Emma: A Modern Retelling

16

The guest list for the dinner party ran to more names than Emma had originally envisaged, including Mrs Goddard, who had not been on Emma’s initial list, but who had been invited by Mr Woodhouse. ‘I’ve added somebody to our dinner party,’ he announced. ‘Floss Goddard. I bumped into her in the village and asked her. I hadn’t seen her for a long time.’

‘The English as a foreign language woman?’ asked Emma.

‘That’s her.’

Emma bit her lip. ‘I wish you hadn’t. This dinner party is getting larger and larger by the minute. Have you invited anybody else?’

‘Miss Bates,’ he said.

‘That’ll be fun.’ The sarcasm behind the remark was not concealed.

‘She’s a nice woman, Emma. And her niece too.’

Emma sighed, although she was secretly pleased that Jane Fairfax would be there. Jane would be no threat to Frank Churchill’s attention, as long as they could make sure that she did not play the piano; some men admired talent, although most of them, she thought, were far too unsubtle to do that. She would make sure that Jane was seated near her, as there was still a lot she wanted to find out about her.

Mr Woodhouse, though, should not be let off that easily. ‘You may as well invite the whole village.’ She paused. ‘How do you know Mrs Goddard, anyway?’

‘We go back a bit,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘When she bought the old airfield I was on the Parish Council and she submitted her plans to us. I got to know her then. That was about fifteen years ago.’

‘Well, I suppose you’ve gone and done it. We can’t uninvite people, Pops. Mrs Firhill is going to have to make double quantities of everything, since we’re feeding the entire community, more or less.’

‘Oh, and I invited Philip Elton,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘I forgot about him.’

Emma did not mind about that. She had been at the vicarage the previous day – Philip had been out at the time – and she had posted her sketch of Harriet through the letter box as he had said that he knew a good framer and could get it framed at an attractive price. She wanted to hear his views of the sketch, and this would provide an opportunity to do so, even if it meant putting up with his company for the evening.

‘And George Knightley?’ asked Emma.

‘Of course.’

Mr Woodhouse now became silent. He frowned, and then looked out of the window, as if whatever was worrying him was outside.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Emma.

He hesitated briefly before replying. ‘All these guests,’ he said. ‘I enjoy these occasions, as you well know, Emma. But a thought has suddenly occurred. Do you think that all these people have …’ He broke off, looking slightly embarrassed.

‘What? Have what?’

‘Have all their immunisations up to date? Do you think we could ask them?’

Emma looked at him with frank disbelief. ‘Oh really, Daddy!’ The Pops disappeared at moments of stress and her earlier, more authentic way of addressing her father returned. ‘Really!’

‘You may laugh,’ he said, ‘but it’s a thought. You know that you can catch whooping cough as an adult. It’s very unpleasant. It lasts for months.’

Emma knew that nothing she could say would reassure him, but she tried. ‘You can use sanitizer after you’ve shaken hands with them,’ she said. ‘Discreetly, of course.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Woodhouse. He was not entirely convinced, though, as he had read the small print on the labels of those sanitizers. ‘Kills 99.9% of known germs’, they claimed. And what about the remaining 0.1 per cent, he asked himself. What about them? Ninety-nine point nine per cent of household germs were probably quite harmless anyway; 0.1 per cent, however, were not. And then there were the unknown germs; nothing was said of them, and, as everybody knew, what manufacturers and advertisers did not say was often much more important than what they did say.

On the day of the dinner party, Emma was ready well in advance. She herself had not helped with any of the preparations, having left these to Mrs Firhill, who had in due course invoked the help of both her husband and Mrs Sid. To Bert Firhill was delegated the task of laying the table and polishing the glasses before setting them alongside each place. Mr Woodhouse was fussy about clean glass; ‘There is nothing – nothing – worse than a glass that has fingerprints or smudges on it,’ he said, which was not true, of course, even as an account of his own views, as there were many things that he thought considerably worse than the minor health hazard posed by dirty glass. But wine hygiene had become a concern of his since he had read in The Economist of a restaurant in which the dregs of wine left over in customers’ glasses was decanted into empty bottles and then re-corked for subsequent service. He had been haunted by this information, and had resolved never to drink wine in a restaurant again; which made little difference to his life, as he never went out for dinner anyway – other than to Randalls, and occasionally to Donwell Abbey. He was sure that James Weston would never stoop to such practices, although there remained a niggling doubt in his mind that Miss Taylor, being Scottish, might object to any wastage and, were the idea to be planted in her mind, might do just that. He knew that she was canny, and remembered her telling, with some pride in her voice, of an elderly uncle of hers, an Aberdonian and therefore particularly imbued with habits of Scottish frugality, who had used a bicycle-tube repair outfit to patch up his hot-water bottle after eighteen years of use. Coming from such a background, Miss Taylor might just be tempted to drain used wine glasses and recycle the wine; he would have to watch very carefully, he decided, to see whether the tops of the wine bottles were properly sealed when they were opened. But what if the bottles were broached in the kitchen prior to being brought into the dining room? This unresolved question had worried him and would continue to do so. Perhaps it would be best to have it out with James and ask him outright whether his bottles had had old wine poured into them. But could one ever ask such a question? Would offence he taken, even by an old friend? These questions added to his discomfort.

Bert was used to Mr Woodhouse’s oddities, and did not object to the request that he wear white butler’s gloves while polishing the wine glasses.

‘Good idea, Mr Woodhouse,’ he suggested. ‘You never know where hands have been. Or you do, perhaps.’

Mr Woodhouse frowned. What could this remark possibly mean?

‘Only joking,’ said Bert cheerfully. ‘My hands are pure as the driven snow. Carbolic soap – my old dad used it to get the grime off when he finished a day’s work and I’ve done the same, man and boy.’

This reassured Mr Woodhouse. ‘That’s very good, Mr Firhill. But please use a fresh cloth. There are plenty of those blue things in the pantry, near the rubbish sacks.’

Bert set to work. As he was polishing, Mrs Sid came in with a stack of plates. ‘You’ll observe that herself is not helping much,’ she said. ‘It’s her own party and yet who’s not in evidence to lend a hand? The hostess, that’s who.’

‘She’s a spoiled little baggage,’ muttered Bert. ‘Too much money. Too much time on her hands. And attitude too.’

Mrs Sid agreed. ‘Sid’s too soft on her. He says that she’s not too bad compared with some he’s come across in his time.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Bert, picking up a heavy Stuart crystal glass on which he had located an errant fingerprint. ‘Well, Sid hasn’t seen what I seen. Naked cavorting with …’ He stopped himself, but it was too late. He had not actually seen it – not with his own eyes – but his wife had seen it and he felt that this was as good as his having seen it himself. For the most part, they saw the same things anyway; so what difference did it make?

‘What?’ asked Mrs Sid, her voice lowered to conspiratorial levels.

‘Nothing,’ said Bert.

‘Come on, Bert. You may not have meant to say anything, but you can’t put a burp back in the stomach, as they say. Naked what? Cavorting?’

Bert had not intended to speak about what his wife had seen, but now had no alternative. He told Mrs Sid about having seen Harriet Smith with no clothes on, although this time he said nothing about not having seen Emma. Quite reasonably, Mrs Sid concluded that Emma had been naked too. She let out a long low whistle.

‘Shameless!’ she whispered. ‘No clothes!’

‘I’m not saying nothing,’ said Bert. ‘But we can draw our own conclusions.’

Mrs Sid shook her head. ‘I don’t see how Sid will be able to shrug that one off,’ she said. ‘That’ll change his tune.’

In the kitchen, Mrs Firhill laboured over the soup, and then laboured over the main course, the pudding, and the cheese course. Emma appeared a quarter of an hour before the guests were due to arrive, and sampled the soup.

‘That’s really good soup, Mrs Firhill,’ she said brightly. ‘They’ll love that. And what about the venison? Don’t make it too dry. I can’t stand venison when it’s dry.’

‘It’s coming on nicely,’ said Mrs Firhill, tight-lipped.

From the corner of the kitchen, Mr Firhill, peeling off his butler’s gloves, looked sideways at Emma. His glance was intercepted by Mrs Sid, who was cutting slices of stale bread into small squares for croutons. She narrowed her eyes to express shared affront. She was not to know, of course, what Bert was thinking, which is just as well.

Philip Elton was the first to arrive.

‘Oh good,’ said Mr Woodhouse as he looked out of the drawing-room window. ‘Here’s Philip.’

Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘I always thought that one should be at least ten minutes late.’

‘But he is,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘We said seven-thirty, and it’s now seven-forty. Somebody has to arrive first.’

‘Fifteen minutes is better,’ said Emma. ‘Inflation, you know.’

Mr Woodhouse shook a finger in mock reproach. ‘Philip is a man of the cloth, Emma. He may be hungry, for all we know.’

Emma was having none of this. ‘Pah!’ she said. ‘He owns an office block in Ipswich and all those flats in Norwich. And he drives a BMW Something-something. You don’t drive a BMW Something-something if you’re on the bread line.’

Mr Woodhouse had heard of the structural problems in the office block. ‘I hear that he has dampness—’

‘Yes, he’s extremely wet,’ interjected Emma.

‘In his cladding. That is, in the cladding of that office block. The rain gets in behind the façade, you see, and then it doesn’t dry off because it’s behind those prefabricated panels. It’s a serious problem.’

‘He could sell it,’ said Emma. ‘It could be advertised as a building with running water.’

Mr Woodhouse smiled. ‘You don’t like Philip, my dear – I think I can tell that. Try not to show it, will you?’

Bert Firhill had been deputed to open the front door to the guests and to bring them into the drawing room. He had put on the butler’s gloves for the task – he was rather proud of them, even if they did not go with the blazer and tie that he was wearing. Now he brought Philip in and announced him formally, ‘The vicar.’

Philip stepped forward. He looked at Emma as he did so, and so did Bert.

‘It’s very good to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘This is just a fairly spontaneous little party, but we thought it would be nice to have people over for another dinner. People should try to get back into the habit of giving dinner parties.’

‘They should indeed,’ said Philip. ‘It’s a very civilised practice that seems to be dying out these days. I’m very much in favour of dinner parties.’

‘Yet you don’t give them yourself,’ observed Emma. She said this without apparent malice, in an observational tone of voice. And then she added, ‘As far as I know.’

Mr Woodhouse gave her a warning look. This was not a good start. ‘Philip is very busy, Emma,’ he said. ‘He has his parish work and his …’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘His …’

‘Ph.D.,’ said Philip, smiling at Emma. ‘But you’re right, Emma. I should hold a dinner party, and I shall do so soon. And I hope – I fervently hope – that you will head the list of invitees. You and your father, of course.’

Mr Woodhouse looked slightly flustered. ‘I don’t go out very much,’ he said. ‘So don’t worry about me.’

‘Then please come by yourself,’ said Philip to Emma.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She had just noticed that Bert Firhill was staring at her. Why? ‘I think that’s the bell,’ she said.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Bert. ‘I didn’t hear it.’

‘Well, if it didn’t ring, then I am sure that it will do so shortly.’ She paused. ‘Would you mind?’

Bert left the room and Emma poured Philip a drink. He had asked for a gin and tonic, and she made sure that it was a good triple measure. She handed this to him, and then made a whisky and soda for her father.

‘It was very good of you to put that sketch through my door the other day,’ said Philip, as he took a sip of his drink. ‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t in when you called. Parish business, you know.’

Emma waited for him to say something further, but he was intent on a second sip of his gin and tonic. ‘I hope you liked it,’ she said. ‘It was just a little sketch – nothing major.’

Philip lowered his glass. ‘But it was wonderful,’ he said. ‘It really was. You captured Harriet’s look just perfectly, if I may give you my opinion. That slightly upturned nose of hers …’

‘Retroussé,’ said Emma.

‘Yes, that retroussé nose. And her hands – they were very delicately painted.’

‘They’re delicate hands,’ said Emma. ‘Hands are often difficult to do.’

‘I’m sure they are. But you did them beautifully.’

‘You’re very kind.’

Philip raised his glass to his lips. Emma noticed that the level was going down rather quickly. At least one gin had been consumed by now; two remained. It would be amusing, she thought, to see him inebriated. He might say something highly entertaining; one never knew. But it would certainly put him in the right frame of mind to make an advance to Harriet; inhibitions never helped romance to flourish.

‘Have you taken the picture to the framers yet?’ she asked.

Philip shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. No. We may have to reconsider that.’

‘Reconsider framing it?’ asked Emma. ‘Why?’

He shifted from foot to foot. He’s embarrassed, thought Emma. Had he perhaps made a rash promise of being able to get good framers to do the job and then found that he could not? Was that the problem?

‘I’m not sure if it’s quite right,’ said Philip, looking nervously at Mr Woodhouse, who was following this conversation although not joining in.

Emma was about to ask why he felt this, but was interrupted by the arrival of the next party of guests. This was James Weston, Miss Taylor, and Frank Churchill. She stepped forward to greet Frank.

‘I last saw you when we were about twelve,’ said Frank. ‘I don’t remember it very well, but I think you ignored me entirely.’

Emma laughed. ‘Children are so rude to one another, aren’t they?’

‘Too true,’ said Frank. ‘But we’re not twelve any more.’

‘I promise I won’t be rude to you,’ said Emma.

‘Good. I couldn’t bear it if you were. We Australians are very sensitive, you know.’

Everybody laughed. It was such a witty thing to say.

‘You and Frank must have a lot of catching up to do,’ Mr Woodhouse remarked to James Weston.

‘Yes,’ said James, looking proudly at his son. ‘We do. But we’ve got Frank for months now, we hope, and so there’ll be plenty of time.’

‘It’s been a very happy few days for all of us,’ said Miss Taylor.

Emma was taking the opportunity to study Frank. Harriet had said to die for, and she was right. She studied his face. It was the regularity of the features that struck her, and again Harriet, for all her naïvety, had been right about that. The classical ideal of beauty required that nose and eyes should bear a certain proportional relationship to the brow, and whatever that proportion was – and perhaps it was that magical Greek figure, phi – then Frank Churchill had it. She looked at his hair: light brown turned golden at the top by exposure to the sun. He was male perfection incarnate: it was as simple as that. And he had a brain, people said. That made a difference. A dumb Adonis would have been tedious; one who thought and could speak in sentences – with subjects and verbs – was infinitely more attractive.

The pre-dinner drinks dispensed, and consumed, Emma led the guests into the dining room.

‘Quite the little hostess,’ whispered Miss Taylor to James.

‘Thanks to you,’ he replied under his voice. ‘Your graduate.’

‘The clay shaped itself,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I couldn’t have changed Emma had I wanted to. And I fear for her, I’m sorry to say.’

James glanced at Emma, who was taking her seat at the head of the table. ‘You think she’ll come a cropper?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no. But there’s a danger that she’ll overstep the mark with somebody.’

James nodded. As an old friend of the family he did not want Emma to be hurt; at the same time, though, he felt that a short, sharp shock might be the only way in which she would be brought down a peg or two. That was it, he thought; she needed taking down a peg or two.

With everybody seated, Emma looked down the table at her guests. She had placed Philip next to Harriet Smith, and she noticed, with some satisfaction, that he was already engaging her in what appeared to be animated conversation. The triple gin had done its work, she thought; now all that was needed was a response from Harriet, and the whole scheme would fall into place. How satisfying, she thought; and I have created this. It is all my idea.

Her gaze moved on to Miss Taylor and James. Although they were not seated together, she had seen the look off affection that passed between them as they took their places at the table; such affection as might be felt between a couple who had been together for years, rather than a few weeks; a look of friendship, a look of pleasure, of satisfaction, perhaps, at having found each other. But it was I who found you for each other, she told herself. I am responsible for your happiness.

Then there was Miss Bates. Emma felt a sudden tug of conscience and told herself that she must make more of an effort with Miss Bates; she must give her a bit more of her time. It would be easy enough; all she had to do was to call on her now and then – Miss Bates was always in – and give her a present of those violet creams that she liked so much but obviously could no longer afford. Miss Bates, she assumed, divided her life between the violet-cream days – before she was an unsuccessful Lloyd’s Name – and the days in which violet creams were just a distant memory. Lloyd’s Names had suffered in many different ways – being deprived of violet creams was just one way in which financial disaster brought hardship. Poor Miss Bates – and there she was sitting next to James, who was being so kind to her, as he was to everybody, whatever his or her failings.

But there was no time to take in the rest of the table, as Emma had Frank Churchill on her right, and he had to be talked to.

‘Place of honour,’ said Frank. ‘On the hostess’s right.’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve split up the Randalls party. I assumed that you wouldn’t want to be beside your father and …’ She almost said ‘stepmother’, but remembered that this would be premature. ‘… Miss Taylor,’ she finished.

‘I’m easy,’ said Frank.

She looked at him, noticing his skin, tanned by the sun. She noticed, too, his watch, a Patek Philippe. It was understated and would have been missed by most people. Emma knew just what it was.

‘This must be the first time you’ve met her,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

He was smiling at her in a way that suggested she would get no further information from him. She had the impression, too, that he was thinking about something. It was as if he were weighing her up in some way; and it was disconcerting.

‘She’ll be great for your dad,’ she said. ‘He was so lonely.’

Frank frowned. ‘Was he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That’s too bad.’

Mrs Firhill was serving the soup, and was now hovering behind Frank with a tureen. He half turned, and smiled as she ladled the consommé into his plate. Emma thought: He’s paying attention to her. Why? She waited until he turned back. ‘What are you going to do after you leave Randalls?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to travel?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ve got a friend who’s in France at the moment. We had a vague arrangement to go to Thailand for a few months. I could do that on the way back to Perth.’

Emma dipped her spoon into her consommé. There was a friend. She felt a certain irritation at the thought that Frank Churchill already had a friend; the first seeds of envy. ‘She’s French?’

‘He. No, Australian.’

The word he dropped into the conversation like a small stone into a pond. Her first thought was: I was right, again! Inadvertently, but still right. He isn’t interested! And then she remembered what Harriet had said, which was, ‘What a pity.’

Frank wiped his lips with his table napkin. ‘We’ve known each other a long time,’ he said.

She had been distracted by her thoughts. ‘Who?’

‘Geoff, my friend in France – we were at school together.’

She wanted to find out more, but was trying to work out how to ascertain the nature of the relationship. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions; in fact, she was now sure that she had. Old school friends could go to Thailand together without there being anything more to it.

‘You’re lucky still to be in touch with friends from school,’ she said. ‘I hardly ever see mine. Except for one or two I occasionally hear from.’

He looked at her intently. ‘It’s different with me and Geoff.’

She did not know what to make of this. ‘Oh …’

‘Yes.’

The situation was now unambiguously clear. ‘I’m fine with that,’ said Emma.

Frank lowered his voice. ‘One thing, though – I like to flirt.’

Emma was unprepared for this. ‘Flirt?’

‘Yes. It’s cover. I’m fed up with people suggesting that I have to get a girlfriend and get married. I get it all the time. You’ve got no idea.’

‘Can’t you come out? Doesn’t that take the heat off you?’

Frank shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. It’s fine for most people but I can’t because I have the Churchills to think of. They wouldn’t understand – they just wouldn’t. My aunt is ill, too, and it’s simpler for her not to know. Later, when she’s gone, I’ll think again. And I’m not sure if I want to hurt my real father’s feelings. He feels guilty, you know.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, dead sure. And I think that if I came out then he’d feel even guiltier. No need for him to do that, of course, as the way I feel is nothing to do with my father having handed me over to my aunt and uncle. Nothing at all. But he’d think: Oh my God, it’s my fault for being an absentee father, etcetera, etcetera. Believe me, it’s simpler – at least for now.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’ He paused. He was looking directly into her eyes. ‘Would you mind if I flirted with you? Just a bit?’

Emma’s first reaction was to say no. She saw no reason why she should be drawn into Frank’s problems, especially since she thought they were largely of his own creation. She was not convinced that James would take the disclosure badly – he was a tolerant man, with modern attitudes. Why not just tell him? Why try to conceal something that most people now thought of as perfectly natural – as just one of the possibilities of being human?

But then she looked at Frank, who was smiling back at her in a way that immediately weakened her resolve. Why not? It tickled her that she should be the object of the attentions of such a breathtakingly good-looking young man. She could even imagine that when he flirted he meant it, while at the same time she could have the reassurance of knowing that he did not, for Emma was wary of involvement with men.

‘All right.’

His smile widened. And it was at that point that Frank leaned over to her – just as Mrs Firhill was beginning to clear the soup plates on the opposite side of the table – and whispered into her ear: ‘Sex!’

It was perfect. Emma was genuinely taken by surprise, and reacted as anybody into whose ear the word sex had been whispered might be expected to react. She gave a start, and then, reverting to her agreed role, pouted. Leaning forward herself, she whispered into his ear, ‘Consommé!’

That made him laugh, or begin to laugh and then apparently struggle to suppress it.

Everybody saw what was going on – or at least everybody on the opposite side of the table saw it. James’s eyebrows shot up, and then shot down again. Miss Taylor’s brow furrowed, and then became smooth once more. Jane Fairfax’s mouth opened very slightly, and then shut. Mrs Firhill raised her eyes to the ceiling and then lowered them again.

The dinner party continued. The hubbub of conversation increased during the second course, and by the third – a chocolate mousse of which Mrs Firhill was particularly proud – the level of sound was almost deafening. Shortly after eleven, though, Mr Woodhouse began to yawn, and several of the guests, noticing this, started to suggest that they leave. This was the signal for all to rise to their feet and begin to drift out into the hall. Emma had intended that they should finish in the drawing room, where coffee, decaffeinated and otherwise, was waiting, but the host’s obvious tiredness had put paid to that.

She met Harriet in the small morning room where the women had placed their coats. They were alone, and she took the opportunity to find out how her friend had got on with Philip. ‘Things seemed to be going well at your end of the table,’ said Emma.

‘Really well,’ said Harriet. ‘We talked and talked all evening. He barely said anything to the person on his right. He’s got such a lovely voice, Emma. He really has. I could listen to him for hours.’

I couldn’t, thought Emma. But she said, ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s lovely.’ She looked at Harriet encouragingly. ‘And?’

Harriet smiled coyly. ‘I think he likes me.’

‘Good.’

‘I think he’s going to ask me out.’

‘Also good.’

Harriet picked up her coat and they went out into the hall. There were few guests left now: Mrs Goddard, Harriet, and Philip. Mrs Goddard embraced Mr Woodhouse, planting a kiss left and right, preventing him from recoiling by embracing him firmly. ‘Dear Woody,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a treat. And promise me you’ll remember.’

Mr Woodhouse looked anxiously at Emma. ‘Yes, of course. Of course.’

‘Now, Harriet, dear,’ said Mrs Goddard, releasing Mr Woodhouse and turning to Harriet. ‘That’s us offski.’

Emma smiled. Offski.

‘And you, dear Emma,’ continued Mrs Goddard. ‘You must come and hang out with us. Promise me you will. Go on, promise.’

Emma smiled again. ‘Any time,’ she said.

‘Any time soon,’ enthused Mrs Goddard. ‘Now come on, Harriet, time to split.’

Now it was just Philip, Mr Woodhouse, and Emma.

‘I must go too,’ said Philip. He had been watching Mrs Goddard with a certain morbid fascination, and Emma even thought that she detected a suppressed shudder. Well, that was not surprising; cold fish meets warm, effusive fish, she thought; and for all the offsky and splitting, she instinctively liked Mrs Goddard, or Mrs God as she now thought of her. What if God, if he (she) was actually like her: rather casual, with a fondness for cannabis (which he, after all, would have created in the first place) and a benign, rather folksy manner? What if God actually hated Gregorian chants and the Anglican liturgy, strongly disliked the smell of incense the Catholics kept wafting in his direction, and had a strong sympathy for ageing hippies who taught English as a foreign language? What if God actually knew the way to the railway station but understood that others needed to be told as well?

Mr Woodhouse yawned. ‘Oh goodness, I am sorry. You see Philip out, Emma,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I must get to bed before I collapse. Such social excitement!’

He shook Philip’s hand quickly and disappeared down the corridor.

‘He gets so tired,’ said Emma. ‘He’s always up early – that’s the problem. He’s up at five most days.’

‘Emma,’ said Philip. ‘Can we talk?’

Emma affected surprise. ‘Of course. But about what? We’ve all just covered every subject under the sun in the dining room. Politics?’

Philip swayed slightly on his feet. ‘Could we go outside? It’s a lovely night.’

Emma looked out into the garden. ‘It could rain.’

‘It won’t rain. It’s perfect. Couldn’t we go and sit on the lawn for a few minutes?’

She looked at her watch. ‘It’s so late …’

He took her arm, gently, and moved towards the front door. She did not resist; he probably had something to say about Harriet and she would, of course, encourage him. I can tolerate this creepy man for the sake of Harriet, she told herself.

There was an almost full moon outside, painting the garden an ethereal silver. ‘Look at the moon,’ she said. ‘So bright. So lunar!’ She had to say something.

They were standing on the lawn now. ‘I don’t want to sit on the grass,’ she said. ‘It gets so damp at night.’ She thought of his office building in Ipswich, and its chronic damp.

‘Emma,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something.’

It occurred to her that he wanted to discuss the portrait. That was it.

‘What did you think of my portrait of Harriet?’ she asked. ‘You can be absolutely frank, you know.’ Frankness, of course, was the last thing she wanted; praise was the first.

He seemed to regard her question as a distraction. ‘Oh that. Well …’

She waited. ‘Yes?’

‘You did it in pastel.’

‘Yes, it’s a pastel drawing. I thought that would work rather well for Harriet. Her colouring, you see, rather lends itself to pastel, don’t you agree?’ And then she added, ‘There’s nothing wrong with pastels, you know. Vuillard used them a lot. They look like oils until you get up close, and then you realise they’re not.’

He sighed. ‘You didn’t fix it.’

What was he talking about? She always fixed her pastels. ‘I did. I sprayed it with fixative. I always do.’

He shook his head. He was standing with the moon behind him and she could not see his expression. ‘You fixed the first drawing – the one underneath. You forgot to fix what you did on top of it. So when I smudged it – inadvertently – I saw what was underneath.’

Emma caught her breath.

Philip seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but at first she did not. Finally she said, ‘Major embarrassment.’

‘I should think so.’

Emma decided to brazen it out. ‘I’m very sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve seen Harriet in the nude but …’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t let it put you off her. Please. Nothing need be said. You should just go ahead anyway.’

‘Go ahead with what?’

‘With Harriet. With seeing her.’

This remark was greeted with complete silence. Then Philip emitted what sounded like a groan. ‘You don’t think that I’m interested in her, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But, Emma, no, no, no. You’ve got it completely wrong. It’s you I like. I like you a lot. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.’

She stood quite still. She heard him breathing. She felt his hand upon her arm.

‘Say something, Emma. Please say something.’

She struggled to speak. The awfulness of the situation seemed to have constricted her throat. It was hard enough to breathe, let alone to speak. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t really think so.’

He let out another groan. ‘Please review the situation. Please reconsider.’

She felt her confidence grow; he sounded like a business letter. ‘No. You should stick to Harriet.’

‘Her!’

‘And what’s wrong with her? She’s a very attractive young woman.’

‘She’s an airhead.’

This was too much for Emma. He was right, but she would not have him say it. ‘Since when did vicars call other people airheads? You should be ashamed of yourself, Philip.’

This silenced him. She waited a few moments, and then announced that she had to get back into the house. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘should not be driving. You had three gins before dinner and then …’ She stopped herself, but he had heard what she had said.

‘You deliberately gave me three gins?’

‘You didn’t have to drink them.’ She knew this was a weak response.

He snorted. ‘I’m quite sober, thank you. Talking to you is enough to sober anybody up.’

She watched him as he strode away. When he reached the BMW Something-something he was briefly illuminated by the automatic switching on of the interior light. She saw him lower himself into the driving seat and slam the door. Then the engine roared into life and the car spun round in a tight circle, the beams of its headlights sweeping across the lawn and catching Emma for a second or two before they moved away.

Emma went back into the house, her mind a confusion of conflicting thoughts. But one thought seemed to rise above the others: I created this mess. I did it.