Falling (6 page)

“It's frozen,” says Dominic, who is smiling through his embarrassment. “The sell-by dates don't matter in the freezer.”

Emma wrinkles her nose with a laugh. “I think five years is pushing it.”

“You thought I was going to
eat
it? Oh, you're funny. That corn is only there for bumps on the head. That's why I bought it.”

“Of course you did. What else is in there, I wonder, that is purely for medicinal purposes?”

“This,” says Dominic, pulling a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. “Want some? Go on. It's after five. Live a little.”

“You're a horrible influence when it comes to alcohol,” says Emma, although she doesn't protest as Dominic reaches for a couple of glasses and pours them each some vodka on ice.

“It's summer. We're at a party. We're not getting drunk; we're just having a drink. Here. Cheers,” he says.

Emma realizes that she hasn't stopped smiling since Dominic walked into the room. “Cheers,” she says back, then downs the vodka in one.

•   •   •

“We should totally get together for a girls' night out,” says Deb, AJ's wife, later in the evening as they are sitting around, messily gnawing on ribs and coleslaw, reaching for the large pile of wet wipes in the middle of the table. “That would be so much fun. What do you think? I'm still on the kids' vacation time, so I'm making the most of it before school starts.”

“I'd love to,” says Emma, thinking how much she actually would, how every single one of Dominic's friends has been welcoming, and warm, without an ounce of competitiveness. Gina isn't here—she wonders why for a moment, and then dismisses the thought, happy simply to have spent time in such pleasant, relaxed company. These are the kinds of people Emma would never have met in her New York banking world, and she feels relieved again to be where she is now.

They are teachers, contractors, personal trainers. The people, she thinks ironically, who work for the people she once worked with. They are real, fun to be with, and completely down-to-earth. A few weeks ago she wouldn't have fitted in, she thinks. Or they would not have accepted her, not in her short skirts and high heels. But sitting here today, wearing jeans and flip-flops, her hands sticky from the ribs, laughing as the afternoon turns to dusk, she is nothing other than the tenant, fitting right in.

AJ wanders over. “Dominic said he built shelves for you. How did he do?”

“They're fantastic,” lies Emma. Although it is true, the shelves do look pretty fantastic now, after her ministrations.

“Really?” Both AJ and Deb look dubious. Deb lowers her voice. “He's a great guy but a master carpenter he's not. He built us a bench for our foyer and it collapsed the first time AJ sat on it.”

“Hey.” Dominic comes over. “I heard that. That's got nothing to do with the bench. That's AJ's beer gut.” He reaches over in an attempt to pat it, but AJ wrestles him away.

“All I can say is don't give up the night job,” says AJ with a guffaw.

“I built beautiful shelves for Emma, didn't I?” says Dominic, turning to Emma for confirmation.

“You did.” Emma nods.

“Even if they fall down if you put anything on them?” AJ laughs.

“You don't believe me? Come and see. You don't mind, Emma, right?”

Crap,
thinks Emma. He doesn't know I've thrown the carpet out. He doesn't know I've painted his beloved orange wood-paneled walls. He doesn't know I've chucked the broken white slatted blinds.
Why did I open my mouth?

“Sure,” says Emma, with some hesitation. “But the house is a bit of a mess. I don't know that today's a good time . . .”

“I don't care about that. Come on, I need to prove to these guys that I can build a decent set of shelves.”

Emma closes her eyes for just a second.
Ask forgiveness,
she thinks.
Apologize once he's seen it, and hope to God he appreciates what it looks like now.

Please let him not be mad.

They walk across the garden, through the gate, Emma trying not to sink into a pool of guilt and misery. She thinks about whether to prepare him, about what she should say, but suddenly they are at the
door, and then inside the house, and then, all of them, standing in the doorway of the office.

“Oh my God!” says Deb. “This is
gorgeous
.”

“Wow!” says AJ. He stands there silently for a moment. “I take it all back. Man, this room looks fantastic. Wow, Dominic. You did an awesome job.”

“Thanks,” says Dominic, his brow furrowing as he frowns at the room.

“I'm really sorry,” Emma says to Dominic, under her breath. “I got a bit carried away with the paint. I was only going to do the shelves, but then I got some on the walls and I was only going to paint a section but it looked weird so I ended up doing the whole thing. I'm really sorry,” she says again. She arranges her features into an expression of apology as she looks at him, but he doesn't look back at her. He's too busy looking around the room.

“What happened to the carpet?” he says after a pause.

“Ah. The carpet. I put it outside while I was painting because there were so many boxes on the floor that I kept tripping over it, and the garbage men took it. I mean, I presume they took it by mistake, because when I went to bring it back in the next day, it had disappeared.”

“I love this rug!” says Deb. “Is this sisal? This is so fantastic.”

“Where are the blinds?” asks Dominic.

Emma finally takes a stand. “I threw them away,” she says firmly. “Dominic, most of those slats were snapped in half. They had to be chucked.”

“They did,” says AJ, looking at his old friend. “I came into this house before you rented it to Emma, and those blinds looked like crap. So did the carpet. In fact, the rest of the carpet
still
looks like crap. This room now looks like something out of a magazine. You
should be paying her to do this. You'd probably get more rent if she did over the whole house.”

Emma smiles her relief and gratitude at him.

“He's right,” says Deb, turning to Emma. “You know, I'd love some help with our house. Is that something you would do? Would you be able to come over and advise me?”

Emma, beaming, says, “Sure, I'd love to,” then sneaks a look at Dominic.

“Oh, come on, Dominic,” she says. “You have to admit the room looks better. I am really sorry about the rug. And the blinds. And especially about painting the wall. But look how bright it is now. Don't you think it's lovely?”

“I just didn't expect this,” Dominic says eventually. “This house has been the same since my grandparents lived here. I liked that it was the same, because it reminded me of them and when they lived here.”

“Dude.” AJ shakes his head. “This house has looked like shit for years. I knew your grandparents, may they rest in peace, and back then this house looked fine. But now? I don't even know how you manage to rent this place, it's so dated. You should let Emma update the whole thing. She obviously has fantastic taste. She should do this professionally.” Turning to Emma, he asks, “Have you considered it?”

“It's definitely something I'm thinking about,” says Emma. “But it's early days. I need to get settled here first, but someday soon I might get serious about it.”

“As a contractor I could introduce you to at least two people right now who need your help. You let me know if you want me to make the introductions, because you've really got talent.”

Emma swells with pride. She has always loved turning a house into a home, creating a warm, elegant, cozy space, but the dream of
turning that into a business has never been anything more than that—a dream. Dominic's upset is forgotten at the prospect of AJ finding first clients for Emma, and as they all walk back to Dominic's house, Deb chattering about how they could redo the kitchen and redecorate the family room, Emma thinks she should just tell AJ she'll meet whoever he wants her to meet. What is she waiting for?

Dominic's been quiet as they all troop back. They are about to go through the garden gate when he takes a deep breath and turns to her.

“You've done a beautiful job,” he says. “I'm sorry I was a bit weird about it. I didn't expect you to have changed the house so much.”

“Oh God, I'm sorry. It was really selfish of me. I didn't think you would be upset. I kept thinking you would be thrilled at how good it looked, but I never considered your emotional attachment to the house as it was, or the implications of all the changes I made. I didn't mean to do anything to upset you.”

“You didn't,” he says. “I was a little shocked at first, but honestly, you've done a beautiful job. I can't believe you did all of that by yourself. It looks incredible.” Then he frowns. “What the hell did you do to the shelves? I swear they didn't look like that when I left the other day.”

“Oh, just some moldings I nailed on to make them look thicker. I think it's a more modern look.”

“Well, they're great. I can't take any of the credit.”

Emma smiles. “A little bit of the credit. You can definitely take a little of the credit. We make a good team.”

He looks at her with a small smile, the tiniest hint of a raised eyebrow, not saying anything, just looking at her. Emma finds herself flushing pink, and looking away. That isn't what she meant, she thinks. She doesn't quite know what to say next. Saying anything else will only make it worse.

“Better get back,” says Dominic, pushing the gate open and stepping aside to let Emma through. As she passes, he guides her by placing a hand, very gently, on the small of her back. As she feels his hand there, the strangest feeling comes over her, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

Safe,
she finds herself thinking.
I have come home.

E
mma wakes up early the next morning, crawls out of bed to make some coffee, then brings it back with her, slipping between the sheets again, reveling in the luxury of a lazy morning.

All those years she dashed out of bed, went running, on a literal or proverbial treadmill from the minute her feet hit the floor to the minute her head hit the pillow later that night. How she is loving the lack of stress, the fact that she has nowhere to be, no one to report to, nothing to do other than lie between these sheets and sip coffee, watching the sunlight filtering in through the sheer curtains: another beautiful day in paradise.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand next to her, and Emma reaches over to see who's calling. Her mother.

“Hello, darling,” she hears through the phone. “I hope I'm not disturbing you. I know it's early, but you're always so busy.”

“Not so much since moving out to the suburbs,” says Emma. “It's fine. How are you?”

“Very excited, darling! Guess what?”

“You won the lottery?”

“Don't be silly, darling. No. But Cousin George is engaged.”

“Oh, that's great. I didn't know he was seeing anyone, though.” Emma barely remembers Cousin George. He's younger than she is by a good few years. She remembers him as a feminine and rather pretty boy. And almost certainly gay, she had thought, although, given her mother's news, clearly incorrectly. As a child she babysat and played with him on the rare occasions he and his parents visited them. He is a cousin of her father's, whose family is more aristocratic than her mother's. Hence her mother's involvement, for she distanced herself from her side of the family, embarrassed by their distinct middle-classness.

“He's been going out with the Honorable Henrietta Chapman,” says Emma's mother, as Emma mentally rolls her eyes. No one but her mother would bother putting in the
Honorable
bit, but of course she has to repeat every title she comes across, as if doing so will somehow elevate her in the eyes of the world.

“That's nice,” says Emma.

“It is nice,” her mother replies. “It's wonderful, and I have offered to throw them the engagement party here at Brigham Hall.”

Brigham Hall didn't used to have a name. It didn't used to be called anything other than home. But years ago, Emma's mother decided that every smart family lived in an old stately home with a name, and therefore their own old, not terribly stately home must have one, too. Weeks were spent trying out possibilities. Should it be a Manor? A Farm? A House? The name Brigham appears to have been pulled out of thin air, although Emma's mother claimed it was from her own mother's
side of the family. Brigham House sounded like an orphanage, they all decided. Brigham Farm was nice, except it wasn't really a farm; they just had a few acres and a couple of sheds, which didn't really count. Brigham Manor was very nice, too, thought Emma's mother, but her husband thought it too grand, too pretentious. So Brigham Hall it became, complete with personalized stationery and an embosser for the envelopes.

“Put it in your diary, darling, because you're expected to be there.”

Emma resists a bark of indignant laughter. “Expected to be there? What does that mean?”

“It means that all the family are coming, and you haven't been home in over a year. Everyone's asking for you. Especially George.”

Emma sputters with laughter. “Why on earth would George be asking for me? I haven't seen him in years.”

“Exactly. That's the point. He very much wants you to meet the Honorable Henrietta. He still says you're his favorite cousin.”

“I'm sure that's not true. He barely knows me. And, Mum, you really don't have to call her ‘the Honorable' every time you mention her. I'm not sure it's really the done thing.”
Ouch.
Emma's mother has never taken criticism well, but better, thinks Emma, for her mother to hear it from her rather than from anyone else.

“I didn't . . . I mean, I know you don't actually use that term. I'm only saying it for you.” Her mother stammers slightly, embarrassed at being caught out.

“Naturally,” says Emma. “I don't know if I can make it, though. It's such a long way and it's not like George and I are close. What's the date?”

“September fifth,” says her mother. “Not too long. Write it down, and do your best. Darling, I know you have a busy life and I know
it's far to come, but it would mean a lot to all of us. Especially me and your father. He misses you and he's not doing so well.”

Emma's heart skips a beat. “What do you mean? Is he sick?”

“He has a touch of gout again, and you know what a bear he is when he's not feeling well. He'd love to see you, darling. Try to make it. I know you will.”

Emma sighs. “I really don't know. Let's talk nearer the time. I'll do my best.” She knows she won't, however, knows already that she will come up with an excuse, any excuse to avoid a great big family reunion.

“Didn't you get the invitation? I sent it last week. I'm surprised you haven't received it by now.”

“I haven't been out to the mailbox in days,” says Emma, realizing as she speaks that it's true. “It's probably in there. I'll go and check now.”

“All right, darling,” says her mother. “Let me know when your flight gets in and we'll send someone to pick you up.”

Emma doesn't bother telling her mother that chances are she won't be coming. She merely says good-bye, putting it out of her mind.

•   •   •

It really has been days since Emma has checked the mail. This business of not working is great, but it's also disastrous for any kind of routine. It would be so easy to just while away the days drinking coffee in bed, renovating the house, and binge-watching TV series on Netflix, as she has been doing evening after evening, alone in her little house.

But a promise to her mother cannot be broken, she thinks to herself with a small smile. She'll just retrieve the invitation and then jump into the shower. She pushes open the door and trots over the
lawn, still damp from the morning dew, to the mailbox. As she does so, the front door next door opens and Dominic walks out.

Shit.
Emma is in her sleeping shorts and a baggy T-shirt, which is far too sheer to be worn without a bra, as she is wearing it now. And her hair! Oh God. She hasn't touched it since she woke up. Despite not having had the misfortune of seeing herself in the mirror, she's pretty certain it will look the way it always looks when she wakes up, before she has had a chance to shake it out or scrape it back: flat on one side, sticking up at the back and on top, tight curls at the nape of her neck where the night sweats have got her.

And, oh no—oh God, please, no! Last night, at Dominic's party, the drinks kept flowing, and while she hadn't drunk enough to be hungover now (thank God, because it could be so very much worse), it was bad enough that last night she fell into bed without washing off her makeup, which means there is undoubtedly mascara smudged halfway down her cheeks.

She's not supposed to see anyone. It's 7:32 in the morning, for God's sakes. She's supposed to run to the mailbox, grab the irritatingly large stack of catalogs and handful of bills, and get back behind the safety of her front door without being spotted. Now Dominic is waving hello with a big smile, and— Oh God! No! He's walking over. Emma grabs the mail and clutches it to her chest to hide the fact that her T-shirt is nearly transparent just as she realizes that she hasn't shaved her legs for days.

She slides a hand through her hair, attempting to shake it out slightly as she smiles a hello, backing slowly toward the house, hoping she can get away with the wave and nothing more.

“Hey!”

Nope.
Dominic is almost upon her, and no hole in the ground is opening up to swallow her, so she is just going to have to brazen it
out. Maybe she will get lucky; maybe he wears contact lenses and will have forgotten to put them in. Maybe a miracle will happen.

Why, she thinks, for a fleeting second, does she even care?

She watches him curiously, half expecting him to recoil with horror at what she looks like, but his smile is as natural and open as it always is.

“You're up so early,” he says, as Emma takes a step backward, realizing—and how could this possibly be any worse than it already is—that she hasn't yet brushed her teeth. So not only did she not remove her makeup last night, she didn't brush her teeth, either. Her breath is so stale, she can taste it.

“Early riser,” she says, attempting to speak without letting any breath out of her mouth, so her words sound vaguely strangled.

“Wasn't that a fun party last night? My friends thought you were great.”

“Thank you.” Emma shoots a desperate look at her front door, so near, and yet so far. “I thought they were great. You're up early, too.”

“Yeah. Jesse's sitter canceled and I have a doctor's appointment at nine. I've been phoning around the sitters to find someone.”

“Did you?”

“Not yet.”

“I can watch him,” Emma finds herself saying, without meaning to. “I mean, I'm right next door. It's totally fine. You can send him over whenever you want.”

Dominic's face lights up. “Really? You wouldn't mind? That would be awesome.”

“It's no problem. What does he like to do?”

“Jesse's the easiest kid in the world. He'll do anything. You can
stick him in front of the television and he'll be happy. Or on the computer—he'll gladly play Minecraft for days on end.”

“Can I take him out? I mean, if I have any errands or anything, would he come?”

“That would be great. Let me put the car seat in your car just in case. Wow. Thank you, Emma. This is saving my life.”

“It's nothing. The least I can do. Just bring him over whenever you're ready. I'm going to get dressed, okay?” she says, finally making it to the safety of her house.

Only once she has successfully escaped her front lawn does she remember that she's not exactly a natural when it comes to small children. She loves teenagers, with their strong opinions and sense of moral outrage, loves children when they are old enough to have an adult conversation. But a six-year-old? Why did she offer to babysit a little boy she barely knows, when she has no idea how to talk to children his age? What on earth could she possibly have been thinking, other than how to get away as quickly as possible?

But Dominic had brought his son over and left. Jesse, now that he is here, seems entirely comfortable. He walked in, went straight to the sofa, where he sat down with his iPad mini, and has barely said a word for the past hour.

Emma has made herself busy with what she is calling work, although it's hardly that compared to what she is used to. She has Pic Stitched together a photograph of her office/library, the before and after shots, and is posting them online. She has put them on a local Facebook page and the classified sections of local websites, along with copy that offers inexpensive interior design services.

She wishes she had more photographs, more rooms that she had designed. While Jesse is busy playing online games, Emma examines
the cabinets in the kitchen, standing in the doorway for a while, looking around. She has a moment of feeling guilty for not engaging with Jesse more, trying to talk to him or find something they could do together. But looking at his complete absorption in whatever is on the screen of his iPad, she decides he is fine, probably happier to be ignored by her. She turns back to the kitchen cabinets. She could easily spray-paint them white after taking the doors off, giving the room an open-shelf look. She could add the leftover molding from the library onto these shelves to thicken them up, make them look more substantial.

It's a pity there are no backsplashes on the kitchen counter. The Formica counters are among the ugliest things she has ever seen. She goes back into the library, stopping for a second to admire her work—such a pretty room!—before sitting at her computer to search out some kind of plastic countertop sheeting. There must be something. Some kind of sticky-back plastic or contact paper that will mask those countertops.

She finds something online, rolls of sticky plastic printed to look like marble—contact paper. It isn't expensive, and she buys two rolls, recognizing the nervous thrill she always gets from buying something online—it is likely to be either disastrous or the greatest thing she has ever seen. But it's cheap, so she'll find out which it is in about three days.

The blank wall facing the window needs something. Open wooden shelves like the ones she re-pinned on Pinterest the other day. Maybe a small butcher block island underneath, but narrow, enough to provide another work surface and some storage but not crowd the room.

She pulls her tape measure out from a drawer and makes measurements, noting them down in her phone. She's so inspired, she hates having to sit still. She turns back toward the boy on the couch.

“Jesse?” She has to ask three times before he looks up, so absorbed is he in his iPad. “Do you want to come to Home Depot with me?”

“Sure,” he says, jumping up, eyes still glued to the screen. “That's my dad's favorite store.”

“Great. We could go somewhere else, too. Maybe grab some ice cream?”

Jesse's eyes are big. “Before lunch?”

“If you don't tell, I won't tell.”

“Deal!” he says, high-fiving her as they walk out the door.

Emma runs through a number of beginner conversations as she steers the car up Compo and onto the Post Road. She could ask Jesse about school, what grade he's in, what his favorite subjects are, but she instinctively knows how boring that would be. She remembers a friend who had a schtick with little kids. He would ask them what job they had and whether they were married, whether they had any children, and they would invariably burst out laughing.