The Secret Art of Forgiveness (33 page)

He stood and took her hand, wrapping his other arm around her waist. He was stuttery and he stumbled a little, but he managed to guide her in a half-shuffle-half-jive movement.

‘Relax.' He jostled her arm a little and made it go soft and wobbly. ‘That's right. The man leads. You follow. Did no one ever teach you properly?'

No.

‘You're not bad.' She beamed up at him.
This
was the kind of thing she'd hoped for growing up; a dad who would dance with her. A father who would support her, no matter what. Someone who cared about her, someone who held her tight when she needed it. Her own blood-dad had done this kind of thing and she'd craved it from The Judge while simultaneously pushing him away with her fierce moods and tantrums.

And he'd reacted by banishing her to her room and then sending her to boarding school. There'd been nothing between them but animosity fuelled by grief for her dead parents and a chasm as wide as the Atlantic Ocean that she'd never thought they could cross.

But this… The ostrich-egg lump, fierce and sore, stuck in her throat but she swallowed it away, determined to suck every single second out of this day, to live the joy and commit it to memory. Some kind of full-on holiday romance she was having, with this place and these people.

There was a tight ache in her chest; she was leaving all this behind. Going back to her real life. This time there'd be no begging her to stay from Tamara.

But then, she wouldn't be there for him when he woke up or wandered in the night. She wouldn't be able to curb Tamara's testy responses. Oh, she'd miss him, so much. Miss these days. Miss the man he was now, and the way they interacted. How they'd become friends in that very wobbly world of his. Plain and simple; she felt it keenly as he wrapped a shaky arm round her waist that she'd fallen hopelessly in love with the confused old bugger. Go figure.

‘Whoa. You know your stuff.' She leaned into him as he twirled her out and then back.

‘Be careful!' Tam demanded. ‘Slow down, or he'll have a heart attack!'

‘For goodness' sake, simmer down, Tam, or I'll make him do the rumba with you.'

‘Don't you ever dare, Emily Jane.' Her stepsister's face was classic horror, but when she realised Em was joking, she actually smiled.

And Emily laughed and laughed, reconciled to the fact that Tamara would always be just that little bit distant, would probably never totally approve of anything Emily did. But she was going to do it anyway. It was okay not to fit in always, to be just a little bit independent if it meant making other people happy.

And, if The Judge's laughter was anything to go by, as he tried to twirl Emily round again – and almost dropped her in the process – he was.

At least, for now.

Chapter Seventeen

The dance with The Judge had buoyed her through the rest of yesterday and the disappointment of Kids First.

Almost.

She had a lot of making up to do, a lot more hard work and a lot of proving herself all over again. But she could do it. She'd done it before. She'd been doing it all her life.

But now her focus was on Jacob and his interview. He was sitting on a makeshift stage, looking quite relaxed and even laughing at Dr Shepherd's questions about the difference between reporting things in the public interest or just
for
public interest.

Dressed in a dark, collared shirt and black jeans he looked breathtaking. Would she ever get over the dry mouth and jittery heart whenever she saw him?

‘How's he doing?' Emily whispered to Sally as she tiptoed to a seat at the back of the audience.

‘He's great. I hadn't realised he'd been over in Afghanistan for quite a few years. Hush. Hush, we're getting to the good bits.'

Dr Shepherd spoke into the microphone. ‘So, being in the midst of such terror must have taken a toll on your… how can I put it… civilian life?'

He must have known this was coming. Jacob shifted a little in his seat. Those who didn't know him wouldn't have noticed the twitch in his jaw, the straightened back, the narrowing of his eyes. His voice lowered and his confidence dimmed a little. In all, he looked like someone who did not want to be there. At all. ‘Things changed for me, yes.'

‘Would you like to illuminate?'

No. No, he wouldn't.
Why had she let this happen? Emily wanted to stand up and drag him off the stage. But that would only embarrass him. So she had to sit, hands shoved under her thighs, dying a little inside as the conversation shifted into dangerous territory.

‘It's hard living away from your… er… loved ones. They live their lives, oblivious to what you're going through, what you see. And when you come home…'

There was a pause, and silence, while Dr Shepherd tried to decide how to proceed.

‘Would you like to elaborate?'

‘No.'

‘I see. Well… the things you've seen. They must stay with you?' Dr Shepherd leaned forward and nodded. Pushing for an answer, something to titillate the audience.
The good bit?
Emily just wanted it to stop. No one should have their worst moments broadcast for the world to scavenge on, for the sake of raising a quick quid or two.

Jacob's features remained fixed but pain flickered across his eyes. She wondered how many times he'd relived those moments and the fallout afterwards. ‘If you're talking about watching my good friend die in front of me. Then yes… it does tend to have an effect.'

‘Terrible, of course. Could you tell us the circumstances?'

No.
She shook her head.
Don't. Don't say a word.

Jacob turned his head slightly and she thought, for a minute, that he caught her eye. Silly, of course, in such a large crowd, but she hoped he knew she was there. That she wanted him to leave the stage, and that spilling his guts up there wasn't necessary.

‘It was a….' Jacob's voice cracked. He shook his head. Looked at his feet. ‘It was…'

Silence stretched. Somewhere a baby cried. Murmured voices came from behind her.

‘Take your time,' Dr Shepherd said.

But Jacob turned back to the doctor and with a cold, unemotional voice said, ‘You know what? No. I'm not going to talk about the way my friend died. Or what that did to me inside. In fact…' He stood, perfectly calm on the outside, but Emily knew he must have been raging inside. ‘I think time's up now. Look, the band's waiting to come on.'

He didn't even wait for the doctor's thanks or the surprised, stuttered applause. He didn't check the faces of the crowd, the shock, the whispers and frowns. He didn't seem to care that by not talking he'd probably stoked the gossip machine for the next five years.

He just walked off the stage.

Emily watched him go, staunch, slicing through the backstage crowd and disappearing down the hill.

Sally nudged her. ‘What the heck is that about?'

‘I've got to go… just don't talk about it to everyone, okay? Just forget it.' Then she upped her pace, pushing through the prams and deckchairs, swerving past stalls and little children.

She caught up with him by a weeping willow tree that dipped lazily into the village stream; a picture of serenity next to a man simmering with pain. He was staring into the water.

‘I'm so sorry, Jacob.'

‘I don't want to talk about it.'

She touched his back. ‘How can I help?'

‘You can't.' The shake of his head told her to back right off. This was the most shut down she'd seen him.

‘I want to help.'

He whirled round to face her. Eyes blazing. ‘You can't fix this, Emily. You can't make a model and say a rallying speech and wish it all away. Everything is not sunshine and flowers and festivals.'

‘Don't you think I know that?' She did not tell him about her job and her failures and what she'd been through in the last forty-eight hours. Or that this was rapidly becoming one of the worst weekends of her life, but she almost didn't care, because it was more time spent with him and her family. And that even in the very worst moments, when she didn't think she could take any more, when she was exhausted and frazzled, when she couldn't see any way out, when there was so much blurring her thoughts, it was better being here than not being with them at all. But this was about him, not her. ‘Can you at least talk to me?'

‘And what? What do you want to know? What they want to know? That I had his blood in my hair? That I carried his broken camera around with me for two weeks because it was all I had of him? That when I visited his wife and gave it to her I had to pick her off the floor where she'd crumpled?' He shook his head, his body shaking. ‘You want more? That my wife said she didn't recognise the man I'd become? You want to hear that? That I couldn't handle it? You want to know my pathetic story?'

She'd thought she'd felt every emotion over these last few weeks, but no. Nothing had prepared her for this, this intense rage against what he'd been through, this surge of anger and her fierce need to protect him. She took hold of his hand, wanting a physical connection. Something. ‘It's not pathetic.'

He was quiet for a while, his breathing controlled again. A long, deep sigh. But his shoulders were still tense, his jaw fixed. ‘I told you there was a lot of fallout.'

‘I understand.'

‘I don't think anyone ever can.'

‘I want to try.'

‘Don't you have a show to run?' He edged away, pointed to the carousel and the tinny music, the laughing kids and smoky barbeques. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an end to the conversation.

She was dismissed. He needed some space. She needed to breathe, to work out her next move. She just didn't know where to go. She didn't seem to fit in anywhere, after all.

***

‘Houston, we have a problem,' Tom whispered to Emily, as she clapped unenthusiastically along to the band onstage in an effort to get rid of the tension that was still in every pore and cell in her body.

Tell me about it.

She'd left Jacob by the stream and had stumbled back to The Hall, throwing herself back into the thick of organising things, trying to numb her brain and her nerve endings. But it hadn't worked.

Life with Brett had been so uncomplicated. He'd pandered to her. God knew why; she didn't deserve it. She could have everything she'd ever wanted with him. Jacob, on the other hand,
was a dark danger, raw and fierce. But he made her feel alive. Exposed, but alive. He was a hard man to get to know, but worth it. A glimpse of his humanity had made her want to know more.

She had exactly fourteen and a half hours left, then she was leaving.

She stopped clapping. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Johnny East's a little… indisposed.'

She pulled him away from the crowd. ‘No. Please tell me no. He's due on in ten minutes and people keep telling me they've come for miles just to see him. Where is he?'

‘With Jacob. Backstage.'

They'd erected a relaxation area for the performers, which incorporated a small bar with a very limited array of drinks for purchase. In one corner slumped Johnny East, he was staring at his patent, Doctor-Marten-clad feet, his round face red and blotchy. Far from the heart throb she remembered, the singer was balding, with a stained, checked shirt pulled taut over a rotund belly. Jacob knelt in front of him with a coffee cup in one hand and water in the other.

‘Problem?' she asked as she sauntered over, trying not to look too intense. But feeling it anyway. Just as she'd thought she'd seen a chink in that hard shell of his, Jacob had closed right up again. He was a damaged soul, but unfortunately, the fact he wasn't perfect made him seem even more so.

Jacob looked up and frowned and she wasn't sure it was at her or the singer. ‘Someone didn't get the memo about serving him water only.'

As she closed in she caught the singer's slurred words: ‘I can't do it. I can't. I can't go up there and sing.'

Is he even capable of it?
‘Of course you can, Mr East. You can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it. Here…' Taking the coffee from Jacob, she pushed down the urge to throw it over the maudlin drunk and, instead, squeezed it into his hand. ‘Try this. This will give you a little buzz. Make your head clearer.'

He shook his head, sadly, self-pity etched in every pore. ‘No. It's too late. I can't do it. I'm washed-up. Really. I am.'

Then why the hell say yes to a gig?
‘I know you're scared, Johnny. I know exactly what that feels like – putting yourself under the microscope for everyone to examine. And you worry about what they're going to think and say, but it's nothing like what you imagine. People are usually willing to forgive you your flaws.' She found herself thinking about coming back here and how she'd been so terrified, how she'd put it off for so long. Now she was getting as maudlin as him. ‘But hey, you're Johnny East. You're freaking amazing.'

‘Was. Was amazing. Now I'm just… drunk. I can't even stay off the booze for two weeks.'

She took a deep breath.
You will not ruin this for me. You will get on that stage and sing if it's the last thing you do. Because I will not fail at this, too.
‘Mr East, there are thousands of people out there who love you, who have
paid
good money to come to hear you sing your amazing songs.' She crossed her fingers at that, remembering the very annoying ‘The Frogitty Hop'.

‘I can't… Don't you get it? I'm done. Through. Might as well be dead.'

Not on my watch.
‘Oh, no, you're not. Come on.' Squeezing her hand into his clammy fist she hauled him upright, and with Jacob's help managed to walk him to the side of the stage. ‘Repeat after me:
Take me to the hop, the frogitty hop, take me now and never ever stop…
'