The Importance of Being Emma by Juliet Archer

turned one of my spare bedrooms into a study. Come on, girls.’
    He led us up a narrow staircase to a little room with hardly enough space for the computer table (I couldn’t bring myself to call it by its Ikea name), a chair and a couple of bookcases. The idea of it being described as a spare bedroom was ridiculous, unless the guest was small enough to sleep on nothing bigger than a two-by-four-foot shelf. Philip suggested I sat in the chair while he and Harriet watched over my shoulder. This arrangement suited me perfectly until I lost my way in his photo editing software. At this point he started leaning over me and breathing heavily into my ear. I firmly suggested we swapped places.
    During the photo shoot, I’d been convinced that hardly any editing would be required. Now I could see all sorts of problems – strange objects visible in the background, peculiar mannerisms from Harriet and the dreaded red eye. Thanks to Philip’s expert editing, however, we managed to salvage enough photos for my purposes: to circulate them as part of my proposal at the next Board meeting in late October and, subject to the directors’ approval, use them in some focus group research.
    Afterwards, Philip went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea while Harriet and I sat in the lounge. I was past caring whether I was sitting on a Klippan or a Klappsta; all I knew was that it had been a long, tiring day and there was something bothering me.
    I spoke my thoughts out loud. ‘We need a marketing strapline to go with the photos. It’s a good idea to have one from the start, even if we change it as a result of the research.’
    Harriet stifled a yawn.
    ‘ I’m after something inspiring that the target audience can identify with,’ I went on. ‘I can’t think what, though.’
    Just then, Philip came in carrying a bright blue tray.
    Harriet pointed at it and shrieked, ‘Blimp! Have you got any Groggy as well?’
    I groaned inwardly; the Ikea name game was really getting on my nerves. ‘Philip,’ I said hurriedly, ‘any suggestions for our strapline? You know the sort of thing – “let Harriet’s Secret Recipes save your day!” Obviously, that’s not very inspiring, but I’m sure you get the picture.’
    Philip handed each of us a mug of tea and settled himself on what passed for a sofa. ‘What you’re alluding to with this new range is freedom for a certain type of woman, someone who feels constrained by the demands of life today. As you so eloquently said at that first Board meeting, she’s juggling work and family and entertaining – and wanting to do it all perfectly. She needs to be released from her inhibitions, given the means to explore her adventurous side.’
    That last bit sounded like some sort of sexual fantasy; I wondered whether to go straight home and leave him and Harriet to it. But I couldn’t resist prompting him further. ‘I think you may have something there, go on.’
    He looked straight at me, his eyes glittering. ‘You see, Emma, the woman I’m thinking about is trapped by routine, burdened by responsibility, repressed by other people’s expectations. What she craves is – emancipation. Or rather – ema-ncipation!’ For some reason, he paused after the first two syllables and gave a mysterious smile.
    I frowned. ‘Emancipation … Emancipation … No, not snappy enough.’
    He leaned forward and said in a husky voice, ‘How about “Get ema-ncipated in the kitchen … with Harriet’s Secret Recipes”?’
    I laughed. ‘D’you know, that’s not bad at all, it’ll definitely do until I find something better, which may not happen before the focus groups. So thank you, Philip.’ I picked up my handbag and got to my feet. ‘Well, I must be going, just need my camera, wherever that is.’
    Harriet stood up too. ‘It’s upstairs, I’ll get it for you.’
    She dashed out of the room. I went to follow her, but Philip blocked my path. His face was flushed and he was almost panting. ‘Emma,