re right, not a good basis for marriage. Anyway, thanks for getting rid of the wasp. Were you on your way to see Dad?’

I didn’t answer immediately. She was wrong, what Tamara and I had was anything but dreary. Predictable, yes; and convenient. But that was its appeal; although I had to agree, it was hardly the basis for marriage. Actually, it was better, I had all the advantages of marriage with none of its emotional warfare or financial complications.

‘I’m meeting him at nine thirty,’ I said curtly.

‘I’ll come with you. He asked me along for nine thirty as well.’

‘How is he, by the way?’

‘Same as always. Whatever he may say, he’s got no major health problems. But he’s sixty-one and sometimes I wonder how much longer he should go on working. I don’t mean he’s incapable, more that he can’t seem to move with the times. Business is done so differently these days.’

I waited until we were walking along the corridor to Henry’s office, then said, ‘In some ways. But the essentials don’t change, you still need things like integrity, and ethical principles, and sound common sense.’

I winced as she burst out laughing.

‘Mark Knightley, they should stuff you and put you in a museum!’

~~EMMA~~

Dad sipped his fennel tea and eyed us over the rim of his cup. ‘My stomach’s terrible, I’m sure it’s because Kate’s not here. And, do you know, I had to boil the kettle myself? The new PA’s nowhere to be found.’

I gave him a reassuring smile. ‘She’s in with Mary, and I told you not to have that second helping of porridge this morning.’

‘You look remarkably well, Henry,’ Mark said.

Dad shook his head as he placed the cup down on its saucer. ‘Ah, Mark, sometimes I just have to battle on regardless. And this is one of those times. Emma’s first day as Marketing Director, the first Board meeting for both of you, my first Monday without Kate … ’ His voice trailed off and I guessed there were too many firsts around for comfort.

‘We’ll manage,’ I said, reaching across the desk and patting his arm.

‘I’ll never be able to get used to – whatever her name is.’

‘Now, Dad, come along, Kate’s been on leave in the past and you’ve coped wonderfully. Just imagine she’s on an extended holiday.’

‘So wise for her age, isn’t she, Mark?’ He gave Mark no chance to agree or, more likely, disagree but continued, ‘I’m worried about you, darling, you’re taking on a lot of responsibility. Kate’s not here to help, and Mary’s not the woman she was … Neither am I, for that matter … the man I was, I should say.’ He took refuge in another sip of tea.

‘Meaning?’ I prompted, as a nasty, Knightley-shaped suspicion formed in my mind.

Dad turned to Mark. ‘Meaning that, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to hire you as a sort of mentor to Emma for the next six months.’

Mark Knightley as my mentor? Bloody hell, more like my tormentor.

‘I don’t need – ’ I began, just as Mark said, ‘I’d be delighted.’

Dad looked at him approvingly. ‘You know the food industry inside out and you’ve got such a successful track record, especially on the marketing side.’

I tried again. ‘But we need to be forward-thinking and innovative – ’

Mark cut in. ‘Are you suggesting I’m neither?’

I forced a smile. ‘I know you’re very knowledgeable and experienced in the more traditional markets, but that’s not what Highbury Foods needs right now. And, who knows, I might be looking to compete with Donwell Organics in some way. You couldn’t possibly mentor me in those circumstances.’

He laughed. ‘From my outdated knowledge and experience, I’d say any sort of attempt to enter the organic food market at the moment would be commercial suicide.’ Then he was serious again. ‘But I take your point. You’ll simply have to trust me to tell you if I ever feel there’s a conflict of interest.’

I didn’t retaliate, even though I wanted to. Let him win the first battle; his complacency might cost him the war.

‘So I’ll leave it to you two to decide how best to arrange the mentoring,’ Dad said. ‘Now let’s just go over the agenda for the Board meeting – ’

There was a knock at the door and Batty peered in.

‘Henry, I thought you’d like to meet your new PA, she’s from Temp Tation, Pam Goddard’s agency, you know. Although poor Pam’s talking of changing the name, she gets the most peculiar calls sometimes, very distressing. There was one young man who – ’ She broke off just as her conversation threatened to get interesting. ‘Oh Mark, how lovely to have you back in Highbury! I won’t interrupt you, we can do this later.’

Dad sighed. ‘It’s all right, bring her in, you can introduce her to Emma and Mark at the same time.’

As Batty pushed the door open and stood aside, I remembered the fragment of conversation I’d overheard earlier. All I knew about this person was that she’d temped at Abbey Mill Haulage; but it was quite possible I’d met her before. Highbury was such a small place, with people rarely moving away, and we often asked our existing employees to recommend friends or relatives for jobs. So I looked carefully at the young girl who tottered into the room on impossibly high heels, wondering if I’d recognise her.

I didn’t – and, in an odd way, I did. On the one hand, she was a complete stranger; on the other, I felt I’d known her for years. With her long wavy blonde hair, spiky black eyelashes and rosebud mouth, she was the spitting image of Lisa, my adorable Annette Himstedt doll that I’d had since I was nine.

Except I’d never have dressed Lisa in such a loud check suit.

‘Hiya, I’m Harriet Smith,’ the girl squeaked.

And I’d have to do something about that accent, Pseudo Posh meets Estuary English.

Dad got slowly to his feet. ‘Good morning, Harriet, I’m Henry Woodhouse. No doubt Mary’s been telling you what an old ogre I am.’

Harriet stared at him, obviously unsure how to respond, while Batty tittered, ‘Oh Henry, you and your little jokes.’

Dad went on, ‘This is my daughter, Emma Woodhouse.’

Harriet took my outstretched hand and managed a shy smile. ‘Hiya, Miss Henhouse. Shit – I mean, sorry … ’

I laughed and tried to put her at ease. ‘Just call me Emma, Harriet.’

‘Hiya, Emma-Harriet.’

My eyes widened. To my right, Mark seemed to be having a coughing fit.

Dad looked at him anxiously. ‘And this is Mark Knightley, our friend and non-executive director. Mark, that’s a nasty-sounding cough, would you like to chew on a garlic clove? I always keep some handy, with my troublesome throat.’

‘Thank you, Henry, but I seem to have recovered. Delighted to meet you, please call me Mark, Harriet.’ Mark shook her hand and gave her one of his most dazzling smiles.

The poor girl went crimson. As she opened her mouth to speak, I intervened before she came out with ‘Hiya, Mark-Harriet’.

‘It must be confusing being bombarded with so many new names. I’m sure Mary will make you a seating plan for the Board meeting, then you’ll know who’s saying what.’

Batty’s face lit up. ‘Such a good idea, Emma, as always, I don’t know how you … Harriet dear, come with me and we’ll get started.’

They went out and I smiled to myself. More through luck than skill, Batty had found me the perfect PA. First, Harriet’s nervousness wasn’t a problem. It was even understandable, since Highbury Foods was a big step up from a half-baked outfit like Abbey Mill Haulage; and I much preferred nervousness to brash self-confidence. Second, she was crying out for my help. A complete makeover was needed and I had plenty of spare time now that my academic studies were at an end. Finally, she had neither the intellect nor the experience to challenge my ideas – or so it seemed. I made a mental note to reserve judgement; anyone would act like a halfwit after a long dose of Batty.

As if he could read my mind, Mark said, ‘Let’s hope Harriet’s up to the job.’

‘Poor Kate, why did she get married?’ Dad spread out his hands in despair.

Mark was incredulous. ‘Poor Kate? More like clever Kate. She’s just halved her workload – only Tom to run round after, instead of you two.’

I noticed a teasing glint in his eye and decided to rise to the bait. ‘Especially when one of us is such a pain.’

‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ he said, with a grin.

Dad gave a wan smile. ‘I know I can be a bit of a nuisance at times – ’

‘Oh Dad, we didn’t mean you!’ I darted behind the desk to give him a swift kiss on the cheek. ‘Mark thinks I’m the pain, not you. But it doesn’t bother me, we always say whatever we like to each other, then forget all about it.’

Dad shook his head in bewilderment.

‘If that was true, I’d be wasting my time – and Henry’s money – mentoring you for the next six months,’ Mark said, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Anyway, I’m probably underestimating Kate, I expect she’s already got Tom running round after her. And I bet she’s enjoying every single minute.’

Then it hit me. Kate’s life had taken a new direction and she was no longer at my beck and call. I made a big show of arranging the pens on Dad’s desk.

Mark broke the silence. ‘Now, Henry, where’s that agenda you mentioned?’

~~MARK~~

With the mentoring in mind, Henry had suggested I share Emma’s office whenever I was at Highbury Foods. I sat there now, pretending to re-read the Board papers but secretly watching her as she scowled at her PC.

I still couldn’t get over how much she’d changed physically. The only photos I’d seen of her were the slapdash efforts of my sister-in-law Izzy, whose camera lens was always focused on her kids. More often than not Emma was just a blurred face, or hardly visible under a pile of chubby little arms and legs.

So, no more Mouse. It was the end of an era.

But the dawn of a new one, neatly summed up by that headline, ‘Gentleman’s Relish’. Ironic, of course; when I’d first caught sight of her earlier today, my thoughts had been anything but gentlemanly …

I closed my file with a snap. Time for the Board meeting.

~~EMMA~~

I couldn’t resist checking Batty’s seating plan from across the boardroom table. At one end of a long rectangle she had ‘HLW – Henry Woodhouse, Managing Director’; at the other, ‘MGK – Mark Knightley, Non-Executive Director’. I knew what the G stood for, of course. The Knightleys believed in recycling the same solid old-fashioned names, as if promoting themselves as fine specimens of English manhood; the father was George James and the two sons were Mark George and John James.

My parents had been more imaginative; my sister and I were named Isabella Maria, Izzy for short, and Emma Carlotta. That was all down to Sophia, our Italian mother, who died in a car crash when I was three and Izzy was twelve. She’d apparently been a breath of fresh air in Highbury – outspoken and headstrong, but charming with it. It made me wonder how she’d coped with Dad, although Mark once told me that he used to be full of energy.

On Batty’s plan, I was at right angles to Mark: ‘ECW – Emma Woodhouse, Marketing Director’. Next to me was ‘PTW – Penny Worthington, HR Director’, then ‘JM – Jon Marshall, Operations Director’ and ‘TSW – Terry White, Sales Director’. Opposite was Batty herself, ‘MEB – Mary Bates, Company Secretary’, then Harriet and finally ‘PE – Philip Elton, Finance Director’.

Finance, yawn, was my least favourite MBA subject and Philip himself was new to the company. I’d only met him once before, briefly, whereas I’d known the others for years. One of my priorities was to make them forget I was Henry’s little girl and accept me as an equal.

Fortified by a cup of nettle leaf tea, Dad opened the meeting and welcomed the new faces. We went through apologies (none), minutes of the last meeting (approved) and then to the substance of the meeting, the directors’ reports.

Everything was fine until my turn came. I’d persuaded Dad to give me a slot on the agenda, as I wanted to share my marketing plans with the Board and get some early buy-in. I’d prepared a presentation on my PC, then found there was no projector, so everyone had a paper copy of my slides instead.

I started with a brief review of our markets and competitive position. I listed the emerging trends in consumer demographics and buying behaviours and other factors, such as some pending EU food legislation which would adversely affect one of our longest-running lines.

‘Any questions at this stage?’ I asked.

Everyone was silent. Dad had his head in his hands, as if the picture I’d painted was all too much for him. Then Mark, who’d been scribbling notes throughout my presentation, leaned forward. I tensed; somehow I knew a lecture was on its way.

‘Your analysis is too limited,’ he said. ‘You need to look at competition in a broader sense. For example, what are the trends in eating out as opposed to staying in and cooking with Highbury Foods products? And your focus is all UK, you should be selling world-wide. Expat communities would be an ideal target market for your traditional English product lines.’

‘Such as Gentleman’s Relish,’ Terry said, with a wicked grin. ‘Now where did I see that mentioned in the press recently?’

I closed my eyes for a moment and debated which of the two to castrate first, metaphorically speaking. I decided to ignore Terry and deal with Mark.

‘I assumed the trends in eating out would reflect disposable income and therefore be linked to inflation and the other general economic outlook forecasts.’ I selected a page and held it up. ‘Those figures were on slide five, as you can see.’

Mark frowned. ‘That’s OK at this level. But when you get down to the detailed planning, you need to look at something like the Mintel reports. Remember when I did my MBA at Ashridge? As an Alumni member, I can access all sorts of business information at no cost. Just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll take you there for the day.’

‘How kind,’ I said, feeling about ten years old. ‘Shall we move on?’

I squared my shoulders and prepared for battle. I was about to step on people’s toes big time, including Dad’s. ‘Corporate image. What’s our strapline?’

‘Purveyor of traditional foods for the discerning palate,’ came the chorus from everyone except Mark and Harriet.

‘Rather a mouthful, isn’t it? And can anyone under sixty relate to it?’

Dad blanched. ‘You’re not going to change it, are you?’

‘Not yet. But I would like to commission some research into corporate image, among other things, for our main product range.’ I paused. ‘Betty’s Best.’

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table.

‘Betty’s Best?’ Batty whispered, as though uttering something sacred.

‘Named after my grandmother,’ Dad said to Harriet, who was looking baffled. ‘Our very first product, fifty-two years ago, was Betty’s Best Seville Marmalade. Since then, the range has expanded to almost sixty products and is still going strong.’

I lifted my chin. ‘But, as we heard earlier, not as strong as it should be. Philip, remind us of the sales and profit figures for Betty’s Best division.’

‘Certainly, Emma.’ Philip gave me a knowing look and shuffled his papers. ‘Sales two percent down in the last quarter, mainly in the South-East, and operating profit down five percent, due to some aggressive discounting by key distributors.’

Dad sighed. ‘Yes, Mark picked up on that and Terry agreed to negotiate more favourable terms.’

‘But it’s getting more and more difficult to hold the price, Henry,’ Terry said in a whingeing tone. ‘Betty’s Best seems to have lost some of its appeal, or maybe its loyal customers are dying off.’

I couldn’t help a little smile of triumph. ‘Exactly. Now I’m not saying we get rid of this range, far from it. It’s still our main cash cow, in spite of the heavy discounting. What I want is a new range brought in to appeal to a customer segment that we’re currently neglecting. If you turn to page twelve in the presentation … ’

I’d mocked up a picture showing a very attractive, smartly dressed, young-to-middle-aged blonde at a well-equipped kitchen table, a far cry from homely old Betty and her rolling pin. And underneath I’d used Word Art for the name of the new product range. Except – oh, shit.

Philip’s face lit up. ‘Victoria’s Secret? Isn’t that – ’

I felt myself go red. ‘A US lingerie company? Yes. This is meant to say Victoria’s Secret Recipes, but the last word has gone missing somehow.’

To my left, Mark said quietly, ‘It’s a basic – read through your material before you present it.’

I took a deep breath. Keep calm, retain presence. ‘The name’s not important, it was just to convey the sort of positioning I’m after. The smart woman of today, single or married, it doesn’t matter, juggling a job and/or family with frequent entertaining. She needs a helping hand in the kitchen but wants to give the impression she’s made everything herself. I want to re-market Betty’s Best to give her products that need the minimum of preparation, with recipes for sophisticated ways of using them. Her guests will think she’s done it all herself. That’s Victoria’s Secret. Or something,’ I added, making a mental note to find an alternative to Victoria as soon as possible.

Philip beamed at me. ‘Marvellous, Emma.’

‘I can certainly identify with Victoria’s situation,’ Penny said. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’

Terry chuckled. ‘Maybe that US company would be interested in a joint marketing campaign. Victoria, in her kitchen, with our products and dressed in their lingerie. Could appeal to another untapped market, men aged anywhere between twenty and seventy.’

Dad looked horrified. ‘Men buying our products, whatever next?’

I glared at Terry. ‘Actually, the Victoria I have in mind is above cheap gimmicks. She’s cool and efficient and the envy of her friends in everything she does.’ I looked around the table. ‘I’m sure you can all think of a real-life Victoria.’

There was silence.

Then Harriet spoke for the first time. ‘Victoria Beckham?’

Jon burst out laughing. ‘No way. Does she even know she’s got a kitchen?’

I ignored him and smiled at Harriet, who was pink with embarrassment. ‘You’ve got the right idea, but I’d prefer someone who’s not a celebrity. Someone with beauty, class and brains that women in the real world can aspire to be.’

Philip said, ‘Well, gentlemen, I’m sure we need look no further than this room – ’

Mark interrupted him impatiently. ‘Basically, you’re looking to revamp Betty’s Best products for a younger customer segment?’

‘Correct,’ I said. I couldn’t fault his concise summary.

‘Have you done any research to justify this?’

‘Of course. Only desk research so far, but I’d like to do some primary research with focus groups. That’ll mean spending some money, concept boards with photos and so on. If the Board approves, I’ll put together a proposal and some costings for our next meeting.’

‘Seems a sensible approach,’ Dad said. ‘Who’s in favour?’

Philip and Penny raised their hands instantly, followed by Batty and Terry. Jon hesitated, then nodded.

Dad looked down the table. ‘What about you, Mark?’

‘I have some reservations, Henry, but nothing major. And I’m sure that, between us, you and I can keep Emma on the right track.’

I stared at the papers in front of me. He made me sound like a wayward teenager.

‘That’s settled, then.’ Dad sounded relieved. ‘Harriet, add Emma’s proposal to the agenda for our next meeting. We’ve got no other business to discuss, so let’s finish there. Jon, I’d like a word with you before you disappear off to the factory. And would anyone like to try some nettle leaf tea? It’s highly recommended for eliminating waste.’

Pity it couldn’t eliminate Mark Knightley. From this boardroom or, better still, from my life. How could Dad ask him to mentor me? It would be like turning the clock back to Mouse. He’d always been one for criticising me and bossing me around; I’d accepted it then, even looked up to him. And there’d always been Kate to restore the balance; in her eyes, I could do no wrong.

But now the last thing I needed was The Tormentor telling me how to do my job. I’d have to make my plans without consulting him, and take action before he noticed.

As I moved towards the door, Philip rushed to open it. I gave him a warm smile, remembering his encouragement and support during the meeting, unlike some I could mention.

He leaned forward and murmured, ‘I was really impressed by the way you defended Harriet against that idiot Marshall. Of course, I was about to say something myself, but you beat me to it. I suppose you can guess who my real-life inspiration is for your divine Victoria?’

Just then, I heard a shriek. It was Harriet, knocking over the milk jug as she reached for the last biscuit. Batty dashed out of the room to fetch a cloth, while Harriet blushed and giggled. She looked the opposite of cool efficiency, yet there was something about her …

‘There she is,’ I said softly. ‘My divine Victoria, as you call her. Just give her some decent clothes and there’s my mock-up brought to life.’

Behind me, Philip let out a long sigh. ‘Beauty, class and brains.’

So that was it, he’d fallen for Harriet! Beauty she certainly had. Class I could give her. Brains? He was taking a flyer there, but I put it down to the delusions of a man already in love.

I turned to him with a mischievous grin. ‘You were going to tell me about your real-life Victoria.’

He went bright red. ‘I’m sure you can guess who she is, it must be obvious to someone as intelligent as you.’

‘I have a pretty good idea,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Anyway, I’d better go and start my research proposal. It’s good to know you’re onside, I may need some help with the costings.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve got a standard cost-benefit analysis spreadsheet we could use, quite complicated, but I’m more than happy to go through it with you. How about this afternoon?’

I knew he just wanted an excuse to come and see Harriet. ‘OK, we can at least have an initial chat so that I know what sort of detail you’ll need. Ask Harriet to check my diary.’

I smiled as I left them together in the boardroom; it looked as though my next matchmaking project was underway.

Mark was in my office, looking out of the window. I couldn’t see his face, but his hands were behind his back and he was fidgeting with his watch, always a sign he was worried.

No wonder; Izzy had told me all about Tamara and his carefree expat lifestyle in India. Now he was stuck on his own for six months in Highbury, where the old biddy mafia tracked your every move and the highlight of the social calendar was Batty’s Charity Bridge Drive.

I touched his sleeve. ‘Mark.’

He spun round and gave me a long, serious look. ‘Mouse. I mean Emma. Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Listen, why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow night? We can catch up properly and you can terrify Dad with tales of Delhi belly. Shall we say seven o’clock? It’ll be just like old times.’

He hesitated and for a moment I thought he was going to refuse.

Then he said simply, ‘Sounds great.

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 Château 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 Château 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.

‘Fine,’ I said, refilling Dad’s glass despite his feeble protests. ‘Harriet’s settling in nicely. And I think I’ve found my next matchmaking assignment.’

‘Please, darling, not again.’ Dad put his hand on my arm. ‘Whenever you make a prediction about people, it comes true. Look at poor Kate.’

I laughed. ‘I know. My first attempt at matchmaking was a complete success.’

‘Success?’ Mark leaned forward in his chair and gave me a disapproving look. ‘Rubbish. Success implies a plan, and some effort. Knowing you, you made a lucky guess then sat back and did nothing.’

This from the expert, the man whose idea of a fulfilling relationship was dragging each other along to functions! ‘Everyone knows that guesses need skill as much as luck,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘And no, I didn’t have a plan exactly, but I didn’t sit back and do nothing either, the truth’s somewhere in between.’ I smiled as I recalled how easy it had been. ‘I got things rolling as soon as Tom came out of the Merchant Navy and settled back in Highbury. I invited him and Kate to dinner, with a few other people as well, so that it wasn’t too obvious, then made sure he gave her a lift home. After that, it was just a matter of prodding them along. When I was in the States I couldn’t do much, of course, but by then it was cut and dried.’

‘You should have left well alone, people are quite capable of choosing their partners without any help from you.’ Another disapproving look.

Dad pounced on Mark’s last few words. ‘That’s just like Emma, always helping others, never thinking of herself. But matchmaking’s such a risky business! Giving romantic notions to a man and a woman who’ve probably never thought of each other that way before – it’s no wonder so many couples break up. Save yourself the trouble, darling, you’ll only be disappointed.’

‘You worry too much, Dad,’ I said gently. ‘And I hope you’re not suggesting that Kate and Tom will break up, because actually they’re better suited than most couples. Just look at Izzy and John – ’ I stopped, remembering who I was with.

‘Maybe Kate and Tom seem better suited because they’re much older – and wiser – than Izzy and John,’ Mark said drily.

Dad frowned. ‘I can’t agree with you there, Isabella’s so sensible and a marvellous wife and mother, although John can be rather – ’

‘Anyway,’ I put in, getting up to check that I’d finished setting the table, ‘it’s too late, my next assignment’s well underway.’

Mark drained his glass. ‘The time to really worry, Henry, is when Emma starts matchmaking for herself.’

‘I’d rather die,’ I said, with a dismissive laugh. ‘As far as I’m concerned men can stay on Mars, or wherever it is they come from, at least for the moment.’

‘So do enlighten us, who’s your next victim?’

Victim? He made me sound like a black widow spider. I straightened the place mats and braced myself for criticism. ‘Philip Elton.’

‘Elton? You must be joking.’

‘I am not, he’s the ideal candidate.’ I ticked off the reasons on my fingers. ‘He’s in his prime, can’t be any older than thirty … Handsome, not my type of course … Good career prospects, I mean with another company, he’s already got as far as he can at Highbury Foods … And he’s just bought a house, he says he spends every weekend in Ikea. That’s a Swedish furniture chain, in case you don’t know. I remember doing a case study on them for my MBA, although I’ve never been in any of their shops. Poor Philip, he seems to have everything, but have you noticed how lonely he looks? He’s got such big mournful brown eyes, just like Dr Perry’s labrador when he thinks you’ve come to the surgery to take him for a walk.’ I smiled as I re-folded the napkins. ‘Yes, when I find the right woman for him, I guarantee she’ll be sharing his little Ikea show home in a matter of weeks, or even days.’

Dad looked at me in utter dismay. ‘But there’s no need to go that far, if it’s company he wants then Mark or I could help. You’ll be seeing some of your old friends while you’re here, won’t you, Mark?’

‘I’m not sure Philip’ll fit in with my crowd,’ Mark said, ‘but I don’t mind having the odd drink with him.’

Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll find out if he plays bridge. You know, we still play every Thursday, Mark. That’s myself, Frank Clarke, Mary and her mother. But Frank had a triple heart bypass last year and some weeks he doesn’t feel up to going out, so I could invite Philip instead. Or would you be interested?’

‘No thank you, I’m very rusty.’

‘Pity, it’s an excellent way of passing the time, especially now the nights are drawing in.’

I scowled as I moved the decanter to the table. Cosy drinks with Mark and games of geriatric bridge were certainly not on my agenda for Philip.

Dad went on, ‘And we could always give a party, just a little one, so that Philip gets to know people better.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, knowing that Dad’s idea of a party would be vastly different from any normal person’s. ‘As long as you let me choose the food and drink.’

Mark smiled patronisingly as I took his empty glass. ‘By all means choose Philip’s food, Emma, but not his women. Believe me, you’d be completely out of your depth.’

I said nothing, although I thought plenty. We’d see which one of us was proved right, Mr Know-it-all Knightley.

~~MARK~~

As we sat down to eat, I decided that in one respect Emma hadn’t changed; she was still maddeningly pig-headed. She seemed determined to ignore my advice and learn the hard way about Philip Elton. I’d sized him up as soon as I met him, a dangerous combination of limited ability and unlimited ambition.

‘Not my type,’ she’d said. Thank God for that. I wondered what her type was …

Her voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘I’ve assumed you still like lasagne?’

I nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. There were various salads and warm ciabatta to accompany it; for Emma and me, at any rate. Henry restricted himself to a tiny portion of what looked like regurgitated baby food.

Emma kept the conversation flowing, mainly with questions about India. I explained the nature of our operation there and how I personally selected growers to supply many of our leading product lines: tea and spices, obviously, but also rice, fruit, cashew nuts and even coffee. I described my fascination with a country where you’d be gazing at breathtaking natural beauty one minute and turning away from sordid man-made poverty the next. Predictably, Henry was interested in public hygiene, while Emma wanted to know how the growers complied with the UK’s organic food standards.

I realised how much I’d missed Hartfield. Dinners like this had been a regular event at one time; initially for everyone in the two families then, once John married Izzy, just for Henry, Emma and me. The quality of the food varied occasionally, if Emma went through an experimental phase; the quality of the company, never – except when she had that teenage crush on me. But she’d soon got over that.

I looked at my watch and saw with surprise that it was after ten o’clock. ‘I’d best be off. It’s been such a relaxing evening that walking back to Donwell Abbey has lost its appeal. Are you still offering me a lift, Emma?’

‘Of course. I’ve not had much wine, let’s hope you’ve had enough to be able to tolerate my driving.’

I laughed; I’d always loved her wicked sense of humour. Good to know that hadn’t changed. It made me want to reach out and hug her.

I would have done, before; but not now.

~~EMMA~~

The usual passenger in my silver BMW 325 convertible was Dad. He liked to have the seat in its most forward position so that he could fiddle constantly with the air conditioning controls; funny how he could never seem to find the right setting until I pulled into our parking space at Highbury Foods …

I waited while Mark moved the seat back and got comfortable. Then, just as we set off, it started to rain. I flicked the windscreen wipers on and didn’t speak until I’d negotiated the twists and turns in our long driveway.

‘Thanks for tonight,’ I said at last. ‘Dad really enjoyed it. Why not come again next week?’

Silence. I glanced across; he was sound asleep.

The journey to Donwell Abbey took only five minutes by car. Although I hadn’t been there much in the last few years, I would have found my way blindfold. Down Wheel Lane, left onto the Kingston road, left again after a mile or so and there we were, approaching the house under a dripping canopy of horse chestnut trees. I drew up as quietly as I could on the gravel drive, just in case George and Saffron were already in bed, and gently shook Mark’s sleeve.

No response. I sighed and switched off the engine. ‘Mark, wake up.’

He stirred and turned towards me. His eyes were still closed; his face, caught in the glare of the security lighting, looked younger, off guard, more vulnerable. I heard the rain pattering on the car hood and felt cocooned from reality, safe and dry. But somehow not safe. And my mouth too dry.

I swallowed. ‘Mark, you’re home.’

His eyes opened and focused immediately on my mouth. For a split second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Not the brotherly peck he’d occasionally condescended to in the past, but a tongue-down-the-throat job.

I gave a nervous laugh and the moment passed, unexplored. ‘I thought I was going to have to slap your face to wake you up.’

‘Did I do anything to make you want to slap my face?’ There was something unfamiliar in his voice, almost like … fear.

‘No more than usual,’ I said, staring at him.

He stared back. ‘Lovely evening, thank you. Sorry I dozed off just now, must be the jet lag. Why don’t you come in and – ’

‘No!’ I turned on the ignition. ‘I’d better go, you know how Dad worries.’

‘Goodnight, then.’ He got out of the car, bent his head against the rain and dashed to the front door. I revved the engine, swung the car round in a careless arc and drove off with a lot less consideration for the Knightleys than when I’d arrived.

All the way home I thought about that look on his face when he woke up. It was weird. No, not weird, ridiculous.

Mark Knightley wouldn’t want to kiss me like that.

Ever.

~~MARK~~

I was shattered, but I didn’t go straight to bed. Instead I went to the family room, now seldom used, and switched on the PC. I waited impatiently while the machine wheezed into life, then logged into my personal email account.

Nothing from Tamara, but that was no surprise. We weren’t ones to correspond cosily over the Internet, or chat on the phone. As Tamara said, we communicated best between the sheets.

Tonight, though, I wanted desperately to be in touch.

Tam,

Missing you.

Any chance of you coming here before October?

Love M.

I sent the email and waited a few minutes, hoping she was online; but there was no reply.

Then I glanced down at the top drawer of the desk beside me. It was slightly open, revealing a glimpse of thigh, that photo of Emma. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to drift.

Soft skin against my lips, the heat of her, the taste …

I rammed the drawer shut and headed upstairs for a shower. A cold one, to numb my mind – and everything else.

~~EMMA~~

During that first week, I found out everything I needed to know about Harriet Smith. My first impressions were accurate. Clothes-wise, she was a walking disaster, lots of fake leather and cheap gold jewellery. And as soon as she forgot to talk properly, her speech became unintelligible. ‘Me farva’s got a tan ass’ apparently meant ‘my father lives in a town house’; ‘that geezer’s roofless’ was not a reference to a homeless person, but her term for a man without compassion.

I had to face facts. Harriet was a chav, a phenomenon I’d heard about but never actually experienced. The nearest I’d come to it was trailer trash in the States. Giving her a touch of class would be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated; but, in my book, nothing was impossible.

Her curriculum vitae was uninspiring. She’d been born and bred in Basildon, Essex, where her parents and younger brothers still lived. At sixteen she’d left school, done the basic secretarial qualifications and worked ever since. I wasn’t yet sure if it was her typing skills that guaranteed her constant employment, or simply her looks. Now twenty-two, she was renting an old house on the far side of Highbury, with three girls of a similar age.

When she told me that her father had been a professional and now earned his living as a bookkeeper, I felt a sudden surge of interest, visualising Philip’s spellbound face as Mr Smith held forth on the latest Statement of Standard Accounting Practice. Unfortunately, I’d misheard. Her father was a bookmaker; and he’d previously been a professional footballer with a team called Saffend United, before being injured in an off-pitch incident involving large amounts of alcohol.

And she had the most deplorable taste in men. One morning, I asked to see her temping contract. As we sat down to go through Batty’s Temp Tation file, the first thing I saw was a letter from Abbey Mill Haulage. It began like a reference, but ended on a surprising note.

To whom it may concern:

Harriet-Smith worked at Abbey Mill Haulage from 6^th June to 26^th August inclusive assisting our senior secretary Mrs Wagstaff. She was polite and punctual. Harriet brightened up the office every day. I’ll miss her terribly.

Robert Martin

Managing Director.

We used Abbey Mill Haulage for most of our transportation and I knew Martin by sight. A large, lumbering man, rather like a carthorse, he reminded me of an intellectually challenged quarterback I’d dated briefly in the States. I tried not to let this prejudice me, just as I refused to be influenced by Harriet hovering excitedly at my shoulder, waiting for my reaction.

I gave a short laugh. ‘“Brightened up the office … miss her terribly” … Most unprofessional, you should never say anything personal in a reference, you could be sued.’

Harriet’s face fell. ‘He said it was only the troof.’

‘Truth, Harriet. It’s quite over the top, for someone like him.’

‘D’you know Rob Martin?’ she said eagerly.

‘I’ve seen him around,’ I said. ‘Tradesmen are always touting for Highbury Foods’ business.’

‘He says he’s going to expand Abbey Mill now his farva’s retired.’

‘Father. How old is Robert?’

‘He was twenty-eight on 8th June, and my birthday was 23rd June, Rob says there’s only fifteen days’ difference. Or is it sixteen? Anyway, Rob says we’re both Gemini, I thought I was Cancer, but he says I’m definitely Gemini like him.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t use astrology to run his company,’ I said drily. ‘Is he married, or living with anyone?’

She blushed. ‘No, he’s still living at home, his mum says he’s ready to settle down, but she doesn’t know who’s good enough for him.’

‘In other words, she can’t wait to get rid of him. How did you meet her?’

‘She works at Abbey Mill, only two days a week since Rob’s dad retired. And she doesn’t want to get rid of Rob, she says she couldn’t have a better son.’

‘Really, Harriet, every other sentence is “Rob says” or “Rob’s mum says”. Do you fancy him or something?’

Another blush. ‘I didn’t at first, Trace says he’s a bit of an ug.’

‘A what?’

‘Ugly geezer. But we get on really well. And on my last day he took me to The Ploughman after work. You know, that pub in Little Bassington that’s just been done up.’

‘I don’t know actually, I never go to pubs.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Anyway, we’ve been out twice since then and I fancy him rotten now.’

This was the last thing I wanted to hear. ‘But Harriet, with your looks you could do so much better. You just need a classier image and that’s why – ’

‘Hello, ladies.’ With perfect timing, Philip poked his head round the door.

‘Come in, Philip.’ I gave him a dazzling smile, then continued, ‘And that’s why you’re going to be the face of Harriet’s Secret Recipes.’

‘Me?’ she squealed. ‘What about Victoria?’

‘Harriet sounds just as upmarket as Victoria. And I want to get away from any association with that US lingerie company, I still can’t understand how I had their name in my presentation.’ My lips tightened as I recalled the humiliation of the Board meeting.

Philip placed a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, it was probably subliminal, I bet you’ve got drawers full of the stuff at home.’

I gave him a frosty look. I didn’t mind him speculating about Harriet’s choice of underwear, but there was no need for him to do the same for me.

He went red and hurriedly removed his hand. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. I came to see if you needed a hand with the photo shoot, you did say you were doing it yourself to save the expense of hiring an agency.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘You certainly know the way to a Finance Director’s heart.’

I thawed a little. Here was another flimsy pretext for his daily pilgrimage to Harriet’s desk. I had to give the man top marks for effort.

‘How kind, maybe you could help with editing and printing the photos.’ And I bet one or two find their way onto your bedroom wall, I added to myself.

‘Delighted to, I’ve got some very good software on my computer at home. Why don’t you come over one evening and we’ll work on it together?’ His gaze flickered rather uncertainly across to Harriet and I guessed he was afraid she might refuse.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ I said. ‘We’ll be taking the photos in the kitchen at Hartfield, but Harriet and I could come over to your place straight after.’

He looked a little put out. Perhaps he’d hoped to have the photos taken at his house; Harriet draped over his Ikea worktops, a symbol of future domestic bliss. Shame I couldn’t indulge his little fantasy, but the kitchens of my target audience were more likely to be at the Bulthaup end of the range.

I gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll all work out to everyone’s satisfaction. Was there anything else?’

The doggy expression came into his eyes. ‘Yes, I’d like to go over the Marketing budget with you, we’re nearly at the end of the financial year and things are a bit tight, but I’m sure we can find some extra funding for an important project like Harriet’s Secret Recipes. How about later this week?’

‘Fine, just check my diary with Harriet.’ I escaped to my room, leaving the door open so that I could hear them. It sounded as though things were progressing nicely; he was droning on about something and she was giggling.

After a few minutes, Harriet came in. ‘Amazing, Philip lives in Little Bassington and we both think The Ploughman’s much better since it’s been done out, it was minging before.’

‘So when’s he taking you there?’

‘Philip, taking me? Get real.’ She looked at me as if I had two heads.

‘But you were discussing the pub, he might have been going to ask you out.’

‘No, he was fixing up that meeting with you – ’

‘Tell me about that later.’ I leaned across my desk towards her and made my tone as persuasive as possible. ‘You see, Harriet, as I was saying before Philip came in, I think you can do far better than Robert Martin. He’s working class, poorly educated, and you said yourself he’s downright ugly. Just compare him to some of the men you’ve met at Highbury Foods.’

She cocked her head on one side. ‘You’re right, I really like Rob, but even I can see that he’s different from someone like Mark.’

‘Mark?’

‘Yeah, Trace would say he’s well shaggable.’

Nine years ago I would have agreed with Trace’s opinion, although not her way of expressing it. Now, with practised ease, I sidestepped memories of my teenage crush and merely said, ‘I was thinking more of Terry, or Philip. They dress smartly, talk intelligently, behave impeccably. So does Mark, except – ’

I was going to say ‘he’s out of your league’, when she cut in with, ‘Yeah, but Terry’s so old, forty-five at least.’ She pulled a face.

‘Well then, what about Philip? He’s young, handsome, attentive – look how often he’s in here, offering to assist a pair of helpless little females.’ I lowered my voice to a yearning whisper. ‘And there’s a sort of gentleness about him that women find very appealing. He’s not overbearing, like Mark.’

Her face lit up. ‘Oh, Mark isn’t like that with me. On my first day, he came to find me after the Board meeting and he looked at me with those sexy blue eyes, same colour as mine, spooky!’ She smiled dreamily. ‘He said he hoped I’d enjoy working here and Mary was the ideal person to help me settle in. Isn’t that a nice thing for someone like him to say?’

‘If you think that’s nice, just listen to this. After the very same Board meeting, when Jon Marshall was so rude about your Victoria Beckham suggestion, Philip told me he would have rushed to your defence if I hadn’t got there first.’ I shook my head knowingly. ‘You have no idea how much that man fancies you. The other day, when I said how lovely your hair looked – remember you tied it back, as I told you? – he went into ecstasies, I couldn’t shut him up for about ten minutes.’

‘Did he really?’ She paused. ‘Are you going out with anyone?’

I laughed. ‘No, thank God. My last boyfriend became a real pain in the butt so I’ve given men up for the time being.’

‘Don’t you fancy anyone?’

‘No.’ I hesitated. ‘At least, no one round here. So, when’s my meeting with Philip?’

‘Thursday lunchtime, at The Ploughman. That’s why we were talking about it, he thought it would be – ’

‘The Ploughman? You must’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Harriet, you’re the only person he wants to take to The Ploughman. We’ll have the meeting here, then you can sit in as well. And tell him not to worry about lunch, I’ll order some sandwiches.’

~~MARK~~

With Father and Saffron off on their cruise and Tao in kennels, I had Donwell Abbey to myself. Mrs Burn came in most weekdays, but our paths rarely crossed. And it looked as though my solitude would continue for several weeks; Tamara emailed me to say she couldn’t come any earlier than the date we’d already arranged, 19th October, my birthday.

I felt I owed it to Henry to kick off the mentoring as soon as possible. It proved easier said than done; whenever I phoned to speak to Emma I was told, usually by a giggling Harriet, that she was in a meeting.

Three days after my first call, she rang me back. ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch until now, I’m having a busy week.’

‘Glad to hear it, we’ll have lots to discuss at our first mentoring meeting.’

‘Can’t wait. Things should calm down in a fortnight or so, what about week commencing – ’

‘If you’re so busy at work,’ I put in, sensing stalling tactics, ‘why don’t I come over to Hartfield this weekend? Your father’s very keen for us to get started.’

There was a pause. Then she said coolly, ‘If you must. Saturday afternoon, about four?’

‘Perfect. I’m meeting Steve Chapman – my mate from school, remember? – at six thirty, so our meeting will have to finish by six, but that should give us enough time. No need to bring anything from the office, it’ll just be an informal chat.’

At twenty to four on Saturday afternoon, I set off for Hartfield along the bridle path. Small white clouds scudded across an azure sky, the air was crisp and invigorating and the leaves were starting to turn. I was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of an English autumn, however. As I walked, I rehearsed how the meeting would go. I would be business-like, objective, professional. In short, I would pretend I was dealing with anyone except Emma Woodhouse.

I reached Hartfield at four o’clock prompt. An elderly and unfamiliar Vauxhall Nova was parked on the drive, but I was absorbed in my thoughts and didn’t pay much attention.

Emma came to the front door, in a green V-necked jumper that brought out the colour of her eyes. ‘Hi there, would you believe I’ve got some unexpected visitors.’ She grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘I’ll get rid of them as quickly as I can, then we can get on with the mentoring. I know you need to get away by six.’

To my surprise, I found Harriet in the drawing room. Apparently she was the model for Emma’s marketing campaign and had dropped by to find a suitable outfit. Kate was there too, just returned from honeymoon. Somehow I knew that neither visit was unexpected; everything had been planned with military precision.

‘Harriet and I’ll be upstairs looking at clothes,’ Emma said airily. ‘I’m sure you two have plenty of catching up to do, help yourselves to tea.’ As they went out of the room, I turned to Kate with a smile.

‘Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?’

‘Not at all.’

I sat down and called Steve to put our meeting back an hour. It was just a local pub crawl with some of our crowd; it didn’t really matter if I was delayed, as long as I knew where to find them later in the evening.

When I’d finished, Kate handed me a cup of tea. ‘It’s great to see you.’

‘And you. I don’t need to ask if you’ve had a good honeymoon, it’s obvious. Congratulations, by the way. I’m sure you and Tom will be very happy.’

‘We should be, we’ve had four whole years to get to know each other.’

Her words made me think. How well did I know Tamara? In theory we’d had the time, but maybe not the inclination.

I changed the subject. ‘What do you think about Emma’s latest fixation? By that I mean Harriet.’

‘It’s good for her to see someone her own age, she’s lost touch with most of her old friends from round here.’

This namby-pamby reply was only to be expected from Kate Weston; in her eyes, Emma was perfect. And since Emma went through a pretence of consulting Kate before doing exactly as she liked, they were always in complete harmony.

‘Sorry, I have to disagree with you, as usual where Emma’s concerned. I don’t think it’s good for her, it’s a very unequal relationship. She’s treating Harriet like some sort of giant doll – for God’s sake, she’s even dressing her up as we speak!’ I glared at Kate, but she just smiled and carried on drinking her tea. I took a gulp of mine, then added, ‘The trouble with Emma is that she thinks she’s got nothing to learn.’

Kate laughed. ‘Actually, Emma’s learnt an awful lot over the last few years. About economics and business administration, for a start. And men.’

I nearly choked on my next mouthful of tea. ‘Men? She knows as much about men as I do about leg waxing. Know what? She needs a man who won’t let her wind him round her little finger, that might waken her ideas up a bit.’

‘She doesn’t seem to go for men like that. Have you ever met any of her boyfriends?’

‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘I get the occasional update from John and Izzy, I seem to remember she’s had two serious relationships to date and isn’t seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘That’s right, and both those boys were much keener than she was. She met Piers in her first year at LSE, he was heartbroken when she went to the States. Then for most of her time at Harvard she lived with Scott and he even followed her back here. But she wasn’t that interested. Just as well, I didn’t rate either of them as good enough. Neither did Tom, he thinks the world of her of course, she’s like a daughter to him.’ Another little smile.

I put my cup carefully down on its saucer. ‘Got plans in that direction, have you?’

She went pink. ‘You mean Emma and Flynn? Not plans exactly, Tom and I just think they’ll hit it off extremely well. They were due to meet at our wedding of course, then Stella wangled Flynn a TV chat show appearance and he had to drop everything and stay in Australia.’

‘I see.’

And I did; the man I believed Churchill to be would always choose fame over family. He’d never yet been to England to see his father and it wasn’t for lack of funds. When his mother died giving birth to him, her sister Stella, a Sydney-based property tycoon with more money than sense, adopted him and brought him up. Tom was obliged to go along with this arrangement; he had never married Flynn’s mother and his career in the Merchant Navy wasn’t conducive to childrearing. He visited Flynn whenever Stella allowed, which wasn’t often, and kept in contact by phone and email; which meant he’d been able to give detailed and regular updates about his son to everyone in Highbury for the last twenty odd years. I’d always suspected these glowing accounts were wildly exaggerated, but I seemed to be in the minority.

Kate seemed to think I needed convincing. ‘He’s quite a celebrity over there, you know. Has his own TV series, Flynn’s Cook-in.’

‘I didn’t realise cooking was one of his many talents.’

‘Neither did I, but apparently he’s amazing at it. And anyway, being a TV chef is as much about personality as skill, isn’t it? Each week he has to turn up unexpectedly at someone’s house, with the TV crew obviously, and make a three-course meal out of whatever they’ve got in their kitchen. Can you imagine what it takes to do that?’ She paused to sip her tea.

‘Sheer balls or crass stupidity,’ I thought. ‘If not both.’

She went on, ‘And it’s been such a huge success that he’s hoping he can repeat the same formula over here. He was due to have a meeting about it at the BBC last week. He’s talking of re-arranging it for next month, but Tom and I daren’t get our hopes up.’

As I had little interest in Flynn Churchill, and even less patience with his cavalier attitude towards his father, I steered the conversation back to Emma.

‘But you know Emma and her obsessions. When something – or someone – new comes along, she’ll drop Harriet like a hot brick. Except it’ll be problematic, because the poor girl works for her.’

‘I think you’re being a bit harsh.’

‘Really?’ I raised one eyebrow. ‘Remember when she was thirteen, she was going to read all the classics? She made a list, and a work of art it was too, I got it framed for her as a joke. How many did she read?’

‘She started three, but – ’

‘ – didn’t finish any of them,’ I put in. ‘She just won’t stick at anything that requires discipline. And what about that bloody piano? She pestered Henry for lessons until he gave in, then never practised from one week to the next.’

‘All right, I give up,’ Kate said, laughing. ‘But, according to Emma, Harriet isn’t very clever, so maybe she won’t notice if she’s dropped.’

‘Whereas Emma’s too clever for her own good,’ I said, with a frown. ‘She’s been running rings round Henry and Izzy ever since Sophia died. She’s an expert at making everyone do what she wants, usually without them even realising it.’

‘Except for you, you never used to let her get away with anything.’

‘Someone needed to keep her under control. But I’ve been away a long time … ’ I gave a rueful smile. ‘Henry obviously still has faith in me, he’s asked me to mentor her. That’s why I’m here, it’s our first meeting.’ Kate eyed me over the rim of her teacup. ‘You might have a battle on your hands, she’s not a little girl any more.’

‘I had noticed.’

‘Every time I see her, I think she looks more stunning than last time.’

‘She’s certainly prettier than she used to be,’ I said, getting up and walking to the French windows.

‘Pretty?’ Kate sounded outraged. ‘I’d call someone like Harriet pretty, but Emma’s absolutely gorgeous, she could easily have been a model.’

‘Too curvy,’ I said, staring out at the garden.

‘Nonsense, look at Sophie Dahl. And Emma’s one of those lucky women who don’t need make-up, such a beautiful complexion, Tom says she’d make a fortune promoting vitamin tablets.’ She paused. ‘You must see a huge change in her after eight years, surely?’

Henry had asked me the same question; this time, Emma wasn’t around to hear my answer. I watched a robin hop onto the edge of the bird bath, its vivid red breast a reminder that winter was on its way; and when winter was over, I’d be going back to India.

I took a deep breath and let down my guard. ‘I do see a big change, I hardly recognised her at first. As you say, she’s gorgeous. And she doesn’t seem to realise how attractive she is. She’s never been vain, at least not about her looks – ’

I jerked round as the door burst open and Emma came in, looking extremely pleased with herself. ‘Harriet’s had to go, but we’ve had a great time.’

Kate stood up and turned to me. ‘Told you it would do her good,’ she said, under her breath.

Emma’s face fell. ‘No need for you to go too, Kate. Mark and I want to hear all about Tenerife.’

‘Mark and you need to have your meeting, I’ll tell you about Tenerife tomorrow when you and Henry come for lunch. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.’

And then it was just Emma and I, at last.

She picked up the tea tray. ‘I’ll make some fresh, won’t be a moment.’

‘I’ll come with you, we can start the meeting in the kitchen.’ I was determined not to let her out of my sight in case she invented more delays.

I sat at the kitchen table while she made the tea. I told her the ground rules for mentoring; when and where we’d meet, what information I’d expect her to provide, and so on. I explained that a mentor would help her deal with the longer term, with strategic business goals and career objectives, whereas her line manager, Henry, was there for day-to-day performance issues.

As I spoke the words I’d rehearsed, I watched her. The swing of her hair when she turned to refill the milk jug. The little frown when she prised the lid off the tea caddy. The curve of her breasts when she reached up to a shelf for more sugar. And those slender fingers caressing the handle of the kettle as it came to the boil, then directing its flow expertly into the silver teapot.

How could she make such a simple everyday task look so sexy?

‘By the way,’ she said, as she brought the tea tray over, hips swaying in time to the throb of my pulse, ‘I read something interesting the other day about organic farming in India.’

‘Checking up on me?’ I said.

She avoided my gaze and set out the cups and saucers. ‘Actually, it does give me a bit of an issue with your so-called successful track record. I hadn’t realised that organic methods were causing such massive environmental problems in India.’

I frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

She sat down and poured the milk into the cups. ‘All the irrigation water that’s needed to produce organic foods and manure and animal fodder. It has to be pumped from deep underground, so it’s draining reserves without replacing them. Rather irresponsible, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not if – ’

She ignored me and pressed on, filling the cups with tea as she spoke. ‘Apparently it takes two thousand litres of water a year to grow the fodder to yield just one litre of milk. That’s not just unsustainable, it’s unethical!’ She looked across at me, her eyes bright with triumph.

I took one of the cups and helped myself to sugar. ‘Is this an attempt to discredit me and persuade Henry to abandon the mentoring?’

‘Of course not, I just thought it was interesting. Although, now you come to mention it, I’m sure Dad would have something to say.’

‘I’m sure he would, if those statistics were true of Donwell Organics’ growers. But they’re not, and maybe you should have checked your facts first.’

I took a sip of tea and watched the gleam in her eyes fade.

‘You see, Emma,’ I said, half amused, half exasperated, ‘I have a very good Indian friend called Vivek, a retired civil servant and a great reader. He discovered that a form of irrigation known as rainwater harvesting was used in India until the early nineteenth century and decided that this practice needed to be revived. Donwell buys all of his village’s organic produce, so he came to me to explain what he planned to do and ask for some financial assistance.’

I paused to drink my tea while she stared down at the table, her face like thunder.

‘With our backing,’ I continued, ‘Vivek redesigned his village’s drainage system to slow the passage of the monsoon rain long enough for it to collect in specially dug ponds. The water percolates into the soil and refills underground reserves. This means wells can find water at seven metres instead of thirty metres previously. It’s a truly sustainable system. So, yes, in general terms organic farming is causing India a major environmental problem. But Donwell is repairing whatever damage it’s responsible for, we’re funding initiatives like Vivek’s right across the country. Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re not being unethical.’

She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Thanks for the lecture, didn’t you say you had to be somewhere at six?’

As she reached over for my half-empty cup, I seized her hand. Our eyes locked. That jumper really did bring out the green in her irises …

‘No rush,’ I said softly. ‘I’ve put off seeing Steve until seven thirty, I thought it only fair since you couldn’t have known that Harriet and Kate would turn up so unexpectedly this afternoon.’

She looked startled, then she laughed. ‘God, I’d forgotten how bloody devious you can be.’

I grinned back at her. ‘Takes one to know one.’ Her hand stirred in mine and, as if responding to some deep dark instinct, I ran my thumb over her smooth warm skin. It was more the gesture of a lover than an old friend. She didn’t even flinch, as if to her it was nothing remarkable.

I abruptly let go of her hand and took a long drink of lukewarm tea. Then I pictured a little girl with plaits and braces and no boobs and spent the next hour discussing her personal goals, business strategy and marketing plans. It felt odd talking about such things with her, but of course she’d always been a precocious child.

I’d cracked it. All it involved was doing two things in parallel: making my mouth say ‘Emma’ and my eyes see ‘Mouse’.

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