Katie Oliver - The Trouble With Emma

“You’ll love the results, I promise,” Emma assured her. “Just trust me.”

With another sigh, Martine muttered, “Right, I’ll try.”

“And please don’t frown,” Emma scolded. “I need to groom your brows a bit.”

“But I like my brows,” Martine protested, and her eyes flew open in alarm. “What’s wrong with ’em?”

“They look like caterpillars.” Emma reached for a pair of tweezers. “Now,” she ordered firmly, “I want you to sit back, relax, and close your eyes. This won’t hurt a bit.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Emma led Martine downstairs in search of Mr Bennet. They found him in the kitchen, a newspaper open on the table before him and a cup of tea at his elbow.

“Good morning, daddy,” Emma said.

“Good morning! Hello, Martine.” He glanced up at them with the briefest of smiles. “I didn’t realise you were here already.”

“Hello, Mr Bennet.”

“Distressing news in the paper this morning,” he said, and frowned down at the newspaper. “Our neighbour is selling his property to an investment group from London.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Not Lord Darcy, surely –?”

“Oh, no. Sorry, I meant Sir Cavaliere. With no heir to be found and his health deteriorating, the old boy can’t keep the place up any longer and finds himself forced to sell and move into a care home.”

“What a shame! What will the investment group do with the property?”

“I don’t know. The article doesn’t say, as the transaction isn’t official yet.” His frown deepened. “I do hope they don’t pave it over and turn it into a water park. Or a shopping centre. To have something like that next to Litchfield Manor…” He shuddered.

“Well, there’s no use worrying about it if it hasn’t happened yet,” Emma reassured him. She drew Martine forward and eyed her father expectantly. “Do you notice anything different?”

“Different?” He set his cup down. “Erm…well,” he said after a moment, “I have to say, I don’t. Martine looks as…” he cleared his throat. “As lovely as ever.” With the smile of a man who’s just dodged a rather large bullet, he returned his attention to the paper.

“She’s had a makeover , daddy. Look at her face… Don’t you see a difference?”

“Oh. Oh – yes! Now you mention it, she does look, erm…fresh-scrubbed. Like a – a dairy maid from one of those eighteenth century pastoral paintings.”

Martine’s face fell. “Thank you, Mr Bennet,” she said. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, it’s time I got on with it. This dairy maid has lots of work to do.”

She turned away to grab the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet, and began to attack the Hoovering.

“Well done, daddy,” Emma scolded. “Here I am trying to build up Martine’s shaky self-confidence, and you refer to her as a ‘dairy maid’. You might as well have called her fat.” She let out an exasperated breath and turned away.

“I meant it as a compliment,” Mr Bennet called out after her in consternation. “Truly!”

He looked down at the pug as Emma stalked off. “There’s no pleasing women sometimes, is there, Elton?”

***

On Thursday morning Emma arrived at the bakery bright and early. She shook out her umbrella and put it aside – thankfully, the forecast said the rain would end later today – and wrinkled her nose as she stared down at her wellies.

She’d stepped in a pile of Elton’s poo on her way out the door.

With no time to change, she’d grabbed a pair of espadrilles from inside the front door, thrown them in her handbag, and left. She took the boots off now and replaced them with the rope-soled shoes and left them in the corner.

She’d rinse them off around the back before the shop opened.

Right now she had more pressing matters to deal with. “Boz, look what I’ve got,” she announced as she strode into the kitchen and brandished the twenty-pound note from Mr Churchill triumphantly over her head. “The missing money from Tuesday’s till.”

“I told you, Emma – there’s no need to pay it back,” Boz reminded her as he lifted out a batch of crullers from the frying oil.

“I know you did. But it isn’t my money, Boz; it’s my customer’s. He gave me a hundred-pound note, remember? I overpaid him when I made change and two of the notes stuck together. He realised my mistake later and he’s returned the money.”

“Oh! Well.” He eyed her in surprise. “Good job. How’d that come about? You didn’t work yesterday. You were off.”

“I ran into him yesterday morning. Literally,” she added, and smiled. She told him and Viv how Elton had escaped his lead and wriggled through the gates of Crossley Hall. “Mr Churchill introduced himself – he’s the new owner – and said he remembered me from the shop, and –” she beamed. “And he gave me back the twenty pounds. Wasn’t that incredibly decent of him?”

“Decent?” Viv sniffed. “It was only because you ran into him again and ’e had no choice, more like. Bet you’d never of seen that money otherwise.”

Emma bristled. “You’re wrong. Mr Churchill – James – is a lovely man,” she said in his defence.

Boz lifted his brow as he dipped a cooled doughnut into the vanilla glaze. “‘James’, is it?” he said thoughtfully. “‘Lovely’, is he?”

A flush warmed her cheeks. “He is lovely! He’s also wealthy. Why would he keep that extra twenty-pound note? He has no need of it.”

“Why?” Viv asked. “Because rich blokes are the worst. Tight with a penny, they are, and never leave a tip. Act like they’re skint all the time when they’re up to their arses in it. How else do you suppose they got all that dosh in the first place?”

“I’ll put the money away in the till,” Emma said, and turned away. “But you’re wrong, both of you. Mr Churchill is a good and honest man.”

As she returned to the front of the shop, Viv let out a snort. “That’s what they said about my cheating louse of an ex-husband. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, duck.”

Chapter 13

Just after nine, the bell jingled over the door.

Emma looked up from her perusal of a bakery supply catalogue with an expectant smile, hoping her first customer of the day would be Mr Churchill.

But the man who stood before the display case was tall, with dark hair. He wore the casually expensive clothes – cashmere sweater pushed up at the elbows, dark-washed jeans, a diver’s watch on his wrist – and the harried expression of a Londoner.

“May I help you?” she asked as she put the catalogue aside.

“I hope so. I’m looking for Litchfield Manor.” He reached for his wallet. “And a coffee. Black, no sugar.”

Her heart quickening, Emma nodded and went to pour coffee from the carafe into a takeaway cup. Why was he looking for the Manor? She snapped a lid on and returned to the counter and set the coffee down. “One pound fifty, please.”

He handed her two pounds and took the cup. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” Condescending arse . She dropped the coins in the tip jar.

“Tell me,” he said as he took a sip, “do you know the place? Can you tell me where I might find it? It used to be on the old Litchfield Road, if I remember correctly.”

She nodded. “It still is. Have you been there before?”

“Once. Many years ago.”

“Are you looking for someone in particular? Perhaps I can be of help.”

But he wasn’t so easily persuaded to give over any information. “Just directions will do.”

“You’re from London, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He lifted his brow. “Is it so obvious?”

She shrugged. “Aside from your suspicious nature, it’s your clothes.” She glanced at his watch. “And nobody round here wears a diver’s watch, except perhaps one of the yachtsmen from over Longbourne way.”