“I’m less than ten miles from the M40, which is a straight shot into London,” she argued. “It could be Inverness, like my last job.”
“Scotland,” her mother practically gasped. “This is all Charlie’s fault.”
She rolled her eyes as the shops of Highbury came into view. “Charlie hasn’t lived in Scotland for as long as I’ve known him. Besides, no one is settling down anywhere.”
“She knows she’s being ridiculous,” said her father, his voice richer now and clearly off speakerphone.
“I am not!” Emma could hear Mum insist in the background.
“She is being ridiculous,” Emma said.
She could hear her father walking through to another room. “It’s just that she remembers what it was like to worry about money. That’s why she pushed you so hard to go to university.”
“And instead I got my qualifications at the Royal Horticultural Society,” she said, remembering those arguments all too well. “I would have been miserable at university.”
“I know. Just like I know that your mother means well,” Dad said.
She sighed. “I know she does.”
“You’re a good daughter,” he said.
“You two could come up sometime and see Highbury. You might like it,” she said.
“I don’t know if your mother would feel more or less worried if that happens.”
“That would have really bothered me when I was in my early twenties,” she said.
“And now?” he asked.
“Now I think that I’m an adult and I can set boundaries, and Mum can respect them.” For the most part.
“Smart girl,” said Dad.
At a tap on Emma’s shoulder, she turned around to see Henry dressed in a black T-shirt with Jones & Cropper & Steinberg & Jackson. written on it. He gave her a little wave.
“Dad? Why don’t I call you back tomorrow? We can talk more about a visit,” she suggested.
“Anytime, love,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Henry as she ended the call.
“I was just catching my parents up on a few things,” she said. “I don’t understand your T-shirt.”
He looked down. “It’s Booker T. and the M.G.s,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ah.” She made a mental note to look it up when she got home.
“Are you close to your parents?” he asked.
“For the most part, although Mum drives me crazy most of the time. She constantly worries I’m putting my entire life into a company that is on the brink of folding.”
“Is it?” he asked.
She huffed a laugh. “No, but she wasn’t exactly thrilled when I told her I was training to be a garden designer. Or a few years later when I decided to start my own business,” she said.
“What did she think you should do?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Not a clue. She worked as a receptionist for a solicitor for a while, so she was pretty hung up on me becoming a solicitor when I was a teenager.”
“Children disappointing their parents is practically tradition.”
“Isn’t farming the same business your father was in?” she asked.
“Have you ever seen that Monty Python sketch where the playwright father rages at his son for deciding to be a coal miner?”
“Sure. It spoofs pretty much every novel D. H. Lawrence ever wrote,” she said.
He nodded. “That was Dad.”
“So your father wanted you to do anything except for farming…”
“Which is why, rebel that I am, that’s all I could imagine doing.” He gestured behind him. “Are you coming in?”
“Coming in?” She looked up to see the sign for the White Lion.
“I thought that maybe you’d given in to Sydney this week,” he explained.
“I would love to,” she said, surprised that she actually would. “But I’ve got these with me.” She held up her bag of groceries.
“Anything perishable?” he asked.
“A pint of milk and some Greek yogurt,” she said.
“Come with me.” He was halfway to the pub door before he turned and said, “If you want.”
Emma hesitated a moment. She had a budget spreadsheet to update, sculpture-repair vendors to contact. And she should probably open the email from her accountant she’d been avoiding all day. But when she saw Henry holding open the pub door for her, she realized that going home to an empty cottage simply didn’t sound appealing.
Inside, the pub was hot, people all squeezed around round tables and high stools. On each table, a piece of paper and pencil sat waiting amid sweating drinks. She couldn’t see Sydney and Andrew through the wall of people.
When Henry reached the bar, he leaned in and shouted over a Little Mix song, “What are you having?”
“A pint, please,” she shouted.
He stuck out his hand. “Give me your shopping.”
She frowned but handed him the canvas bag just as the bartender, an older woman with a deep tan, heavy black eyeliner, and long black clip-in extensions, sidled over.
“Henry, are you up to no good?” the woman asked.
“I certainly hope so. Dinah, this is Emma Lovell. She’s working on restoring Sydney and Andrew’s garden,” said Henry.
Dinah stuck her hand out over the bar. “Any friend of Sydney and Andrew is welcome at the White Lion, but be careful of this one.” Dinah nodded to Henry. “I’ve been throwing him out of this pub since he was fourteen.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Emma, tucking her hair back behind her ears.
“Give us two pints, would you?” Henry asked.
Dinah picked up a pint glass and began to pull cask ale with a practiced ease. “You’re staying for the quiz?”
“Apparently I am,” she said.
“Lucy is starting in a few minutes,” said Dinah, putting down a full glass in front of Emma.
“Would you mind sticking this in the fridge in the back, Dinah?” Henry asked, handing over the groceries. When Dinah gave him a look, he added, “They’re Emma’s, not mine.”
“For Emma, I’m happy to,” said Dinah, depositing another pint in front of Henry. “That’ll be eight pounds fifty.”
Before Emma could move, Henry had paid for the drinks. She was going to protest, but Dinah said, “Let him. It’ll be his penance for when he insists that he has the right answer and costs you the win.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” said Emma.
“He doesn’t. Don’t be shy about asking for your groceries whenever. This lot can wait a few minutes for drinks,” said Dinah before peeling off to the back.
“I like her,” said Emma, taking a sip of her ale.
“I’m legally required to like her. She’s my aunt. I read some P. G. Wodehouse for my A levels. When Bertie Wooster called his aunt Agatha ‘the nephew-crusher,’ I knew exactly what he meant. Come on, let’s see if we can get through this crowd.”
Henry dropped his shoulder and pushed through as Emma did her best not to spill her drink or wing someone with her cross-body bag. When the crowd opened up, she found herself in front of Sydney, Andrew, and two others at a low table.