The Secret Art of Forgiveness (12 page)

‘Cutting your hair.' There wasn't a mirror. That was the problem. He couldn't see what she was doing, so every time she moved away he forgot she was there.

‘Well, don't. I have to get home. Leave me alone.' He scraped the chair back as locks of his hair fell to the floor from her fingers. He looked ridiculous. He looked like he'd had an electric shock on half his head. The rest just… hung.

‘But –'

‘I said,
you
…' He pointed his finger into her face, his features contorting into that snarl she remembered from years ago. Her heart started to thump an irregular response. ‘Leave. Now.'

‘I…' Oh, wow. All the fear and panic from years ago seemed to swell inside her as he took her right back to being eight years old.

She wasn't. She knew better now.

Don't respond. Don't rise to it. Finish the hair another day. Another mood. Another chance. There will be one.

She stood aside to let him leave first, swiping a rogue tear from her cheek as he disappeared into the library muttering something. This was ridiculous. How could he still have this effect on her when he wasn't even trying?

Oh, for New York. Oh, for her lovely life. Away from Sally and The Judge and memories and forgotten things.

She checked all the outside doors were locked so he wouldn't suddenly up and leave, because God knew what would happen to him in this state of mind. Then she called out in the steadiest voice she could muster – which, in reality, was not steady at all – ‘Okay. I'm going to my room. Call me if you need me.'

But she wasn't sure she'd come running if he did. She just wanted to stay in her bedroom for ever. And if that wasn't a throwback to fifteen years ago she didn't know what was.

***

Plip.

Plop.

Plip. Plop.

Pliplipliplipliplipliplip…

‘Ugh! Help!' Emily was trapped in a tiny, empty room with no way out. No doors. No windows. She didn't know how she'd got in and she certainly didn't have a way to get out. She was wearing a dirty and torn long white dress and holding a huge, heavy rock in both hands. She tried to hit the bare grey walls with it over and over as she shouted, ‘Help me! Please!'

But no one could hear her. She was trapped and utterly alone and tethered to this rock that was weighing her down. Then, suddenly, a huge tidal wave rose from one corner of the room, closer and closer until she'd thought she was going to...

She pushed herself up to sitting, her heart hammering, her hands cold and clammy.

Breathe.
She opened her eyes.
Breathe.
It was just a stupid dream. The air was damp, but she could see her curtains fluttering and the door banged softly to the staccato rhythm of the wind. She was in her room at The Hall. She was safe.

Well, she wasn't in a tiny, grey, airless room about to drown.

She wiped her forehead and her hand came away wet. The water wasn't a dream at all. ‘It's bloody well raining inside!'

She felt around the duvet… wet. Then peered up to drips coming fast and furious. Yes, the ceiling was leaking above her bed. ‘Shit. Shit. I don't want to have to deal with this. I don't want to have to deal with everything. It's too much. I want to be at work, in my nice, dry office with lovely people and laughing and drinking champagne.'

No Sally, no Judge, no memories, no shame. Only Brett.

Ah.

‘I want to be on a desert island with a huge cocktail and superfast Wi-Fi, then.' No such luck. Shivering, she jumped up and grabbed the bucket, only to realise that if she moved it then the carpet would be damaged from the rain dripping in there. ‘What the hell time is it…?' Three-thirty-six. In the afternoon.

Damned jetlag – she should be over it by now. The umber-coloured clouds were full and heavy and not going to let up any time soon. She had to act quickly before the drowning became a reality, so there was nothing else she could do except haul in a deep breath and face it.

Crawling into reception-range she grabbed her phone and Googled local builders.

Rigby's came up first.
Great.
Sally's dad. As if he was going to help her.

The next one rang out. The third was engaged. She left a message as the sporadic drips became a constant trickle.
Aaaargh.
She could have drowned by the time they got back to her.

‘What to do? What to do?' Throwing herself into action she ran downstairs and found another bucket in the under-the-stairs cupboard by the kitchen and placed it on her bed. Then she found The Judge, helping himself to a sandwich in the kitchen.

After their interactions earlier she wasn't sure she wanted to ask him for help. She felt cross with him all over again. Being nice to someone who had knowingly hurt you and not tried to fix it was bloody hard. But she was desperate. ‘Judge, the roof's leaking. Any ideas? What would you do?'

He ran his fingers through the terrible haircut she had given him. ‘Which roof?'

The Taj Mahal's, obviously.
‘This one.' She pointed at the rain dripping onto the kitchen table and bit back the frustration that was coming at her from all sides. ‘What should I do?'

He took a bite and thought. ‘Builder's usually the answer.'

‘I've tried a few, but there's no one available.'

‘Tried what?' He frowned and she could see the comprehension leech away. Just like that, he could go from fully anchored in the moment to confused in a microsecond. There was nothing behind his eyes; they were just lost and empty. He looked at his plate. ‘Is there anything else to eat?'

‘Yes, I'll fix you something in a minute; I have another job to do, first.' She knew she was on a hiding to nothing even talking to him about this, but short of putting up umbrellas inside she couldn't think of what else to do. ‘The roof?'

‘What's the matter with it?'

Breathe.
Even though frustration was rising, twitching her muscles, she squashed it down. ‘Judge, listen to me.'
Reframe the question.
‘If you had a roof that was leaking what would you do?'

He chomped on the last bite of sandwich. Thought. She wanted to hurry him up, to wind up his thought processes to her speed, but that wasn't going to help. ‘Tarpaulin. That should do it. I'll come help you.'

‘No. You stay here.'

He shook his head and took her hand. ‘No, dear. It's really not safe. You can't do it. It's too dangerous. Let me.'

He was like Jekyll and Hyde. Light and dark. Disarming, and yet concerned and gentle. And her heart warmed to him a little. He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. ‘I don't want you getting pneumonia.' The clouds were now dumping thick, heavy drops. ‘So, where would you keep a tarpaulin?'

‘In the garage, of course.'

‘Excellent. Right.' What the hell she was meant to do with it once she'd found it, she didn't know.

She couldn't remember a time when she'd ever been in the garage. It was huge. Drafty. Creaking and dusty. There were three vehicles gathering dust: a Jaguar, an old – possibly vintage – Mini that she remembered her mum driving years ago and a tractor with a flat tyre. None of which was anything she was looking for.

She scoured through tins and tins and tins of old paint of every hue, a hardware store's full range of rusting tools, some general junk, bicycles and… yes! Hallelujah! A huge old tarpaulin, which she took outside, shook the dust from, then found an expanding ladder, a hammer and some nails and hauled them all over towards The Hall.

She looked up at the roof – so high above her, then at the ladder. Really? She was going to climb up there and fix the roof like Bob the Bloody Builder?

You can do this. You can do anything you damn well please.

Or die trying
, she mused to herself.

Don't be so dramatic, Emily Jane
, Tam's voice rang in her ears.

And now she wasn't just talking to herself; she was answering, too.

The ladder steps were slippery with rain, her clothes plastered to her shivering body, and her hands trembled as she climbed the first couple of steps. But as the gap between her and terra firma widened, her nerve began to slip as much as her feet.

‘Damn.' She gripped with her left hand as she tentatively lifted her right foot. It was a long way down. A long way up.

Fear wriggled into her cold, wet bones. What exactly would she do when she got up there? And how the hell would she climb over the guttering and stay upright on what remained of the roof tiles, when she could barely see out of her rain-slicked eyes?

What a stupid bloody idea.
Thanks, Judge.
She couldn't do this. She just couldn't. Umbrellas it would have to be. Bad luck be damned.

Tentatively she started to climb down again.

One foot down and there was whoosh of wind and she wobbled. A roar of… thunder, maybe? Lightning? A storm of biblical proportions.
Great.
This was it, this was where she met her grizzly end. Dead at the bottom of a ladder and no one around but a cranky old man who'd probably forgotten she was even here, and certainly wouldn't come looking for her.

There was the noise again. No. No, it wasn't thunder. It was a motorbike rumbling past.

Screeching to a halt on the road.

Turning round.

Tearing up the driveway.

Please, no. Not the damned cavalry. Not him.

Not after the day she was having; a fight with Brett, a run-in with Sally, a leaking roof. An unpredictable, fractious Judge. And now the grumpy, unbridled irritation that was Jacob Taylor.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' He'd roared up the gravel and stopped, and in that time she still hadn't been able to move down another single step.

Don'tlookdown.Don'tlookdown.Don'tlookdown.
Steadying herself, she turned, slowly. There he was, standing at the bottom of the ladder, his hands gripping the sides, holding it still. Coming in and out of focus as the world really did tilt sideways, making her nauseated and dizzy. She straightened, waiting for her brain to catch up with the rest of her.

Excellent.
Just excellent that he'd find her half-frightened to death, on the verge of vomiting, soaked to the skin and not having achieved what she'd been planning to do. Foolhardy it may have been, but at least she'd actually been trying to solve her problems. ‘What does it look like I'm doing?' she growled, as the rain trickled down the inside of her T-shirt and down her spine. ‘Just thought I'd pick some flowers, obviously. Such a lovely day.'

‘Are you completely insane?'

‘Are you actually telling me off right now?'

‘For God's sake, don't you realise...?' His voice trailed off as he seemed to wrestle with something in his head. His fists clenched by his sides and his face was as pale as she felt. ‘Just get down. Now. Shit happens, Emily.'

She had the distinct feeling that he wasn't actually talking about her and this, but about something else altogether. She gesticulated to her hammer. ‘Really? You want to tell me off, right now?' Never mind that her fingers were turning a strange shade of blue and her teeth had started to chatter. ‘Thank you, but I'm absolutely fine. You can just hop on your bike and go home.'

‘Seriously, do not pull that Girl Power stuff with me right now. I know you're fine, Emily, but you should have asked for help. Called someone. It's stupidly dangerous to climb a ladder without someone else there as it is, but in the rain, too…?'

Yes, well, if there was one thing Emily didn't do, it was ask for help. Mainly because she'd learnt that help generally didn't come; whether you sat in silence for two weeks and refused to eat, or screamed for three days until your throat was sore and your ribs hurt. In life, she knew, no matter how many people you had around you, you were essentially, when it came down to it, entirely on your own. But, right now, he had a point. ‘Okay, save the lecture. I called a few places and no one answered. It was an emergency, but I'm coming down anyway. Despite the fact it's still raining inside my house.'

‘What the hell were you thinking?' His eyes were sparking the lightning she'd expected in the storm. ‘I'll go up and fix it.'

She was almost there. Safety. A couple more steps. ‘I'm not sure that's a good idea. You might sue me if you fall and kill yourself.'

He wasn't biting the joke. Mr Suddenly Serious. ‘Don't be crass. I'm not going to fall. I know what I'm doing.'

Thank goodness one of us does.
Finally, she stretched a shaking foot from the bottom step. Never had standing on firm ground felt so good. Truth was, she was as shaken as he looked, and he was right. It had been an insane idea, but not enough for him to get so het up. ‘See? I can manage, thanks. No need to get so angry.'

‘Actually there was. Lots of reasons.'

She thought about asking him what he meant, but decided it would have to wait. But she wouldn't forget. There was something else going on behind those sparking eyes. Another reason for the flash of anger. Or had it been something else? Fear? Actually, yes, there'd been a brief moment when he'd looked more fearful than furious.

He held out his hand to take the hammer and tarp from her. ‘Right. I'll do a temporary fix that'll hold until you get a builder in.'

‘Er… okay, yes.' In reality, she'd been planning on taking a trip to the hardware store and buying tarpaulin in bulk, because that was as far as her finances would stretch. There wasn't any money to actually
fix
it, but she didn't want to admit that to him. She didn't want him to be here and she definitely didn't want him to pity her.

He looked at her for a minute, gauging her reaction, then seemed to understand what her response was implying. ‘You are going to fix it, aren't you? It won't hold up for much longer. You need to get urgent, professional help.'