Can't Help Falling (3 page)

“Ethan, you're up next.” The big American ambled forward and set himself up on the erg. He'd lost a lot of the cockiness he'd rolled in with in September, used to being the big man on campus at Harvard with a string of impressive victories behind him.

It happened every year with the internationals, accustomed to being rowing superstars back home. They showed up at Oxford expecting to be a shoo-in for a seat in the coveted Blue Boat. Then the reality that there was a world of mind-breaking pain between the standard race distance of two thousand meters and the Boat Race distance of six thousand eight hundred set in.

Ethan rolled his shoulders and swung his arms a couple of times before gripping the handles.

“Whenever you're ready.” Peter stepped away before the muscular rower could even start. The machine would do all the counting he needed.

Exiting the gym, he walked down the hall to drop the blood off with all the other samples that had been taken that morning.

He let his mind drift back to the excitement on his mum's face the night before when he'd presented her with her present. It had been more than worth the price tag, which would have him pretty much living on rice and cereal for the next few weeks.

Not even Victor, who had gone easy but expensive with some kind of day spa experience, had come close. And his brother's glower showed he knew it too. It was nice to be one up on the golden boy for once. Especially when said golden boy lied through his teeth to their parents about pretty much everything and dragged Peter along as an unwilling accomplice.

His mind flipped over to the girl, a thought not far from his mind during the last couple of days. It still all seemed like a surreal dream. Her falling out of the wardrobe onto him. The teacup being left behind. It was about as crazy as anything that had happened in Narnia. If he'd heard it from one of the guys, he'd have assumed someone had been consuming something that was definitely not approved by UK Anti-Doping.

“Who is she?”

“What?” He turned to where the burly president of the club was leaning against the doorframe. He hadn't even heard Tim approach.

“You
have a weird smile on your face. You have a hot date last night?”

“If by ‘hot date' you mean my mother's birthday, then yes.”

“Huh.” Tim didn't look convinced but let it drop. “How are the guys doing?”

Peter looked down at the clipboard Grant had handed to him. “Pretty good considering the brutal row yesterday. Max and Hayden are pretty much neck and neck, time-wise. Will be interesting to see what their bloods show.”

Tim rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I hate this part. One of them is going to have his dreams come true, the other will miss out by the slimmest margin. And he'll know it.”

“Yes, well. Anything can happen still.” As he well knew. One second a rower on the Great Britain national team, a sure thing for Olympic selection, the next a has-been before he'd managed the has.

“Victor's been throwing some crazy-big numbers. Cambridge would stroke out if they could see them.” Tim made the observation casually.

“Good for him.” Peter managed to keep most of the bitterness out of his voice. It had been easy to excuse himself from any role in Victor's selection for the Blue Boat, not so much to try to hide the animosity that existed between the two of them.

His brother hadn't rowed a day in his life until Peter had gotten injured. Peter had almost lost his breakfast the day Victor had shown up at trials. There was a glint in his eye as he said he'd decided to “give it a go.” Just his luck his brother had proven to be freakishly good at it. Like he was at pretty much everything he tried.

Tim's eyes narrowed. “How's the physio going?”

“Okay.” He wasn't
ready to admit aloud that his improvement had plateaued a month ago. That even Kevin, one of the country's best sports physiotherapists, seemed to be less optimistic with every session.

Peter rotated his left shoulder, checking for any pain or tension. Plateauing wasn't an option. The only option was total recovery. He had not come all this way to be permanently out of the game now. He was going to make a comeback if it killed him. He owed it to Anita.

“You'll get there.” Tim gave him the same shoulder clap Peter had given Max a few minutes before. “You've got time until Tokyo.”

It wasn't supposed to be Tokyo, it was supposed to be Rio, he wanted to shout. His entire life since he was fourteen had been oriented around being in the Team Great Britain boat in 2016. And he'd almost made it too. Then he'd had to try to be the good guy. And paid for it by losing the only thing he'd ever really wanted.

E
MELIA SUCKED IN A BREATH
. Forced one out. Curling her fingers around the bottom of her rickety chair, she stared straight ahead at the notice board on the wall opposite. The flyers and pamphlets sat at all angles, pinned seemingly at random. Some proclaiming dates months old. Emelia's fingers itched to go over there and restore order to the poor overladen board. But no. She, more than anyone, knew the importance of first impressions.

Everything rested on now. She'd cut ties with LA. Changed her appearance. Booked a one-way ticket to England. Spent four nights in a hovel that deserved to be condemned. All for this. There was no Plan B.

For some reason, the green eyes and red hair of a certain Englishman floated into her mind.
“Are you a Susan or a Lucy?”
His half-laughing question had echoed there since he'd asked it. It was a great pickup line. She had to give him that. If she'd been a girl who had only seen the movies. Unfortunately for him, she was a true Narnia fan. She knew what had happened to Susan. Worse, she knew she
was
a Susan.

“Emelia Mason?” The words came from her right. Emelia loosened her death grip on the chair and stood. Next to her was
a woman with an immaculate gray bob and a weary face. Her voice sounded tentative, even though Emelia was the only one there. She could only hope that meant there were few contenders for this job.

She pressed her palms to her skirt for a second, then held out her hand. “Hello, I'm Emelia.”

The woman gave her a quick handshake but didn't quite look Emelia in the eye. Not a promising start. “Elizabeth Bradman. Thanks for coming in.” The woman gestured toward a hallway and then led her through a door that sat ajar a short distance away.

They entered a cramped, utilitarian room. Along one wall stood a row of filing cabinets, in the middle a battered wooden desk. Facing the desk was one worn chair, stuffing poking through a couple of cracks in the brown leather cover. No one was ever going to accuse the charity of wasting donors' money on aesthetics, that was for sure.

The one incongruous thing was the top of the desk. Precisely positioned folders and papers surrounded a green blotter, on which sat one piece of paper at a ninety-degree angle to the edge of the blotter. A fountain pen sat to the side, parallel with the edge of the paper. Perfect order. It made Emelia feel happy just looking at it. A woman after her own heart.

“Take a seat.” Elizabeth gestured to the chair positioned facing the desk, again, right in the center.

Emelia's feet moved across the worn carpet, her breath shallow in case it happened to dislodge any of the papers.

She placed her purse on the floor and perched on the chair as the woman moved behind the desk and sat. Her posture remained as straight as a broomstick. “I'm the acting executive
officer for SpringBoard. Please tell me, succinctly, why you applied for this job.”

Clearly this was not a woman who believed in small talk. Or making potential employees comfortable, for that matter. Fortunately, Emelia had prepared for this question. “I have recently moved to Oxford. As you'll see from my résumé I've had a range of involvement with charities in Los Angeles. I've spent the last few years working as a journalist but am looking for a career change. This seemed like a role that would be a good fit for my skills.”

Ms. Bradman tapped a tapered finger on the sheet of paper in front of her. “You have an American accent, yet your application states you have the right to work in the UK. Is that correct?”

“I'm a British citizen. My mother was British.” The only thing her mom had left her that turned out to be any use. “I have my passport with me if you'd like to see it.” She reached for her purse, but Ms. Bradman waved her hand.

“Why the sudden desire for a change from journalism?”

Because I was the type who made headlines out of other people's misery. Because somewhere in the last five years, I lost myself in pursuit of scandal. Because someone is dead because of me. Because this job is my one chance to make some kind of atonement.

The thoughts flashed through her mind, robbing her of breath for a second. She forced herself to push them back, to focus on the task at hand. Emelia framed her response carefully. “I enjoyed the work that I did with charities back home and when I read this job description it looked like a great fit for me.”

SpringBoard focused on getting books to kids at poor schools. Not unlike thousands of other charities around the world. But their point of difference was they then connected every book they provided with experts who came in and talked to the classes, made them real. Academics, historians, archaeologists, even a few of the authors themselves were listed on the honor roll on the charity's website.

“I see.” Ms. Bradman looked her up and down. Emelia was thankful she'd worn the most conservative outfit she owned. Black skirt and jacket, blue shirt. Finally, a sigh escaped. “I'm not going to lie. We are not in good shape here. The last executive officer quit without notice a few months ago. I'm filling in temporarily as a favor. The board has given us until the end of the year to turn things around. You seem like a perfectly nice young woman but I can't afford to make a hiring mistake. And the truth is that Americans and the English are very different. I'm not sure I can trust our one chance to someone who doesn't even know the English way.” She started to push her chair back as if to signal the end of an interview that hadn't ever really begun.

A streak of desperation surged through Emelia. She was in Oxford for this job. She had burned her bridges, had nothing to go back to. It could not already be over after less than ten minutes in a closet-sized office. “I knew Anita.” She just blurted out the words from between her lips, causing her chest to constrict.

Something crossed Ms. Bradman's face. She didn't say anything but paused, seeming to really look at Emelia for the first time.

Emelia scrambled to explain without lying. “We weren't close but I promise you, I will do everything in my power to get her charity back on its feet.”

The woman's
face softened at the mention of SpringBoard's founder. “So this is personal.”

It couldn't get any more personal. “Very much so.”

Ms. Bradman pursed her lips, tapped her capped fountain pen on the blotter in front of her. “You've seen the salary?”

Emelia could understand her hesitation. “Salary” was a generous term for the pittance they were offering. If she were still in LA it wouldn't have even covered her mortgage payments. “Yes, ma'am.”

“When are you available from?”

“I just moved to Oxford. I can start as soon as you want.” The desperation practically leached out of her pores.

“Okay.” Ms. Bradman scribbled something on the piece of paper in front of her. “Tell me about your references.”

“Ava Brownley is the event co-coordinator for LA Lit, which is a charity for inner-city children in LA. It has a number of similarities with SpringBoard's work. I worked on a number of fund-raising events for her. Kevin Wright is the chair of Outside the Box, which is a foundation that assists people with mental illness. I did some communications and PR work for them.”

Not for the first time, she gave thanks that she'd kept her charity work and her real job completely separate. Neither Ava nor Kevin knew anything about Mia Caldwell, so there was no chance of their inadvertently dropping the name that would ruin everything.

“Okay. Assuming your references check out, let's go with starting on Monday. I'll take a copy of your passport and I'll be in touch tomorrow with what further information we require.”

What? That was it? Emelia couldn't
have been more surprised if the woman had offered to fly her to the moon. “Um, yes. That would be fine. Thank you.” The woman didn't even look up from what she was writing. Right. Dismissed then.

Emelia crept out of the room, hardly daring to breathe until she was out the door lest the woman inside change her mind.

Once in the hallway, she sagged against the wall. She'd done it. Gotten the job that she'd thrown her whole life in for. Now she just had to work out how on earth to do the impossible.

P
ETER WALKED IN HIS FRONT
door and stifled a groan. Not again. From his entryway, he could see his brother's feet hanging off the end of his couch.

He was cold. He was soaked through from two hours in the freezing February rain. It had not been a good rowing session. The team had spent most of the time struggling to get into a good rhythm on the lake, all of them growing more frustrated when they failed. And now he knew, without a doubt, he would get into the shower and discover Victor had used up all the hot water.

He'd just seen Victor all of an hour ago at training. Funny how his brother hadn't thought to mention then he was planning to take up residency on his couch. Again. It had only been three days since his last stint. But then, Victor had always lived by the motto that it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Not that he ever bothered with the former either.

Stomping into his living room, Peter found his brother balancing a bag of potato crisps on his torso and a beer in his hand. Both of them Peter's. Because that was what his brother specialized in: taking.