The Secret Art of Forgiveness (2 page)

What on earth did he mean?

***

Five-thirty came and went and the Kids First charity boss was still asking questions. ‘So, given the sensitivity of the campaign, how would you suggest we proceed with the images?'

‘We've brainstormed some ideas, based on our preliminary discussions. Here.' Emily clicked the computer mouse and brought up a picture of a scruffily dressed small girl with wide,
vivid blue eyes and a tear-stained, grubby face. Every time she saw it Emily's heart ached just a little bit – which just went to show how effective it was as a campaign tool. Either that, or she wasn't anywhere near as practical and hard-nosed as she tried to be. She hoped it was the first, but suspected the latter. ‘We don't want to be too graphic because, in our experience, that puts people off –'

Her phone buzzed.

‘Oops, so sorry, I thought it was on silent.' Glancing down she saw a text from Brett.

Stop working NOW. Put everything down. Nothing is more important than this. Meet me at Viktor's in thirty minutes

Viktor's?
There was a thrill in Emily's stomach. That was the posh place they walked past between work and the subway station. The one whose menu they'd stopped and gazed at, and then seen the prices, and decided they'd treat themselves for a special occasion. One day.

But why today of all days?

Focus.
She looked at the image of the little girl on the screen and reminded herself of all those kids who needed this outreach campaign to work. Kids with mental health issues, suffering from anxiety, or abandonment, grief and loss. Kids just like she'd once been. ‘Our research showed a fifty-two per cent increase in consumer willingness to donate when we used images of…' The rest of the session had her full attention.

But later, once she'd said goodbye to the Kids First CEO, she allowed her excitement to bubble in her tummy like the fizz from this morning.

Viktor's?

Why?

She wanted to reply:
What have you got planned? Sneaky devil!
But instead she wrote:
Tying up loose ends. Will be there ASAP.

Why was he taking her there?

‘How did it go?' It was Frankie, staying late as usual.

‘Not bad. I don't think we're too far off what they want; we just need to push our success rate to them. They're numbers people, I reckon, so I have to get the stats from Pete for the last Homeless Shelter campaign. And specifically the pre- and post-awareness figures. That'll probably answer a few of their questions in the next round.'

‘If there's anything I can help you with, ask away.'

‘I will. Thanks, but it's just number-crunching at this stage. See you tomorrow.' Emily gathered her bag and folders and began to make her way to the exit.

But she couldn't help herself. Her stomach was ninety per cent excited and ten per cent panicking to all hell. She tried to sound nonchalant, but it came out more of a squeak, ‘Hey, actually… I do have a question…'

Frankie looked over the top of her laptop. ‘Sure.'

‘Okay… so… if you were having a pretty good run of things and a particular someone invited you to a restaurant you were saving for a very special occasion, what would you think?'

‘The particular person being Brett Fallon?'

‘Maybe.' Emily's heart had started doing the drumming thing again… she didn't dare imagine why he was taking her there.

Frankie let out the screech Emily had been holding in. ‘Oh, my God – d'you think… is he… is he going to put a ring on it?'

Emily found a screech of her own. ‘I don't know! But now you've said it out loud, it sounds silly. It won't be that. I haven't ever thought about getting married, we haven't talked about it…' But, of course, it made a certain kind of sense now she did think about it. ‘We're great as we are, though. We don't need a piece of paper.'

One of Frankie's eyebrows rose. ‘Well, hello. No one needs a piece of paper, but think of the dress… the shoes… Oh, sorry, too materialistic? Okay…' She tapped her fingers on the desk with a mischievous glint in her smile. ‘Think of the beautiful babies you'll have with a man who looks like that and, er, the sex… I mean, the sanctity of marriage. Obviously. But if it's not that, what else could it be? Moving in together?'

‘Surely you wouldn't do a dinner to talk about moving in? Would you? Oh, no… what if it's…' Emily realised her hands were shaking a little. The fizz to panic ratio was about fifty-fifty now. ‘Ugh, you don't suppose it could be one of those… sorry,
it's not you, it's me
conversations?'

‘I don't think you'd have a dinner to talk about that. You're such a disaster merchant. Sometimes, my darling, the universe is just good to you. Nothing bad has to happen. Relax and enjoy it.' Frankie's other eyebrow rose, too, and she shook her head. ‘Honestly, Em, the man adores you. You saw that this morning; he couldn't take his eyes off you.'

Emily wasn't wholly convinced. ‘God, don't you hate it when someone says
I have something to say to you… but I have to wait until I see you face to face?
The only thing you can imagine is that it's going to be worse than bad. Like when the phone rings in the middle of the night and you're gripped with dread –'

‘And it turns out to be nothing but a drunken pocket dial. Come on. He wouldn't have been like he was this morning if it was something bad. Did he give you any kind of hint?'

‘He did say we need to… celebrate us, or something.' Her heart hiccupped.

‘So, there you go. I hear wedding bells! What are you waiting for?' Frankie scraped her chair back and walked over to Emily, put her hands on her shoulders and marched her out to the elevator. ‘Go. Go. And text me later.
Please?
I want to be the first to say congratulations, followed by a swift,
I told you so
. Oh… and I look dreadful in apricot, and no puffy sleeves or frou-frou. Bridesmaid, right here… just saying…'

‘
Shut up.
It'll probably be something to do with work. I'm overreacting.' Emily's heart went into overdrive but she couldn't help laughing. ‘Oh, my God, my limbs are like jelly, I don't know if I can walk there.'

Frankie waved as the elevator doors started to swish closed. ‘Just levitate, sweetheart. Oh, wait… it looks as if you're doing that already.'

***

Viktor's was one of those restaurants decorated in tasteful, soft, beige tones with crisp, white tablecloths, chandeliers the size of caves, and exuding calm and sophistication. Neither of which Emily felt as she made her way to the maître d'. ‘I have a table booked under the name of – oh, there he is.'

He was standing by a table at the window, his hand raised in a wave. He was smiling.

He's smiling.

‘Hey. Busy day, huh?' He gave her cheek a kiss and pulled the chair out for her before the waiter had a chance. ‘Sit down. I have champagne on ice.'

She glanced at the French fizz. ‘Are we celebrating something?'

‘Among other things, your genius. Here, have a glass.'

As she turned to give her coat to the waiter Brett poured. There was a little clink and then the lovely sound of bubbles popping. A lot like how her stomach felt. ‘Twice in one day – I could get too used to this. Thanks.'

‘You're going to have to get used to it if you're the top performer.' Brett winked. ‘So, how was the rest of your day?'

‘Good, I think. Terry from Kids First seemed open to our ideas. He liked that we'd done charity work before. You know, we really could push that angle to other not-for-profits – our pro bono work really resonates. Anyway, we're going through to the next round.'

‘Excellent. And not a bad idea. We could discuss it in our next strategy meeting.'

‘I really like that we have the opportunity to help those kinds of organisations.' She took a sip, realising she was babbling on a little. Nerves. Which was strange, because there was nothing about Brett that made her nervous.

Why are we here?
She tried to telepathically question him because she didn't want to second-guess the whole situation and look stupid if she'd got it so completely wrong, but he was just smiling at her and nodding as she carried on rambling, ‘And how was your day, Brett?'

‘Just great. We had an epic shoot out at the High Line; it had just the right urban-grungy feel we were lookin' – hey, you know what? Let's not talk work.' His eyes were glittering a dark navy and he had an anxious smile – the way she'd seen him when his mother had phoned about his father's heart scare. That was so unlike Brett, the normally uber-confident ad VP. He held her glass back out to her. ‘You want to drink up a little? Ahem…'

She glanced at her glass and noticed there was something in the bottom. ‘Oh. What's this?'

Not wanting to put her fingers down into the champagne she drained the glass, then tipped out a… ring. Her heart squeezed tight. ‘Oh, my God, that is so beautiful.'

‘Tiffany. If you don't like it, we can take it back.'

‘No, no. I love it. It's beautiful.' A single solitaire in what she guessed was a platinum band. It caught the soft light and twinkled. And a lump formed in her throat. She didn't want to presume… and couldn't work out what the flutter in her chest was… because the excitement was still there, but the panic was too. ‘But…? What's it –?'

The next thing she knew he was at her side, lowering himself down onto one knee, and she was quite sure there was about to be an explosion in her chest as all the excitement and panic intensified until she could barely breathe.

‘Emily, you know how I feel about you. You're the other half of me. I just can't imagine a life without you in it. And I don't want to spend another moment away from you. Will you… will you, please, do me the honour of being my wife?'

This is real.

A proposal. Not a break-up. Not a disaster.

Why did she always imagine herself on the brink of a disaster?

Because bad things happened and she just wanted to be prepared.

But she looked at the ring in her palm, and at his earnest eyes and nervous smile, and felt the sharp sting of tears. This was probably the furthest thing from disaster, ever. Brett Fallon was everything a woman could possibly want; a damn fine man with a heart of gold and exquisite taste in diamonds. He made a dull day brighter. He made waking up very appealing, and going to bed even more so. He came from a lovely home with darling parents – married for thirty-seven years in December – who treated her as one of their own. He was stable, supportive and kind. And despite the little thrum of panic that she put down to nerves, she smiled. What other answer could she possibly give?

‘Yes. Of course, Brett. Of course. Wow. Yes!'

Laughing, he stood up and whipped her into his arms, hugging her close. His mouth on her throat. ‘Thank you. Oh, God! I am so relieved you said yes.'

She inhaled his comforting scent and kissed him, although kissing and trying to force air past the lump in her throat were particularly difficult. She burst out laughing. ‘Well, wow. Yes. We're getting married!'

‘Hell, yes.'

‘What do we do now?'

He was grinning insanely and it felt pretty damned good to know she'd put that smile on his face. ‘I don't know; I've never been engaged before.'

‘That makes two of us. More champagne?'

‘Whatever you want, fiancée.' He topped up her glass and for a few moments they just sat there grinning at each other. Literally speechless. Then he took out his phone. ‘We could call some people? My folks?' There was a tentative pause. ‘Yours?'

‘Yours, definitely. Yes.' A knot formed in the pit of her stomach and some of the excitement died away. It was at times like this that she missed her mum so badly, the grief sometimes
swamping her, catching her breath, taking her by surprise. She would have been so proud that her daughter was marrying someone like Brett. But Emily doubted, sadly, that the rest of her family would be interested. ‘I'm not sure the timing is right to call England.'

‘It's only, what…?' He looked at his watch and did the maths. ‘Eleven p.m.? Midnight? Someone will be up? Surely they wouldn't mind a call for such exciting news?'

‘I imagine that in sleepy Little Duxbury everyone's been safely tucked up for hours. I think we should leave it. Really.'

‘Sure?'

‘Yes. Another time.' She filled her glass again and took a drink, not wanting to get into this right now.

His smile slipped. ‘Hey, babe, what's really going on here? Don't you want them to know?'

‘Oh, yes, of course I do. Please don't read anything into it. It's just… well, you know how it is…' She didn't want him to think she wasn't proud to be engaged to him. But she couldn't expect a guy from a perfectly formed two-point-four to grasp the realities of communicating with a stepfamily who'd prefer you not to be around.

She imagined the uninterested response from her stepfather. The polite and stilted congratulations from Tamara and Tilda and the collective sigh of relief that, finally, she wasn't their responsibility any more. Although, when she'd left in the middle of the night all those years ago, she'd wanted to show them that she didn't need them anyway. ‘You know things are rocky between us. I've got to pick my moment to call them.'

His head tilted a little to the side as he looked at her. ‘Actually, now you mention it, in all the years we've been together I've never seen you speak to them.'

Not speaking to her family was the best way to keep things on a stable footing. ‘Emails work. It takes the emotion out.'

‘You've never mentioned any emails, either.'

‘No? Well there haven't been many… just change of contact numbers, Christmas newsletters, that kind of thing. It's just the way things are.' Thousands of miles and many years had left a chasm that a quick phone call – or even a succession of calls – couldn't fill. They just weren't like his family; they didn't do the happy, thick-as-thieves, shared jokes thing. At least, she wasn't part of it if they did. And now her ugly past was spoiling her lovely present. She dug deep and infused her voice with the excitement of earlier. ‘Hey, but we could phone your folks now? Shall we?'