The Secret Art of Forgiveness (11 page)

Aaaargh! Was this what they called pre-wedding nerves? Clearly Greta had no regrets about being married to Sean, but had she ever felt like this?

It wasn't exactly a question she could ask someone she'd only just connected with after a very long break. ‘Okay, well, I have to catch up on some work.'

A whoosh of cool air and the ding of the doorbell heralded a new customer while Greta was still chatting, ‘Oh, yes. Sorry, here's me gabbling on when you're supposed to be working. Me too, actually. Don't let me keep y…' Her face turned crimson. ‘Hello, er… Sally.'

‘Hey, Greta! You'll never guess who's just asked if I'm going to be at the committee meeting next week – Oh… Surely not…?' The happy voice turned sour. ‘Emily Forrester? What in hell's name? Since when…?'

Ice snaked down Emily's back. The laughter died in her throat as she caught the eye of the woman who'd just walked in.

Sally Rigby.

Her one-time nemesis and the catalyst for her leaving Little Duxbury in the first place.

Chapter Five

Dressed sleekly in a floaty, blush-pink silk top, skinny jeans and a sultry frown, Sally stopped short, took a swift breath, then walked up to the counter, which Greta had somehow managed to scoot behind, her face now as red as the ketchup bottles on each table.

If Emily had thought she could keep a low profile in this village she'd been sorely mistaken. Through a very dry throat she choked out, ‘Hello, Sally.'

‘Hello?
Hello?
' Sally's cool green eyes looked Emily up and down. It was a long, hard scrutiny of how she'd measured up after twelve years. Em didn't think she'd passed the test.

There was an intense ache in her chest. She wanted to throw her arms around her oldest friend and give her a hug. To tell her she looked nice and ask what she'd been doing for the last decade. To laugh with her about the gossip, to laugh it off, too. To reminisce about the mischief they'd got up to. To hear what she knew about The Judge and his deterioration, and to see if she had any answers.

Sally had had a lot of answers years ago and a great way of disparaging the ugly side of life.

This woman was the one person in the whole village who had been her true friend and Emily had betrayed that trust. At least that was what everyone had believed at the time, when Emily had not known how to address the accusations or who to turn to. What could she do now, but clear the air? It was well overdue.

‘How are you?' Her heart was hammering as she tried to find the right words, but for once her slick, well-honed professional pitch voice was lost to her.

‘Not that it's any business of yours, but I'm fabulous.' Clearly intending the ultimate snub, Sally turned back to Greta. ‘I'll come back later. When it's not so… crowded.'

Emily's cheeks were burning. Geez, she'd left all this behind, swearing not to give it, or them, another thought. Yet, here she was, mired in her past, staring it right in the face, and she couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened.

‘Can we talk? Maybe… outside? Away from…' Em indicated The Judge, still asleep. ‘He's sick. Confused…'

She didn't want him to see what might pass between them. She didn't want an audience. And she sure as hell didn't know what she was going to say. There was a thundering in her head. A rush of white noise. Even after all this time she felt the rank humiliation of what had happened, and the raw, sharp pain of injustice.

So much for reinventing herself. Here she was, the real her, all the time just under the surface of her shiny New York shell – just a scared teenager wanting to put things right. Wanting her best friend back.

For a moment Sally just glared. ‘I'm on my way back to work. No talking.'

Em followed her out of the door anyway. ‘Sally… wait.'

Once outside, her ex-best friend's pretty eyes narrowed as she whirled to face her. ‘I don't even know what to say to you, Emily. What the hell are you doing back here, anyway? Why?'

All the happier vibes Emily had begun to feel about Little Duxbury were fizzling out. ‘I'm here for The Judge. Just for a few days… But, well, now you're here I want to apologise, explain –'

‘What could you possibly
explain
about having sex with my fiancé? On my birthday?' Sally interrupted, her words coming thick and fast, her hand up to halt any further protests from Em. ‘Forgive me for not wanting details, but it's ancient history and I have better things to think about.' Her voice was loud and faltering as much as Emily's, but there was a bluntness to it, a flatness, that told of stewing over what had happened, of digesting it and then stashing away the pain in a tight ball.
Betrayed.
The trust had been well and truly shattered and Emily had been judged indeed. ‘I thought you were my friend, Emily. No, actually, I thought you were better than that.'

‘I am.'
I was then, and I am now.
She wanted to shout out the truth.
He was a jerk. A coward. A creep. And he lied. To everyone. And you chose to believe him over me.
But hell, Sally might have married the jerk after all. ‘Nothing happened between me and Aidan.'

‘So I'm wrong, am I? I'm… what? Lying, or something? Making it up? Nice.' Her face was red and blotchy. ‘He
told
me what happened.'

‘No. No… it wasn't like that.' Why was the street so busy today? People were edging past, giving them a wide berth. The woman with the triplets was heading down towards them, but crossed over the road away from the drama. Em shook her head. ‘I have to explain –'

‘Don't bother. I don't need this – or you.' With that, Sally turned and walked away, her back straight and dignified. When she reached the hairdresser's on the corner she pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

Damn it.
Emily's gut felt ripped apart. She could hardly chase her down the road or shout after her,
but he lied!

And now the Sally stand-off would be the talk of the village. This was not the way she'd wanted this to go. This was not how she wanted to feel, or how she wanted people to feel about her.

To top off the humiliation, as she turned to go back inside the café, she noticed Jacob Taylor walking towards her. From the look on his face she could tell he'd heard every word.

Oh, typical. Just perfect timing.
That man was too good at turning up just when she didn't want him to. Now he had an insight into her past that she would have preferred not be made public, and heard about the damage she could wreak just by existing.

As she passed him he came to a standstill, his face still that impassive mask. ‘Emily?'

‘Not right now. Thanks,' she croaked, and tried, as best she could, to walk away with some last vestige of dignity.

She ducked back into the café, her heart jittery as she fisted her hands and then shook them out, trying to get rid of the tension crawling through her. Pandora's Box was cracked wide-open now and she was being forced to face every single one of her demons. She added betrayal to her list of misdemeanours – breaking hearts, stealing, causing wilful damage – naming them all and feeling them keenly like a twisting knife… Guilt, anger, and a whole heap of shame.

It was like holding a mirror up to herself, and she didn't like what she saw. In the years since, she'd worked hard to be a better person, even if that was for her own benefit. New York seemed so far away right now. Despite all the confusion about her feelings for Brett, she wished she was back there. It was so much easier.

But she wasn't. She was busy trying to catch all the emotions she'd let loose and bundle them back into the box. She looked over at The Judge, sleep etched in his features, a crease across his cheek where he'd been resting it on his arm, and that crazy hair. At least that was something practical she could deal with.

But, for as long as Sally was in the hairdresser's it was out of bounds. ‘Okay, come along, Judge, let's get you back home. If you're lucky I might just give you a short back and sides.'

‘Hmmm? What? Damn it. What the hell are you doing here? Can't you see I'm busy?' The other patrons immediately stopped their gentle chatter. Glaring first at Emily, he sat up straight and shouted across the café to Greta ‘You! You. Get over here now and take my dictation.'

Greta glanced at Emily, raising her eyebrows and asking, silently, what the hell to do. First Sally, now this. The day was taking a very unpleasant turn.

Emily took a long, slow breath. This was new. She hadn't seen him like this before. And neither, she presumed, had the locals as they sat staring open-mouthed, witnessing the man they respected become someone else entirely.

She closed her eyes and counted to ten, wanting the earth to open and swallow her up. Yes, that would help everything. It would stop her thinking about Brett and Sally and the roof and her stepsisters. It would stop the helplessness and frank embarrassment as she stood here in front of all these people with a man who clearly wasn't right in the head.

Please, swallow me up, now.

Coward.

Didn't matter what she wished for, there was no one else to do this; she had to deal with it, regardless. She had to get him out of here. Turning slowly to Greta, she said, ‘I'm sorry, so sorry. We'll go.'

He shook his head vehemently. ‘Why are you here when I've told you not to bother me at work? Is it that girl again? What's she done now? Throwing tantrums again?'

‘I… Which girl?' Her cheeks burned. No, her whole body burned.

‘Emily, of course. Wouldn't be one of mine.' He watched her closely, eyes narrowed, then his shoulders sagged. ‘Silly girl. But I know it's ripping you apart. I'm sorry, Moni. I'm sorry. I'll try to understand. We just don't do wailing in the Evans house. I shouldn't have shouted at her –'

‘Moni?' He thought she was her mother.
Her mother.
There was a sharp twinge in her gut. His reality was completely out of whack.

‘All that carrying on. It's not good for her. She needs professional help.'

‘It's okay, it'll be okay,' Emily managed to get out, not sure who she was pretending to be. Her mother? Herself? Not sure, either, why she was pandering to a man who'd been irritated by a grieving child. ‘Maybe we should take a walk outside? I'm sure you can take a break from… all that work?'

‘Oh. Oh, all right. But make it quick.' He stood, snapped his jacket on and glared at all the pensioners and their cups of tea. Snarled at Greta to get out of the way. Then indicated to Emily. ‘Come along, then. Hurry.'

‘Yes. Okay.' Throwing some cash at Greta she followed him out of the café.

What was she supposed to do? None of this was okay.

Emily felt as if someone had let all the air out of her lungs. It wasn't so much the quicksilver change in personality as the realisation of how things had been for him back then. He knew she'd been suffering and at some point he'd discussed it with her mum. He knew and he'd done little to help. Now he was sick they could never revisit it, or challenge it, or try to fix it.

They'd both been left with so much animosity eating away at their relationship – and now she had nowhere to put those emotions. She could hardly rail back at a frail old man.

But she didn't know how to start forgiving him either.

***

Still shaken from the incident in the café, Emily decided she should do something concrete to take her mind off it. The Judge had been dogging her steps all morning and she'd been unable to shake him off. She craved some time on her own, to get some quiet and steady herself. But he was always there. Very grumpy today. Very out of sorts.

She wanted to tell him to back right off. After all, it was something he'd always been good at. But she didn't have it in her. He was ill. She had to remember that. Maybe if she talked to him while she cut his hair she could get some insight into what was going on in his head. ‘Okay, so I think we need to tackle that hair, Judge. Can you come and sit here?'

‘What?' He looked up from rubbing his palms down the fabric of his trousers. Something he did over and over when he couldn't think of things to fill in his time. The cotton was starting to wear thin.

‘We're going to cut that hair.'

‘Where's Fraser?'

‘Fraser?'

‘My barber, of course.' He looked at her as if she was a fool. She wasn't Monica any more, or Emily, or the cook. God knew who he thought she was.

‘I have no idea. I'm your barber now. Come here.' She set a dining chair in the middle of the kitchen floor on top of spread-out newspaper, aware that she was being snappy and trying to soften it.
It's not his fault. It was his fault. It's not his fault.
‘Here. Sit.'

‘Okay. Okay. My usual, please.'

Which is what, exactly?
She had no idea what she was doing, but she'd had her hair done plenty of times and had watched with fascination as the hairdresser tugged it straight beneath the length of their fingers and then just snipped.

Just snip. Easy. Right then.

She sprayed some leave-in conditioner onto his hair, then tugged it straight. Starting at the back, she picked up a pair of scissors she'd found in a bathroom cupboard and… snipped.

Not easy. How did you make it all the same length? How did you put layers in? How did you make sure the sides were even?

‘Pass me my notebook.' He turned his head at the same time she snipped. Ooops. Now this side was shorter than the other.

‘Here's the notebook, but don't move a muscle.' She knew he wouldn't read it, write in it or even look at it and that he'd be asking more questions soon, so she moved stealthily to the left side of his head and started to snip again. ‘I think we're going to have to go with the tufted look.'

‘What's that?' He turned again, flinching. ‘What are you doing?'