‘It’s a very pretty dress she has on,’ smiled Giles.
‘Yes, but tonight we’re going to a very high-profile event, one where Ruby has to look at least fifteen. That dress that came in today, the aqua Dolce? I think that would look very nice with her skin tone.’
‘I can go to the premiere!’ squealed Ruby.
Cassandra gave a little half smile. ‘I’m giving Giles the night off, yes.’
Ruby ran round the desk and threw her arms round her mother.
‘Darling, be careful not to mark the Balenciaga,’ she said, carefully peeling her off. ‘And Giles? Can you see if Lianne is still here and get her to clean up these lilies.’
23
Emma strolled along Oxford’s High Street feeling a real pang of affection for the city. Although she had loved her student and subsequent professional life in Boston with its colonial elegance and cultural micro-climate so isolated from the rest of America, Oxford was steeped in a history Boston could only dream of, not to mention a gentle majesty few cities in the world could match. She’d spent the last couple of hours enjoying supper with Ernesto Pozzi, a professor at North Western University who was currently a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College. As Ernesto had been one of her father’s best friends, Emma had made a point of keeping in touch over the past few years, although finding the time to make the journey to his house in Chicago had been difficult. Emma had been delighted therefore when the old man moved to Oxford, albeit temporarily; it made their meetings more convenient. Over a steak and chips supper in a brasserie full of students, they’d discussed literature and funny stories about students and Ernesto had pressed a huge pile of books on her, insisting she read them all. But mainly they’d talked about Ernesto and her father Jack’s time together as students in Cambridge. Emma loved these stories more than anything. Her mother did not like to talk about her father and as Emma had no brothers and sisters, meeting Jack Bailey’s friends was a way of keeping him alive.
She stood for a moment in the road trying to get her bearings. She hadn’t been to Oxford for at least five years and couldn’t remember where she’d parked her car.
‘Get out of the road, honey!’ said a voice. A hand gripped her arm and steered her towards the pavement. ‘If a bus comes along there won’t be enough left of you to make a handbag.’
‘Rob!’ said Emma, looking around as a car tore past, its horn blaring. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Picking up a painting,’ he grinned, ‘from your aunt’s gallery actually. She managed to find me this great Bridget Riley lithograph I’m giving to a couple of friends as a wedding gift. I’ve just driven here straight from work; she kept the gallery open late so I could collect it.’
She looked at the large package underneath his arm.
‘A Bridget Riley? Nice gift. Beats a teas maid.’
‘What’s a teas maid?’ asked Rob, eyebrows raised.
Emma giggled. ‘Some other time,’ she said, noticing that they were heading towards Magdalen Bridge, both walking in step together without asking where the other was going.
‘So, how did the shoot go?’
‘Really well. The photos look beautiful.’
‘I hope you and Madeline didn’t do too much whispering about me. I saw you huddled together gossiping.’
‘She’s nice. An impressive woman. Doesn’t strike me as your usual type,’ said Emma with a crooked smile.
‘Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?’
Emma laughed again.
‘Just that she’s quite different from Trudy.’
‘I’ll have you know Trudy has a chemistry degree. She’s a very nice girl.’
‘I’m sure she is. Does Polly like her?’
Rob paused before answering.
‘Trudy’s never met Polly. I don’t like girlfriends meeting my daughter until, well, I think they’re ready.’
Emma looked down at the books under her arm, feeling slightly uncomfortable. They fell silent as they came to Magdalen Bridge and stopped, leaning on the ancient stone, looking down into the water.
‘Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out,’ said Emma. ‘You and Madeline, I mean. It must be hard living so far away from your daughter.’
‘Yeah, I miss Polly like crazy. I feel like a bad father every day I don’t see her which is about three hundred and thirty days of the year.’