Chapter One
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Jane Austen. I'm just showing my appreciation for it in a non-profit way. No infringment intended.
"Emma dear," croaked Mr. Woodhouse, "Do ask that nice young nurse if she could please turn up the heating. I feel as if my skin is riddled with goose bumps. No matter how many damned blankets they layer me with, I still feel the cold."
Emma patted her infirm father's arm. "No problem, dad. I'll see Sana about the heating in your room."
"I hate being in this nursing home," Mr. Woodhouse muttered, pulling the blanket up around his chin with his mobile right hand. "I don't see why I can't be at home."
"Ever since you had that serious fall and the hip replacement, you are hardly in the condition to be left home alone. Isabella and John can't have you at their house because they have three kids under the age of four, and I can't look after you at my house because I have to run your company with George. You insisted that you did not want your company to be swallowed up by Knightleys or other foreign group."
Mr. Woodhouse sighed. "I know, but I wish I could see you more often. Isabella rarely visits and most of my friends seem to be in the same position as I. It is lonely."
Emma threaded her left hand through her father's right. "I know, dad," she said regretfully, "I wish I had more time, but filling in the hole you left at Highbury is proving time consuming."
He squeezed her hand. "But you are doing a wonderful job, Emma. I couldn't have chosen a better substitute than you. Isabella was never interested in advertising, but you took to it like a duck does to water, to excuse the cliché. Your mother would be very proud of you."
Emma's heart clenched at her father's rare mention of her mother, who had been Mr. Woodhouse's secretary, then his wife after a whirlwind romance of eight months and then finally dying of cancer when Emma was only two. Mr. Woodhouse had never remarried or dated anyone else but he had been an indulgent father who spoiled her with an education at the most prestigious high school, the newest clothes and gadgets, and the most exotic holidays.
He was fifty when Emma was born, and now he was seventy-one. He also had been obsessively compulsive about hygiene and safety, a trait that Emma did not inherit. However, Isabella was neurotic about hygiene and Emma felt as if her house resembled a museum or a mausoleum, than a warm house of love and energy.
Mr. Woodhouse's drifted shut as Emma stroked a wisp of white hair from his gaunt face that had skin sagging from his cheeks and neck like molten wax. "Thanks, dad," she whispered.
"You're not planning to go to sleep on me now, are you, Mr. Woodhouse?" came a familiar voice laced with affection. "I came all this way with a fine bottle of Scotch to see you and you are already planning to go to bed. I don't want to have to drink this myself."
Emma rolled her eyes. "George, you are only able to drink one glass of Scotch before becoming completely blotto."
"Bit rich coming from the girl who gets giggly after one glass of Moet."
Emma stuck her tongue out at him good-humouredly. She was glad that he was here, as his presence always lightened the mood of the room and perked up her father's flagging spirits.
Mr. Woodhouse's eyes flew open at George Knightley's entrance. His eyes filled with warmth at the son of his deceased business partner and co-founder of Highbury, Adam Knightley. "George, it is good of you to see a poor old invalid like me."
George grinned as he shrugged off his black winter coat. "You are hardly old and decrepit, Mr. Woodhouse. Any man who can chug a glass of this gold label Scotch is still youthful in my book."
"I guess that counts you out then, George," said Emma, waggling her eyebrows.
"You're ever so witty," sarcastically responded George, kissing her cheek in greeting.
Mr. Woodhouse chuckled. "Ah, George. You are a welcome tonic. Pull up a chair. How did the meeting with Prada go?"
"They lapped up the proposal that Emma and I worked on. You are now looking at the man who will be running their spring advertising campaign." George did a mock bow.
"Bravo, George. That is the best news I have heard all day. Aren't you proud of him, Emma?"
Emma rolled her eyes at George's theatrics. "Of course I am. But you know that means you're going to have to buy me the most expensive bottle of Moet that is available as thanks for my help."
He feigned a look of long sufferance. "I knew there would be a downside to this."
Emma guffawed and playfully swatted him on the arm.
She had left school at sixteen and became an intern at her father's advertising agency, Highbury. She rapidly worked her way up from merely being the photocopy girl and coffee distributor, to her father's personal assistant. When he had the fall, George made senior partner and Emma became his junior partner. Some whispered that it was shameless act of nepotism, for how could a twenty-one year old girl become junior partner? But Emma had a sharp mind and a quick wit, with no qualms about voicing her opinions. She had always felt more comfortable around older people and most of her friends were a good decade or so older than her.
For example, her best friend George was sixteen years older than her but she rarely felt the age gap between them. They had known each other since she was born, as both their families regularly socialised and holidayed together. They both loved classic movies, Italian food, fast-cars, Moet, Manchester United and the gym. They both hated mushroom soup, early mornings, the Sex and the City movie, R&B, bad drivers and disloyalty. And always, a blunt honesty existed between the two.
The nurse, Sana, sauntered over and George used his charm to procure three glass tumblers. After Sana left to get the glasses, Emma leaned over to George and murmured, "Shame on you for using Sana's undisguised lust towards you for your own advantage."
George smirked. "Well, you're reaping in the rewards too—you get to drink from those tumblers too."
Mr. Woodhouse's eyes had drifted shut again. "What are you two whispering about?"
"Nothing of interest, dad. Only George's shameless use of women," teased Emma.
"Hardly. I'm a paragon of virtue," replied George, his eyes dancing.
"How is your mother?" abruptly asked Mr. Woodhouse. "She hasn't been to see me yet."
George's jovial expression dampened for a brief moment at the mention of his estranged mother. "She's just been busy setting up her new bed and breakfast in Surrey with her new husband, Damon."
"When you next see her, tell her that I want a visit from her. I feel quite neglected," Mr. Woodhouse said a tad tetchily.
"Of course I will, Mr. Woodhouse," said George soothingly. "As soon as the honeymoon euphoria has worn off, she will come and visit you."
"Bah! Weddings! Don't see why she has to get married again. Your father was a fine chap while that new Damon of hers…he wears leather and rides a motorcycle for God's sake!"
"Mum is lonely, Mr. Woodhouse, and Damon makes her feel young again," George said, his voice deceptively benign as Emma knew that he disliked talking about his mother and her new toy-boy husband who was twenty-years younger than her.
Sana came back with the Scotch glasses and the remainder of the visit passed in their old harmonious pattern: George gaily re-telling old stories and bantering with Mr. Woodhouse, Emma fussing over her father and teasing George.
At seven pm, after having farewelled Mr. Woodhouse, George escorted Emma out to the carpark to his shiny new Mercedes. For the past six months, they had fallen into the routine of Emma taking the train and the bus to her father's nursing home each Friday night and then George would drive over to join her with some sort of alcoholic beverage. Afterwards, he would drive her home and they would share a dinner of pizza.
Emma could not quantify how much it meant to her having George coming around each Friday to see her father and treat him with dignity and respect. If he ever felt annoyance at her father's constant griping about his health and neglect by various friends and relations, he did not show it. He was only ever good-humoured and tolerant towards Mr. Woodhouse, unlike his brother and Isabella's husband, John, who could only bear to be in Mr. Woodhouse's company more than one hour before he started fidgeting and checking his watch.
"You're still not getting on with Damon?" Emma asked, as she put her seatbelt on.
George sighed and started the ignition. "No. I think he's a gold digger but mum believes he's the next Messiah. She's absolutely besotted with him and thinks John and I are bad sports."
"I didn't think he's that bad. Damon genuinely seems to like your mum."
George reversed out of the driveway, his strong features creased in a frown. "I'm worried about the amount of money she spends on him. I mean, she used her money from dad to start up this dodgy bed and breakfast at Damon's behest. Before that, she funded Damon's brief flirtation with clay cartoon animals and lost a small fortune because Damon had no idea on how to effectively run a business."
"So he's not the brightest crayon in the box—that doesn't mean he doesn't love her."
George raised an eyebrow. "You would say that, Emma. He's a six foot-five package of bronzed goodness and chiseled abs with a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt. Your sister said the exact same thing."
"Alright, alright, I won't say anything else," Emma said, raising her hands in defeat. "Take some Prozac or something and relax."
George smiled ruefully. "Sorry, Emma. I don't mean to sound like a bastard, but that man really gets to me."
Emma touched his arm. "Don't worry, I'm used to your PMS."
"Bugger off, Emma."
She could see a sliver of a grin cross his face. He could never be in a bad mood for long.
Emma crossed her legs and leaned back in her seat. "By the way, I'm assuming you're going to Harry Weston's marriage to Taylor Lombard?"
"As if I'd miss out on the chance of seeing you in a hideous peach taffeta gown and a hat that looks as if you've stolen it from Little Bo Peep."
"Watch it, mister. I think I look quite fetching in that gown."
"Of course you do," sniggered George.
"Anyway, there wouldn't be a wedding if I hadn't encouraged Taylor to respond to Harry's wooing," said Emma airily.
"I hardly think you can be credited with the union of Harry and Taylor."
"Harry would never have worked up the courage to ask Taylor out if I hadn't nudged him the right direction."
George snorted in amusement. "Emma, since you credit yourself with almost everything good in the world, I'm surprised you haven't announced that your matchmaking expertise ensured the conception of Jesus Christ."
"You're such a wit," replied Emma witheringly.
George laughed. "One of my many talents."
"Look who's got the inflated ego now."
George's gleaming mocha eyes briefly shifted from the road to her Pacific blue ones. She fought back a grin as her lips twitched. Then he turned his attention back to the road.
Comfortable silence reigned in the car for about twenty minutes.
George broke the silence. "I've brought a box set of Cary Grant movies. Are you interested in watching one with me? Perhaps To Catch A Thief with the luminous Grace Kelly?"
"Along with pizza and Moet?"
"Classy combination."
"Shut-up."
"As you wish, mi'lady. Consider it a thank-you for helping me draft the proposal."
Emma smiled warmly. "That would be nice."
His eyes darted to hers. Then they diverted back to the road again.
Fifteen minutes later, George pulled into the carpark of Giovanni's Pizza and Pasta shop. The beaming, bulky figure of Giovanni cheerfully greeted the pair, kissing Emma's cheek and shaking George's hand. "Ah, Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse! The usual?"
Emma grinned. "The usual, Giovanni. One family sized pizza with half Hawaiian and half Vegetarian, please."
Giovanni barked out orders to his two sons, Roberto and Louis, and then he ducked under the counter and came out with a bottle of red wine. "This is for you and Mr. Knightley, Miss Woodhouse. Something for you to take home and enjoy together."
"Thanks, Giovanni," replied Emma. "This is very kind of you."
George reached into his wallet. "Let me pay for that."
Giovanni waved his hand dismissively. "No, no. You two are my most loyal customers. Consider it a gift of thanks for creating that advertising campaign for my shop for free. Thanks to you two, my shop is booming now."
"Thank-you, Giovanni. This is completely undeserved," George said, taking the bottle.
Louis placed the pizza on the table.
"Enjoy!" said Giovanni, handing Emma the pizza.
"We certainly will," responded Emma.
Emma unlocked the door to her apartment and George followed in behind her. She kicked off her heels and dumped her bag on the table.
"Just a side note, is the delightful Karl still in your life?" asked George as he uncorked the Moet.
"No," answered Emma shortly. "He broke up with me on Wednesday."
George poured the Moet into two flute glasses. "And you didn't tell me?"
"You knew it wasn't going to last. I just didn't want to see you gloat."
"Well the guy is obviously a twat if he can't see how lucky he is to have you."
Emma gave him a half-smile. "Part of the reason was that he felt threatened by my friendship with you."
George raised an eyebrow as he opened the pizza box. "Emma, I was hardly turning lustful eyes at you and playing footsie with you while Karl was cutting up the turkey."
"When I introduced you to him at that dinner two Saturday's ago, he felt completely embarrassed when he arrived with a cheap bottle of wine and you brought a vintage wine that would have cost him an entire week's salary."
George shrugged. "It's not my fault Karl felt his masculine pride was under threat."
Emma ruffled his dark hair. "You knew exactly what you were doing, Mr. Knightley."
"Do you know how old I felt just then with you calling me Mr. Knightley?"
"You are sixteen years older than me—that's practically ancient."
George sobered and stared at his plate. "You are right. You're twenty-one and yet you're staying home on a Friday night with a thirty-seven year old man. That is certainly not natural."
Emma's brow creased. "I was only joking, George."
"You should be out clubbing, getting drunk and sticking your tongue down heaps of guy's throats, not watching a Cary Grant movie with pizza and Moet."
"Hey, you silly twat—listen to me: you're my best friend who I have known ever since I was born. I enjoy spending time with you. Besides, you do know that there are six other days of the week that I can go out and do all those things you just said?"
George finally cracked a smile. "I guess you're right."
"I know I'm right," she corrected him.
"Of course."
Emma flopped down beside him on the couch. "You know you can't get rid of me that easily."
He lightly brushed a strand piece of blond hair from her face. "Don't I know it."
The two then smiled at each other.
End of the first part! Please let me you know what you think, which would be most appreciated :-)