A/N: The work title comes from Margaret Cavendish's Sociable Letters though I've modernised the spelling of 'Emperess'. Chapter titles henceforth will come from Alexander Pope's An Essay on Criticism.

Emma Wu moved into her nice, pretty, airy flat at the end of May. By mid-June, she was bored. Her job at the art gallery was interesting, she saw her best friend often, her father was well and there was nothing to complain about, except the weather. Every day was hotter than the one before. On the Tube, everyone (Emma included) wore a stubborn air of irritability. When she got home, the living room would be just how she left it, with books balanced over armrests and magazines on the floor. The fridge was only ever stocked with mayonnaise and sriracha, so every night she ordered pad thai and told herself she'd do a batch-cook that weekend. So far she had managed this twice. The first time, she made a fragrant and delicious pork belly with vegetables and rice, which she photographed and sent to her father to allay his worries about her eating habits. The other time, I'm sorry to say, was pesto pasta, with cheese.

Of course, she didn't tell anyone about any of this. George Ngai, with his muscle-tailored meal plans, would be at first horrified, then incredibly smug, then terribly nice. Annie Taylor, who at twenty-two already lived with her long-term boyfriend, would say it was because she was all alone. There wasn't anyone else's opinion Emma cared to listen to, so she took herself on long walks and spent hours in vintage clothing shops. She started a journal, then abandoned it. She went to the theatre twice. She went out with Annie and got back at 3am, sober and slightly cross about everything in the world. She toyed with the idea of getting a dog.

What was wrong with her? When she was fifteen Emma dreamt about being young and free in London, and now it was all feeling like a terrible mistake. She wanted to go home, but she'd long since bid that option goodbye. So she told herself she was being silly. She called George and invited herself to his football matches, flatmate drinks, pub quizzes and even one of his dull work events. Afterwards, they went to her flat and he told her stories about the people she'd just met, sprawled out on her pale green rug. He slept over in the spare room that could only fit a single bed, with the pink unicorn bedsheets her father gave her as a leaving present.

This was how Emma made it through her first summer in London. By September, it was no longer unbearable to sleep with the windows closed, and she felt she'd begun to adjust to life here too. And Emma realised that Annie was right. George was still her best friend, but he lived all the way in Finsbury Park and she couldn't just bother him whenever she wanted. She didn't know how she hadn't realised it earlier, but there was a perfect solution to her problems.

George considered himself a good friend, or possibly too good when it came to Emma. His Saturday plans had heretofore consisted of a park run, a film and not much else. But Emma had called and said she needed help, casually mentioning for the first time that she was looking for a flatmate. Half an hour later, George found himself in St John's Wood, where she lived.

Now he was leaning back from the laptop screen and folding his arms. "Emma, this sounds like it was written by a psychopath."

Emma shoved him, hard. "I knew you were going to say something like that."

"Oh good. So you know what's wrong with it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said airily. "I make myself very clear. I'm a beautiful, intelligent, affluent young professional living in nearly-central London. I won't tolerate dirtiness, vaping or McDonald's any more than once a month, and they need to be able to accept that."

"Firstly," said George, "you're not writing a lonely hearts ad. This is Spare Room."

She registered the obvious jibe: "I'm sorry, lonely hearts ad? Was your last date before the Second World War?"

(For the interested reader, it was actually four months ago, and both parties reported it to be 'fine'.)

"Secondly," said George, not hearing any of this, "you should definitely say something about this flat, and not so much about your—" he squinted, then said the next words as if speaking a foreign language— "collection of Phoebe Philo-era Céline and Prada ugly-chic."

"They're clothes," said Emma helpfully.

He knew that. Seven years of friendship had taught him the basics.

Next, he said something terribly sensible. "Emma, I don't want to sound like your dad, but by mentioning all this designer clothing you are basically asking to be burgled. Your address is right there."

"George. Are you worried about my safety?"

"No," said George fluently. "I'm worried about mine. This ad is going to attract someone exactly like you, and I don't think I can handle two Emmas in my life."

"You can barely handle one." Emma smiled at his answering scowl. "Fine, what do you suggest?"

He told her to write something normal about the location and explain that the room was exceptionally affordable because it was absolutely tiny.

"It isn't that bad," said Emma. "You've slept there."

George said nothing. Emma added the room's dimensions to her advert. He said that some details about her life would make her seem 'more approachable'.

"I work at an art gallery and I have a super annoying best friend?"

She clicked submit. In her mind, the next steps would unfold like a row of paper snowflakes. She already knew the ideal candidate: someone musical, perhaps, with excellent taste so their room would complement the existing décor. Someone who liked staying in, who owned house plants, who agreed that reality TV was perfectly acceptable, so long as you were watching it critically. In short, she was looking for a friend. The last few months had been difficult because she'd gone from always having someone around to being by herself. And it was nice to be needed. Emma had lived at home during uni, which everyone thought was strange, but she had managed it perfectly. Then, miraculously, this job had come up—John and Isabella were moving back home—she could be in London on her own—and in London, people had flatmates.

The realistically high demand and march of diegetic time brought this about: Emma found someone within a week.

"Her name is Harriet Saito," Emma was saying on the phone as she folded laundry. She and George hadn't spoken in a few days, which was unusual, so Emma was painting vividly a picture of what he'd missed. "She's a violinist, which is just delightful. When she came to see my place she was wearing the loveliest pale blue tulle skirt. We're about the same height, so we could actually share wardrobes. Isabella and I never did that, of course, but it would be so nice if Harriet agreed. You know my red coat? I think it would look amazing on her."

"Mm-hmm," said George. "What's she like?"

"Like? Oh, you know. Girlish, very sweet, a bit shy. I asked her some questions about herself and I only got back that she was born in Kyoto and moved here when she was three. I told her that story about my dad forgetting me at the airport when I was two, and I swear, George, she looked absolutely terrified. I really had to reassure her that I didn't spend the following twenty years fatherless."

"Actually the opposite," said George.

"Hush," said Emma. "Anyway, she's moving in next weekend, and I can just tell she'll be a model flatmate and female best friend."

"I wish you every success," said George. "Though I definitely think you're putting too much pressure on this."

"Diamonds are made under pressure," said Emma, sounding very much like some guy called Aaron's desktop background. "Anyway, what about you? How are the tractors?"

George worked as a Collections Manager at the Museum of Farming and Agriculture, or MOFA for short. He had applied there not spurred by an enthusiasm for conservation, but rather because he was wild about soil. His dissertation had been on something about that: a provocative combination of chemicals, farming and climate.

Emma had visited MOFA once and saw a short-lived exhibition on the phrase 'Agricultural Revolution'. She left very confused, but not before taking a turn on the (permanent display) tractor ride.

"The tractors are fine," said George. "When are you going to get tired of that joke?"

"When are you going to get tired of tractors?" asked Emma merrily. She'd sensed his moodiness and sought to pluck it out of him. "Out of everyone I know, George—"

"Not a lot of people."

"—I think you're the best suited for early retirement. I've got it all planned. You can go up north, or wherever farms are, and spend your last decades growing asparagus and strawberries. The village children will steal them and you'll turn a blind eye, because you're very generous. But now you're going to tell me their soils have different pHs."

In fact, they did. "I had no idea you'd made so many plans for my last years of life," said George.

"Well," said Emma, "as you point out, I don't know a lot of people, so I'm forced to invent new versions of you. But soon it'll be different. I have a good feeling about Harriet. If we live together, we're going to see each other every day, so it's inevitable that we'll become close."

George's silence was deafening and unpleasant.

She had an uncharitable thought. "You're just jealous that I'm going to have a new best friend."

"That's definitely not it," he said.

"So it is something! Tell me. You've been weird for this whole call."

He sighed. "It's just…"

Emma loved nothing more than to prise a secret out of someone. "What? Come on, say it."

"You're going to get angry."

"I'm not!"

George silently weighed up the pleasures of speaking his mind to Emma against the perils of potentially aggravating Emma.

"Fine," said George. "It's that you're not very experienced in female friendships."

"Excuse you," said Emma indignantly. "What about Annie?"

"Annie's different," said George. "You're more like sisters. You've known each other since birth."

"Does that not count as experience?" demanded Emma.

"No, because Annie's like—you could literally murder her family, and she'd still write you a Christmas card."

"How does Annie being nice matter? Plus, I went to an all-girls school, and I must've—I mean, well, I survived that. With friends."

"This wasn't meant to be an attack, Emma."

"And I do have other friends. I'm friends with Frank."

"Work friends is a bit different."

"Oh, if you're just going to keep changing the rules—Annie's too nice, Frank's too work-related—"

"I really regret saying this."

"I lived at home for uni! Who was I meant to make friends with? With my dad's carer? Oh, I guess I can't, because she's a woman!"

"Emma, I'm sorry that I've hit a sore spot. Just forget I said anything."

But she couldn't accept this, not least because it was true. She was forced to call in the cavalry. "This is so sexist, George. As a man, you can't pass judgement on my friendships. You have no idea what it's like."

"I think by playing that card, you've basically admitted I'm right."

Emma didn't like where they'd ended up. She went back to several ripostes ago and said, much more calmly, "Just because I was a holy terror in school doesn't mean I can't make friends now."

"You really were," said George. He was smiling. "Remember when you waged a long and fearsome war because Jane became Head Girl over you?"

She seized on this instantly. "Oh my God, can we please not talk about your ex-girlfriend?"

"We barely—" George covered his face in exasperation. This was an old and familiar topic with comfortably threadbare arguments. He was not getting into it now. "Emma, I'm just saying, you've only ever lived with your dad and Isabella. Flatmates take some getting used to. And if you expect to be best friends, you're putting on so much extra pressure."

Emma paused. It didn't really matter if George was wrong or right, because, well, "It's not as if you could've moved in with me."

"I don't want to be your flatmate, Emma."

"I don't want you to be my flatmate either," she said quickly. It would be strange. He could barely fit in that room. He and his current flatmates were very close.

"It would just be—"

"Because, you know—"

Emma had come to London to expand her circle, not to focus it on George. This was a big city. There were plenty of other people.

"A bit much," George finished. "I already see you all the time. You deserve some space?"

"Tell me about it," said Emma. She was also thinking that for all George was her best friend, she was not sure she wanted him to see her first thing in the morning, with a lopsided bun and even bitchier than usual.

"Anyway," said Emma quickly. "Since Harriet's moving in next weekend, I was thinking I'd leave that open. But you and I can go and see a film and eat burgers on Tuesday after work? You pick?"

"I can pick?"

"I'm vetoing that musical—the one with whatshisface, and the Disney girl."

"Of course." As a peace offering, he said, "Wong Kar-Wai? At the Prince Charles?"

She smiled. "Yes. I can't wait."

A/N: *Moira Rose voice* She hath risen! Thanks for reading chapter one of my new project, this heavily self-indulgent Emma modern AU. If you have no idea who I am, then hello! – if you've read 'some say', I hope you'll stick with this – if you've read 'Down the Isle', then you're a real one. Updates will hopefully be every week?

St John's Wood is a charming neighbourhood on the more expensive side of Regent's Park in London. Famous residents include Sir Paul McCartney and Marie Tussaud – yes, that Tussaud. It is pretty pricy and just the place to raise a young family, so Emma might be in the wrong area. Finsbury Park, where George lives, is much more chill and affordable. The Prince Charles Cinema, by Leicester Square, is an indie gem.

Reviews are always very appreciated. You can also find me on Tumblr larkspurlistens.