The Importance of Being Emma (2 page)

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.’