* * *

It was not the advertisement, though, that brought Emma’s first commission, but something far closer to home. In fact, the commission came from virtually next door – from Miss Taylor and James. Ever since Miss Taylor had moved in with James, she had been planning to do something about Randalls and the general state of shabbiness into which it had fallen under James’s ownership. The barns and outbuildings were all kept in a very good state, of course, as James was a conscientious farmer, but when it came to the house he showed the indifference that men living on their own often have to their surroundings. The house had not been painted for almost fifteen years, no chairs had been re-covered in that time, nor carpets cleaned or repaired, and the plumbing arrangements in the cold and uncomfortable bathrooms would hardly have been out of place in a museum.

‘We need to get somebody in,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We can’t do it by ourselves.’

James did not see why not. ‘I don’t think you need an interior decorator,’ he said. ‘Just get a painter to come round and freshen things up, and a plumber of course. These plumber chaps are jolly good at ripping old stuff out. A couple of days’ work at the most.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We have to replace all the curtains. We have to get new flooring for the bathrooms as well as new baths and whatnot. The kitchen has to be tackled from scratch.’

James sighed, but he would deny Miss Taylor nothing. ‘Oh well, you’re the one with the good taste.’

‘You have it too,’ she said. ‘It requires very good taste indeed to live in a state of disrepair.’

He laughed. ‘Genteel decline?’

‘Perhaps.’

He was concerned about cost; the farm and the outbuildings were expensive – everything was expensive. ‘I suppose you’ll want some fancy Classic Interiors type to come prancing down here and charging the earth.’

‘No,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I’ve had an idea. Emma. This is exactly what she wants to do. And she’s got a very good eye – she always has had.’

James looked thoughtful. ‘And she won’t charge the earth?’

‘I’m sure her charges will be very modest – and we’ll be keeping it in the family, so to speak.’

‘In that case …’

‘Good. I’ll give her a ring.’

Emma took no persuasion. She would do the job for nothing, she insisted, firmly refusing the offer of a fee. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘I’m not a real interior decorator – just yet.’ She had by now received consignments of samples from wallpaper and fabric companies, and these were loaded into the back of the Mini Cooper, along with paint charts, tiling booklets, and all the other accoutrements that served as the tools of her new trade. She was excited by the prospect of redecorating Randalls – a house that she had long admired but which she felt had been badly neglected. Her excitement was tempered, though, by the unavoidable prospect of seeing Frank, who was still staying at Randalls and whom she had last seen at that disastrous picnic. He had not apologised to her for stalking off in a huff when he failed to identify his own wine, and for her part she had felt that she had nothing to say sorry for: the incident had in no sense been her fault. But whatever view one took of that debacle, the fact remained that she and Frank were currently not on speaking terms and that any meeting at Randalls would probably be a fraught one.

Miss Taylor came out to meet her when she parked the car at the head of the Randalls drive. ‘We’re going to do great things, Emma, you and I,’ she said. ‘This poor old house is going to be utterly transformed.’

‘V. exciting,’ said Emma, reverting to a favourite abbreviation of very she had used in her childhood.

Miss Taylor lowered her tone conspiratorially. ‘But be careful not to frighten the male department,’ she said. ‘Everything needs to go – top to bottom – but you know how men are: they like to hang on to things.’

Emma nodded. ‘I shall be v. tactful.’

‘I’m sure you will be,’ said Miss Taylor, although in reality she was not at all sure.

They walked towards the house, the gravel of the driveway crunching underfoot in a satisfactory way. ‘I see ochre tones,’ said Emma. ‘I get a very strong feeling of ochre.’

‘Interesting,’ said Miss Taylor.

‘Except for the bathrooms,’ Emma continued. ‘I see white, and pale blue. Eggshell, perhaps.’

Miss Taylor nodded. ‘One would not want ochre in a bathroom, I think.’

They entered the house.

‘All of this will have to go,’ said Miss Taylor, gesturing towards the hunting prints that lined the walls of the hall. ‘And all that stuff too.’ This was the ungainly coat rack, the umbrella stand, the protruding hall table with its heavy Victorian legs, and an uncomfortable-looking oak hall chair on which a pile of old newspapers rested.

Emma cast an eye about her. ‘I see one of those nice Farrow and Ball greens,’ she said. ‘Once we’ve thrown everything out, of course.’

‘V. good,’ said Miss Taylor.

They went into the kitchen where Miss Taylor prepared Emma a cup of tea. There was discussion of the kitchen cupboards, which they both decided would have to go, and of the kitchen floor, which it was agreed would have to be taken up and replaced. Tea was poured, and it was just after this that the telephone rang. Miss Taylor took the call, and Emma indicated by pointing out of the door that she would take her tea into the conservatory adjoining the kitchen.

‘Go ahead,’ said Miss Taylor, cupping her hand over the telephone mouthpiece. ‘I’ll only be five minutes or so.’

Emma walked through into the conservatory and examined the vines that had been trained up one side of the structure. The furniture, she noted, was shabby and would need to be replaced. And then she stopped. She had not seen him when she entered, but Frank Churchill was sitting in a chair at the far end. He had been reading a book, which fell to the ground when Emma came in.

For a long-drawn-out minute neither said anything. Then both spoke at once.

‘Oh,’ said Emma, and then, ‘Oh,’ again.

‘Um,’ said Frank. ‘So …’

They paused. Then Emma said, ‘I suppose you do live here.’

The remark seemed to surprise both of them.

‘I mean, here you are,’ said Emma.

Frank shrugged. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Emma.

The silence resumed, to be broken eventually by Frank, who said, ‘I think I should say sorry.’

Emma listened impassively as Frank continued. ‘I heard from my father that he had taken bottles of our wine to the picnic. I know now that you didn’t intend to show me up.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Emma, quick to assume the role of the wronged party. ‘That’s what I told you.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Frank. ‘But … well, I suppose I’m still a bit cross with you.’

‘But I didn’t know it was your wine.’

‘No, not about that – about something else.’

Emma was cautious. ‘What exactly?’

Frank had risen from his chair and had turned to look out of the conservatory window. His back was towards Emma.

He turned round again. ‘You shouldn’t have spoken to Jane.’

Emma’s mouth dropped.

‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘You shouldn’t. I told you what I told you in confidence. I didn’t expect you to go broadcasting it round half of England.’

Emma reddened. The back of her neck felt warm.

Frank continued with his accusation. ‘You told her that I wasn’t interested in women.’

She decided to defend herself. ‘That’s what you told me.’

‘Well, it’s not true,’ said Frank. ‘As it happens.’

Emma’s voice rose. ‘Then why did you tell me what you told me?’

Frank hesitated, and Emma noticed a certain sheepishness come over him. ‘I wanted to flirt with you without any … without any misunderstandings.’

It took her a moment or two to be offended. ‘Oh, I see. You wanted to use me?’

Frank nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I wanted Jane to see me getting on well with another girl.’ He paused. ‘I can see that you don’t believe me.’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s true. I wanted to make Jane jealous because … well, you see, she and I have known each other for a couple of years—’

She interrupted him. ‘How …?’

‘We met in Australia. She came with a friend on a working visa. They worked in a hotel in Fremantle. I met her there. We kept in touch when she came back to England. Anyway, we were pretty close but she’d decided to give the relationship a rest.’

‘And you wanted to give her a shock?’

‘Yes. I wanted to show her that she wasn’t the only fish on the beach.’

‘Pebble,’ corrected Emma. ‘Fish in the sea. Pebble on the beach.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And did it work? This … strategy of yours?’

He nodded. ‘It did. We’re back together. But not without a big row over what you told her.’

Emma now understood, but she was uncertain what to say. Perhaps he was right in saying that she had betrayed a confidence, but then she reminded herself he had misled her, he had used her. Both of them, it seemed, had something to feel sorry about.

‘Yes,’ Frank continued. ‘You can just imagine. She accused me of deceiving her. She said that I should have told her right at the beginning. She asked me why I’d bothered with her if I wasn’t really interested. She started to cry.’

Emma winced.

‘But eventually I got through to her and explained. It took ages. Three days. But we sorted it out.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Emma. ‘I didn’t know that it would get out of hand.’