The Importance of Being Emma Read online

  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 stat
e 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.’