He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. I’ve got a friend who’s in France at the moment. We had a vague arrangement to go to Thailand for a few months. I could do that on the way back to Perth.’

Emma dipped her spoon into her consommé. There was a friend. She felt a certain irritation at the thought that Frank Churchill already had a friend; the first seeds of envy. ‘She’s French?’

‘He. No, Australian.’

The word he dropped into the conversation like a small stone into a pond. Her first thought was: I was right, again! Inadvertently, but still right. He isn’t interested! And then she remembered what Harriet had said, which was, ‘What a pity.’

Frank wiped his lips with his table napkin. ‘We’ve known each other a long time,’ he said.

She had been distracted by her thoughts. ‘Who?’

‘Geoff, my friend in France – we were at school together.’

She wanted to find out more, but was trying to work out how to ascertain the nature of the relationship. Perhaps she had jumped to conclusions; in fact, she was now sure that she had. Old school friends could go to Thailand together without there being anything more to it.

‘You’re lucky still to be in touch with friends from school,’ she said. ‘I hardly ever see mine. Except for one or two I occasionally hear from.’

He looked at her intently. ‘It’s different with me and Geoff.’

She did not know what to make of this. ‘Oh …’

‘Yes.’

The situation was now unambiguously clear. ‘I’m fine with that,’ said Emma.

Frank lowered his voice. ‘One thing, though – I like to flirt.’

Emma was unprepared for this. ‘Flirt?’

‘Yes. It’s cover. I’m fed up with people suggesting that I have to get a girlfriend and get married. I get it all the time. You’ve got no idea.’

‘Can’t you come out? Doesn’t that take the heat off you?’

Frank shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. It’s fine for most people but I can’t because I have the Churchills to think of. They wouldn’t understand – they just wouldn’t. My aunt is ill, too, and it’s simpler for her not to know. Later, when she’s gone, I’ll think again. And I’m not sure if I want to hurt my real father’s feelings. He feels guilty, you know.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, dead sure. And I think that if I came out then he’d feel even guiltier. No need for him to do that, of course, as the way I feel is nothing to do with my father having handed me over to my aunt and uncle. Nothing at all. But he’d think: Oh my God, it’s my fault for being an absentee father, etcetera, etcetera. Believe me, it’s simpler – at least for now.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’ He paused. He was looking directly into her eyes. ‘Would you mind if I flirted with you? Just a bit?’

Emma’s first reaction was to say no. She saw no reason why she should be drawn into Frank’s problems, especially since she thought they were largely of his own creation. She was not convinced that James would take the disclosure badly – he was a tolerant man, with modern attitudes. Why not just tell him? Why try to conceal something that most people now thought of as perfectly natural – as just one of the possibilities of being human?

But then she looked at Frank, who was smiling back at her in a way that immediately weakened her resolve. Why not? It tickled her that she should be the object of the attentions of such a breathtakingly good-looking young man. She could even imagine that when he flirted he meant it, while at the same time she could have the reassurance of knowing that he did not, for Emma was wary of involvement with men.

‘All right.’

His smile widened. And it was at that point that Frank leaned over to her – just as Mrs Firhill was beginning to clear the soup plates on the opposite side of the table – and whispered into her ear: ‘Sex!’

It was perfect. Emma was genuinely taken by surprise, and reacted as anybody into whose ear the word sex had been whispered might be expected to react. She gave a start, and then, reverting to her agreed role, pouted. Leaning forward herself, she whispered into his ear, ‘Consommé!’

That made him laugh, or begin to laugh and then apparently struggle to suppress it.

Everybody saw what was going on – or at least everybody on the opposite side of the table saw it. James’s eyebrows shot up, and then shot down again. Miss Taylor’s brow furrowed, and then became smooth once more. Jane Fairfax’s mouth opened very slightly, and then shut. Mrs Firhill raised her eyes to the ceiling and then lowered them again.

The dinner party continued. The hubbub of conversation increased during the second course, and by the third – a chocolate mousse of which Mrs Firhill was particularly proud – the level of sound was almost deafening. Shortly after eleven, though, Mr Woodhouse began to yawn, and several of the guests, noticing this, started to suggest that they leave. This was the signal for all to rise to their feet and begin to drift out into the hall. Emma had intended that they should finish in the drawing room, where coffee, decaffeinated and otherwise, was waiting, but the host’s obvious tiredness had put paid to that.

She met Harriet in the small morning room where the women had placed their coats. They were alone, and she took the opportunity to find out how her friend had got on with Philip. ‘Things seemed to be going well at your end of the table,’ said Emma.

‘Really well,’ said Harriet. ‘We talked and talked all evening. He barely said anything to the person on his right. He’s got such a lovely voice, Emma. He really has. I could listen to him for hours.’

I couldn’t, thought Emma. But she said, ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s lovely.’ She looked at Harriet encouragingly. ‘And?’

Harriet smiled coyly. ‘I think he likes me.’

‘Good.’

‘I think he’s going to ask me out.’

‘Also good.’

Harriet picked up her coat and they went out into the hall. There were few guests left now: Mrs Goddard, Harriet, and Philip. Mrs Goddard embraced Mr Woodhouse, planting a kiss left and right, preventing him from recoiling by embracing him firmly. ‘Dear Woody,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a treat. And promise me you’ll remember.’

Mr Woodhouse looked anxiously at Emma. ‘Yes, of course. Of course.’

‘Now, Harriet, dear,’ said Mrs Goddard, releasing Mr Woodhouse and turning to Harriet. ‘That’s us offski.’

Emma smiled. Offski.

‘And you, dear Emma,’ continued Mrs Goddard. ‘You must come and hang out with us. Promise me you will. Go on, promise.’

Emma smiled again. ‘Any time,’ she said.

‘Any time soon,’ enthused Mrs Goddard. ‘Now come on, Harriet, time to split.’

Now it was just Philip, Mr Woodhouse, and Emma.

‘I must go too,’ said Philip. He had been watching Mrs Goddard with a certain morbid fascination, and Emma even thought that she detected a suppressed shudder. Well, that was not surprising; cold fish meets warm, effusive fish, she thought; and for all the offsky and splitting, she instinctively liked Mrs Goddard, or Mrs God as she now thought of her. What if God, if he (she) was actually like her: rather casual, with a fondness for cannabis (which he, after all, would have created in the first place) and a benign, rather folksy manner? What if God actually hated Gregorian chants and the Anglican liturgy, strongly disliked the smell of incense the Catholics kept wafting in his direction, and had a strong sympathy for ageing hippies who taught English as a foreign language? What if God actually knew the way to the railway station but understood that others needed to be told as well?

Mr Woodhouse yawned. ‘Oh goodness, I am sorry. You see Philip out, Emma,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I must get to bed before I collapse. Such social excitement!’

He shook Philip’s hand quickly and disappeared down the corridor.

‘He gets so tired,’ said Emma. ‘He’s always up early – that’s the problem. He’s up at five most days.’

‘Emma,’ said Philip. ‘Can we talk?’

Emma affected surprise. ‘Of course. But about what? We’ve all just covered every subject under the sun in the dining room. Politics?’

Philip swayed slightly on his feet. ‘Could we go outside? It’s a lovely night.’

Emma looked out into the garden. ‘It could rain.’

‘It won’t rain. It’s perfect. Couldn’t we go and sit on the lawn for a few minutes?’

She looked at her watch. ‘It’s so late …’

He took her arm, gently, and moved towards the front door. She did not resist; he probably had something to say about Harriet and she would, of course, encourage him. I can tolerate this creepy man for the sake of Harriet, she told herself.

There was an almost full moon outside, painting the garden an ethereal silver. ‘Look at the moon,’ she said. ‘So bright. So lunar!’ She had to say something.

They were standing on the lawn now. ‘I don’t want to sit on the grass,’ she said. ‘It gets so damp at night.’ She thought of his office building in Ipswich, and its chronic damp.

‘Emma,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something.’

It occurred to her that he wanted to discuss the portrait. That was it.

‘What did you think of my portrait of Harriet?’ she asked. ‘You can be absolutely frank, you know.’ Frankness, of course, was the last thing she wanted; praise was the first.

He seemed to regard her question as a distraction. ‘Oh that. Well …’

She waited. ‘Yes?’

‘You did it in pastel.’

‘Yes, it’s a pastel drawing. I thought that would work rather well for Harriet. Her colouring, you see, rather lends itself to pastel, don’t you agree?’ And then she added, ‘There’s nothing wrong with pastels, you know. Vuillard used them a lot. They look like oils until you get up close, and then you realise they’re not.’

He sighed. ‘You didn’t fix it.’

What was he talking about? She always fixed her pastels. ‘I did. I sprayed it with fixative. I always do.’

He shook his head. He was standing with the moon behind him and she could not see his expression. ‘You fixed the first drawing – the one underneath. You forgot to fix what you did on top of it. So when I smudged it – inadvertently – I saw what was underneath.’

Emma caught her breath.

Philip seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but at first she did not. Finally she said, ‘Major embarrassment.’

‘I should think so.’

Emma decided to brazen it out. ‘I’m very sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve seen Harriet in the nude but …’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t let it put you off her. Please. Nothing need be said. You should just go ahead anyway.’

‘Go ahead with what?’

‘With Harriet. With seeing her.’

This remark was greeted with complete silence. Then Philip emitted what sounded like a groan. ‘You don’t think that I’m interested in her, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But, Emma, no, no, no. You’ve got it completely wrong. It’s you I like. I like you a lot. In fact, I think I’m in love with you.’

She stood quite still. She heard him breathing. She felt his hand upon her arm.

‘Say something, Emma. Please say something.’

She struggled to speak. The awfulness of the situation seemed to have constricted her throat. It was hard enough to breathe, let alone to speak. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t really think so.’

He let out another groan. ‘Please review the situation. Please reconsider.’

She felt her confidence grow; he sounded like a business letter. ‘No. You should stick to Harriet.’

‘Her!’

‘And what’s wrong with her? She’s a very attractive young woman.’

‘She’s an airhead.’

This was too much for Emma. He was right, but she would not have him say it. ‘Since when did vicars call other people airheads? You should be ashamed of yourself, Philip.’

This silenced him. She waited a few moments, and then announced that she had to get back into the house. ‘And you,’ she said, ‘should not be driving. You had three gins before dinner and then …’ She stopped herself, but he had heard what she had said.

‘You deliberately gave me three gins?’

‘You didn’t have to drink them.’ She knew this was a weak response.

He snorted. ‘I’m quite sober, thank you. Talking to you is enough to sober anybody up.’

She watched him as he strode away. When he reached the BMW Something-something he was briefly illuminated by the automatic switching on of the interior light. She saw him lower himself into the driving seat and slam the door. Then the engine roared into life and the car spun round in a tight circle, the beams of its headlights sweeping across the lawn and catching Emma for a second or two before they moved away.