The Secret Art of Forgiveness (19 page)

Greta giggled. ‘God, now you're just showing off with your famous people and your advertising lingo. It's such a shame you're not staying, because we could put you to work. You could be chief organiser. Instead of Tam.'

‘Good job I'm off then, because I have no desire to step on Tam's toes and I've never organised a fair in my life. I've just been to some of the events in the city. It helps that a lot of
famous people live there.' She laughed, the martini going straight to her head. ‘And a lot of people aren't famous at all, just hard-working people making a living, like me.'

‘Emily…' The Judge was peering at her with a finger to his mouth and looking the way he did when he was filling in the crossword. ‘Emily, yes… that was her name.'

‘Sorry?' She held her breath as emotions swam across her chest. He often said random things but this was completely out of the blue. ‘Whose name?'

‘My daughter. Emily. You know, you remind me of her so much – she used to laugh like that. Sometimes. Different hair; older, obviously. But you have the same sunny smile. Not that I saw it much; we didn't get on very well. She… well, she never liked me. Never wanted to be here…'

‘Oh, Judge.' There was a lump in her throat the size of an ostrich egg.

He seemed lost in a memory he was trying to wrangle to the surface. ‘We had a day out once. At a local farm. She tried to feed the lambs; one of them almost had the bottle out of her hand. And she laughed and laughed. Just like you now.'

But the laughter had stopped short in her throat and settled into an uncomfortable silence. No one said a word, but the looks around the room were filled with hope. Sadness. Love.

‘A farm? God… I can vaguely… yes. Yes, we did go…' Emily's words were a whisper, more to herself. She glanced over to Sally and shrugged, her chest a raw, hot space.

It had taken a week, but he remembered her. He even remembered a time she'd forgotten. But now that she tugged at her memory banks it was there. And yes, it had been a fun day right before her mother's diagnosis. Hidden in the back of her mind by so many other things. And yet, he'd unearthed it.

She knelt by his side and put her hand on his, the knot in her throat tight with emotion. ‘Judge, I am that Emily. The one who ran away.'

He looked down at her, eyes swimming with confusion. ‘No. How could you be?'

‘I am. It's me. Emily.'

‘But you're the cook.'

‘No. Well, yes. Yes, I've been doing the cooking. When we first met you were confused and I did tell you but it didn't register. And then… well, and then I couldn't find the right moment to tell you. I didn't want you to remember the bad times. The things we said to each other, the things we did to hurt each other. I wanted you to get to know me as I am now.'
I wanted you to like me.

‘I don't know…' His eyes were showing his confusion, but his smile told her that it was okay. That he recognised her. That he did, in fact, like her. He stroked a hand down her hair. ‘I don't remember you being so bossy.'

‘Someone's got to keep you in line, right?'

He smiled again and gave her hand a stroke with his long fingers. ‘I'm sorry we didn't get along. It was… Was it difficult? You ran away.' He nodded. ‘Yes, you ran away from me.
I
was difficult.'

‘And this is exactly why I didn't want to mention it. It's all in the past.' Not wanting to delve into any more pain she looked over at the others for help.

Tom finished off his second glass of… potion. ‘Right.' He jumped up and wobbled. ‘God, they're strong. Music anyone?'

He wandered over to the radio and flicked it on. Classical music blared into the room. ‘Eurgh! What's this racket?'

‘That, my boy, is a waltz,' said The Judge, all thought of Emily forgotten. ‘Three-three time. Listen.' He raised his hand and moved it in time to the music. ‘One, two, three. One, two, three.' Who knew he liked classical music? But of course he did – didn't every old person?

There were sides to him Emily hadn't seen, that she would never know, because surely his condition would only get worse, and who knew when she'd see him again? It was damned cruel.

Finishing a last bite of cupcake Tom wiped crumbs from his jumper and held out his hands to Greta. ‘Madam, should we dance?'

‘Oh, yes! Fine sir. I've seen them do this on
Strictly
.' Greta shoved herself up from her chair and took his hands. They began to shuffle around the floor, giggling, heads back, feet tangling in a very poor imitation of what Emily thought was a waltz.

Sally stood on a chair and conducted them round the room. ‘To the left… left! I said, left! Watch out for the washing basket! One, two, three… Emily, slow down! Tom, it's a waltz not a tango… Oh, my God, you two are priceless. I should video this… no… no, I'm going to sort out that hair before it drives me nuts. Hang on, I'll just get my sciss…What was that?'

A door slammed somewhere close. The music snapped off. The air around them shimmered with a mounting tension.

‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?'

‘Oh.' Emily stopped short, her heart banging along in quickstep-time even though the room was silent. The Judge's happy smile fell and her friends shuffled back to their seats. It looked definitively as if the party was over. Her mood swiftly nosediving, she finally found her voice. ‘Well, hello, Tamara. Hi, Tilda. You're back early.'

Chapter Nine

Emily felt as if she was back at school and facing detention. She shuffled out into the corridor and took Tamara and Tilda with her, not wanting the others to witness the dressing down that was inevitable. Tam excelled at that, at making Emily feel as if she wasn't good enough, that everything she did was wrong. ‘Nice to see you, but you didn't have to come back early on my account.'

‘We wanted to have a conversation with you about the next steps for Daddy… er, Judge Evans… whatever you call him these days… before you go. There are things we need to decide and we have to include you, the lawyer says, as you're still in the will and still get to have a say. Apparently.' There were two lines between Tamara's eyes that were ridged and deep. Tam clearly frowned a lot. She was dressed all in black – coat, trousers, sweater, shoes – as if she'd been at a funeral and not on holiday for a week in Paris. Her hair was dyed a deep brown, darker than Emily remembered it, and she looked a lot older than forty.

In contrast, Matilda was wearing a floaty orange silk skirt, knee-length brown-suede boots and a cream jacket. A multicoloured scarf hung from her neck. Always the more chic sister. Older than Emily by eight years and relentlessly bossed around by her elder sister, Emily had always hoped there could be some filial connection between them that wasn't a battleground. Unfortunately, judging by her equally frowning stare, there couldn't.

There were no hugs hello, no air kisses or handshakes, just the standard disapproval that Emily had come to accept as her sisters' reaction to her.

She looked back into the kitchen and watched as Tom pulled a rug over The Judge's knees, fussing around him and making sure he was comfortable. So rare to see that kind of compassion in someone so young.
I must tell him that.

She reminded herself that what they'd been doing was a good thing. In fact, it was immeasurable in terms of healing the rift between them, in creating new memories… and even if The Judge wouldn't be able to recall any of this tomorrow, she could tell him about the impromptu cocktail party and watch his face light up as he lived it anew. She remembered how he'd recognised her and felt a warm glow thaw the ice she was getting from her stepsister.

And right then she decided something. ‘It's okay, you can call him Daddy in front of me. I might just do so from now on, too.'

The look on Tam's face was priceless confusion and shock. ‘Oh. I see. Call him what you want, you always have, it's your relationship. I should probably go and check on him.'

Emily stood in her way, unwilling to let her upset spill over onto her friends and The Judge and sully all the fun they'd just been having. And not wanting them to see the haircut they
hadn't got around to fixing.
Please, someone find him a hat.
‘He's fine. Honestly. In fact, he's a lot better.'

‘I want to make sure for myself.' Tam squeezed by her and popped her head around the kitchen door, then came back immediately. ‘They're washing up and he's fast asleep in the corner. You've exhausted him.'

‘It's probably the gin, to be honest. And the vodka… or was it vermouth?' She shrugged, thanking her lucky stars for dingy corners. ‘It might have been both.'

And, oh, hell. She realised she'd reverted back to being a child when speaking to Tam. A psychologist would have had a field day watching them in action. Gone was Emily's confident New York demeanour and she was back to being eight and in trouble all over again.

Those two little lines on Tam's forehead seemed to get deeper. ‘He's drinking ALCOHOL on his tablets? Are you insane?'

‘Possibly. But he was having fun and that's important, right? Living his days out happily. No one told me he couldn't drink on them, it didn't say so on the packet, and the doctor didn't mention it. Someone would have said if it was dangerous.'

Tilda, who'd been standing back now joined in. ‘He's not well, Emily. He could fall and break a hip. And you know what that means? Certain death in a frail man like that.'

She thought back to the fun he'd been having after the intense sadness in his confusion. ‘He was enjoying himself, Tilda. Which I don't think he's done for a while.'

Tam dropped the suitcase she'd been gripping and took off her coat. ‘It's easy for you to stand there and say that, but you're not with him all the time. It's easier to keep him in the library doing the crossword. At least that way we know he's safe and won't come to any harm.'

‘Let him moulder, you mean? You know as well as I do that he just puts random letters in the boxes.' For a brief second Em wanted to stick her tongue out at her two stepsisters, as she'd done so many times behind their backs and often to their faces – then she realised just how quickly they'd been sucked back into their old familiar roles. The chastising, and the chastised. The
I know better
and the thoroughly told off. Cringing inside, she willed herself to calm down and be the adult here. ‘Look, we don't need to argue about this. He just needs to be stimulated, I read up about it on the internet. Dr Shepherd's arranging for a visiting service and they may even take him to a day-care centre once a week. They do crafts and quizzes and things.'

‘Oh, so you're the expert now? Been here a whole six days and you think you can tell us what to do?'

She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks, through her body. Why did this have to be so damned hard between them? ‘No, it's not like that at all – I just want what's best for him. We all do, but we have different ways of looking at it.'

‘You just had the luxury of time to help him, right? I don't have that. I have a full-time job in case you've forgotten and Tilda has her art and a husband to look after.'

Tilda opened her mouth, closed it again. Then nodded.

And it was the same as it ever was; two against one.

She only hoped they didn't notice the haircut, or she'd be flown off to Heathrow airport on one of their broomsticks before she had the chance to pack.

‘I know it's hard. And I had no idea what was going on until I came here.' Emily was too tired and overemotional to argue, so she walked them through to the library and sat them down out of earshot of the others. ‘Look, I want to help… somehow. We need to talk about the roof and selling off some land and his long-term care and… I've had some quotes for things and been to see the GP…'

Greta, Tom and Sally suddenly appeared, looking sheepish and rather more sober than before. Sal smiled an uncertain smile. ‘Hi, ladies. How was Paris?'

Yikes. Em cringed. She hadn't even asked about Sylvie; they'd just slotted right back into their roles of grumpy stepsisters. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry, I should have asked, how's your mum?'

‘She's doing well, thank you. There's not a lot wrong with her, just physically slowing down, but her mind's as fit as a fiddle.' Tam wrung her hands together, looking more anxious than angry. ‘Let's hope we have her genes, right? Anyway, don't want to keep you, Sally. Greta.'

Sally nodded. ‘Yes, I imagine you'll need a good catch-up before Emily swans off back to her gorgeous fiancé?'

Oh-oh. There was a sinking feeling in Em's stomach as Tam's eyes widened, her gaze flicking down to Emily's bare fingers. ‘What? You're getting married?'

‘I'm engaged. Yes.'

‘Someone wants to marry you? Really?' Tam's eyes flitted to Tilda's and back again as if this was the most fantastical thing she'd ever heard. ‘The man deserves a medal.'

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Well, it was all down to bribery in the end. I offered him my vast fortune and the promise of vacations here with you every Christmas, Easter and the whole of July. How could he resist that?'

Tom coughed. Sally's eyes widened. Greta's cheeks went a very dark red.

But there was a brightening in Tam's eyes. Was Em imagining it, or was there a little softening in her stepsister's demeanour? Glad to be totally and finally relieved of the burden of her silly stepsister? Or did she just enjoy sparring? ‘Engaged, eh? Why didn't you say?'

Because I didn't think you'd care. Because I want to talk to someone about my weird mixed feelings and you're not that person. I'm not sure who is. Frankie?

God, she missed her New York friend. She missed not having to think about these things; The Judge, the roof, the engagement. The luxury of ignorance, the luxury of thinking only of herself, and not taking anyone else into account.