Living in a big city, means you can escape your past…

Until Emily Forrester is called back to Little Duxbury, the chocolate-box English village where she grew up - though it was anything but idyllic for the tearaway teenager. Her estranged step-father, a former high-court judge, is unwell and her step-sisters need her help.

It’s just a week, Emily tells herself, but faced with the lies – and hard truths – that drove her to leave in the first place is difficult enough. Having to cope with a step-father (and the only parent she has left) who is so unlike the man she remembers pushes Emily’s emotions in ways she hasn’t been tested in years – since her mother’s death.

They say home is where the heart is – but by the end of the week, Emily isn’t entirely sure which home that is.

A beautiful and unforgettable novel that will have you laughing and crying.

The Secret Art of Forgiveness

Louisa George

www.CarinaUK.com

Award-winning author LOUISA GEORGE has been an avid reader her whole life. In between chapters she managed to fit in a degree in Communication Studies, trained as a nurse, married her doctor hero and had two sons. Now, she spends her days writing chapters of her own in the medical romance, contemporary romance and women’s fiction genres.

Louisa’s books have variously been nominated for the coveted RITA® Award and won the NZ Koru Award and translated into twelve languages. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand and, when not writing or reading, likes to travel, drink mojitos and do Zumba®- preferably all at the same time.

Acknowledgements

To the editorial team at Carina UK, particularly Lucy Gilmour and Victoria Oundjian, who have been so very patient and supportive to a writer who couldn’t always find her way; thank you so very much for steering me in the right direction and keeping me on track. To the Carina UK art department, I’m so thrilled with the gorgeous cover, you’re amazing!

To Flo Nicoll, editor extraordinaire, I owe you so, so much, I can’t even begin… thank you, thank you, a zillion times over.

To my writing friends; the wonderful Blenheim girls, Writers In The Wild and the North Shore lunch ladies—you’re all amazing and supportive and kind, and without you I’d be a basket-case by now. I’m honoured to be surrounded by such brilliant women.

To Mum, even though you’ve forgotten so much, I’ll never ever forget. You’re my inspiration in so many ways.

Last, but far from least, to Warren, Sam and James—I hope you guys know how important you are to me. I love you so much.

Dedication

For all those people who somehow manage to juggle the needs of others without complaining, who put themselves at the bottom of the list and put their dreams on hold, this is for you with heartfelt thanks. Now, go get some ‘me’ time, you deserve it.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

Emily Forrester knew it was going to be a special day when she walked into the office to a round of applause.

‘She’s here! She’s here! Okay… Donuts! Check. Coffee… check. Champagne… who’s got the champagne?’ Frankie, Baddermans’ Director of Strategy, her friend and the most sorted woman Emily knew, bundled her back out through the glass doors and into reception calling back, ‘And glasses, too! Come on, heroine of the hour, of the whole damned week… let’s get going. You know the score.’

Not that this wasn’t a regular occurrence. Baddermans Advertising Agency always greeted a successful pitch with cheers, coffee and donuts on the house; a winner’s breakfast which they took into the elevator from the eleventh floor, down to the ground, across busy West 59th Street and into Central Park. On a rainy day they would drag bright, primary-coloured beanbags across the office and sit in a semicircle, pretending to picnic and watching raindrops pepper the floor-to-ceiling glass while they celebrated in comfort.

But today there was something extra fizzing in the air. After a cloudy week the sun blazed down on the early spring Thursday morning, she’d snagged her second contract in as many days, found a seat on the subway during rush hour, and her saving-for-when-I’m-thin trousers had actually really, truly fastened this morning. Although there had still been a lot of breathing in involved…

Emily made sure she counted every blessing she had these days, because there’d been a time when she hadn’t had many at all.

‘Way to go, Em! You nabbed that contract right out of VPM’s hands. Word is, Haute Couture Hounds were this close to signing with them…’ Frankie pinched her thumb and forefinger almost together as the team spread plaid picnic blankets on the grass. Champagne corks popped to the accompaniment of whoops and cheers. ‘But you went in there and blew them away. Second time this week – you’re on a roll, girlfriend.’

‘Obviously the bribes worked well… joking! Maybe it’s just a fluke? Luck?’ Emily took a glass of bubbles. Pinch me.

Being here was still nothing short of a miracle for a girl who’d run away from sleepy Little Duxbury with barely ten quid to her name. Winning a lucrative contract with the nation’s foremost dog-clothing company was icing, but beating the city’s top advertising agency for the account was the absolute cherry on top.

Yesterday it was puppy bling, Wednesday’s hard-fought-for account had been for a tech start-up, and later today she had a meeting with a children’s charity. What she loved most about her job was that no two days were the same, every project an interesting challenge she embraced wholeheartedly.

She slipped off her shoes and let her feet sink into the slightly damp grass. Heaven. There was something magical about New York in the springtime, a feeling of possibility in the air, the fresh scent of early blossom.

Or maybe it was just the champagne…

Surrounding her in a tight circle, her colleagues were all grinning and waiting intently for her to speak. This was the kind of debrief she enjoyed. ‘Okay, gather round my lovelies… so, it’s all thanks to last month’s doggy speed-dating event, to be honest. Haute Couture Hounds were impressed we did that promotion pro bono. So a big thank you to Frankie for setting that whole crazy day up. It’s paid dividends. Even if I was lint-rolling hairs off my clothes for days afterwards.’

More cheers for Frankie. One of Emily’s initiatives when she started at the company had been to make sure they recognised the importance of giving out praise and credit where it was due. And to celebrate the small things. Because who knew what was around the corner? At least then, if unexpected roadblocks did turn up, there had already been champagne drunk!

A bit like not saving best clothes for best, Emily believed in making the most of now. Mainly, because it was something she wished she’d done while she’d still had her mum around.

‘Oh, my God, this is the best salted caramel donut in the whole world,’ she continued, pushing back the painful memories of her mum. This really wasn’t the time or the place. ‘Anyway… They loved the ideas we came up with. They chose to go with the basset hound on the posters, so we need to organise that photo shoot for two weeks’ time. Gez, can you get on to the pet model agency? I’ll email all the specs to you. And we need to book some studio time for the thirty-second TV ad – please order more lint rolls. Lots more. I get the feeling we’re going to need them.’ There was a collective smile at that. ‘They want a fall roll-out nationwide, leading up to Christmas, and they have some especially cute festive outfits – am I really saying this? Dog Santa outfits? Sometimes I cannot believe I have this job.’ She laughed along with the team. ‘No, seriously, they’re gorgeous. Red velvet coats and little matching accessories. It’s going to be a fun account and I’m looking forward to working with them. And the very tidy fee that comes with it is very welcome. It just goes to show that if you’re willing to help a small community event for nothing, you do reap heaps in other ways. Plus, I guess they like our ethics.’

‘And our VP. And who could blame them?’ Brett Fallon, her sidekick vice president, walked over from the back of the group where he’d been sitting, letting her take the limelight. But now he tipped his glass to hers. Her stomach did a warm flip as she looked at him; all blond hair and strident blue eyes. Sharing the VP job at Baddermans Ad Agency meant they spent a lot of time together – sex had been just a natural extension of that. Then, a full-blown, grown-up relationship.

They’d worked side by side for two years before they got together one late night at his place as they brainstormed a champagne company’s campaign. Two bottles down and they’d fallen into bed.

That their lives were more intertwined than just regular work colleagues was no secret, but they usually tried to downplay it at work. Today, though? Today was definitely special. ‘You’ve had an amazing week, Emily. Thanks for forging ahead and doing us all proud. Hey, everyone. A toast… everyone stand up…’

‘Awww. That’s very sweet. Thank you.’ Sometimes she really did wonder if this was all too good to be true, if any minute now she’d be hauled into the CEO’s office to be told that hiring her had been a huge mistake and she wasn’t anywhere near as good as they’d thought she was. Because even though she’d won the accounts, she knew there’d been parts of the pitch where she could have been a lot better.

Frankie would say that was the perfectionist in her talking. Emily knew it was just the lost little girl raising her head again, always striving, trying harder and harder and harder. And then she’d have to remind herself that she was a successful VP of a thriving company, with a vibrant social life and not that lonely kid who internalised every rebuff, every knock-back.

‘You did this. You deserve it.’ With an uncharacteristic public show of affection, Brett leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, and she felt the blush rising from her chest. As he did so he whispered, ‘And it’s about time we celebrated us, too, don’t you think?’

What on earth does that mean? ‘Sorry? What?’ It wasn’t like him to do grand gestures. Heart drumming, she looked at him for clarification, but he’d turned away and was encouraging everyone to stand. ‘To Emily.’

Faces beamed at her as they raised their glasses. ‘Well done, Emily! Emily! Go, girlfriend!’

‘Hey, it’s a total team effort; I couldn’t do any of this without you guys. Thanks, everyone.’ Hating all the gleeful attention on her, she scrambled to her feet, chinked against the fifteen or so glasses and took another sip. The champagne – proper French stuff at that – tickled her throat as it went down. ‘Oh, that is so lovely. I could get used to bubbles first thing in the morning. Does that make me bad?’

Frankie smiled. ‘Not at all. It makes you normal.’

‘Whatever that is.’ Emily grinned. ‘But hey, if this is normal, then God bless America!’

She’d arrived here eight years ago, still a little lost and a little lonely – although that was something she’d been used to. Growing up had been… difficult, in lots of ways. But the Baddermans job had offered her the chance to reinvent herself and she’d grabbed it with both hands. Loneliness was becoming a thing of the past as her colleagues had become her friends and now almost felt like family. They’d taught her a lot about advertising and she was excellent at what she did. Years of hard work and dedication had gone a long way, and meeting Brett had been the final piece to the puzzle.

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?’

He, too, found another smile and, God love him, took the hint and moved on from the tricky subject of her difficult family ties. ‘I think Dad might be out of town tonight; he said something about a conference in Philadelphia. I’d like to call when they’re together. I know… we could drive up and see them this weekend?’

‘Okay. Yes. Why not? A weekend in Boston sounds lovely.’

‘In the meantime…’ His fingers tiptoed up her arm and tickled the back of her neck. ‘I have ideas about how we could celebrate. Lots and lots…’ His breath fanned over her cheek and she leaned into his broad frame. Then he jolted back. ‘Shoot. Wait… That’s my phone beeping… I’ll leave it.’

‘No, take it. It’s fine, really.’

He grabbed his cell, then frowned. ‘Steve Lyons. Better Beer.’

‘Take it. Don’t worry, seriously.’

‘No. We said no work.’ But his eyes lingered over the phone and she knew he wouldn’t settle until he’d talked to his client; he was already starting to look twitchy.

‘Since when would we ever really consider that? Work’s in our DNA.’

‘Which is why we’re perfect together.’

‘Absolutely.’ She nodded towards the phone. ‘So… take it before he hangs up.’

‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best. It’ll only take a minute.’ He turned away slightly and she took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself. She was getting married.

Married!

Living together. Sharing her space, her life. Forever.

‘Ah, sorry, man. I got held up… Can you hold a sec?’ Brett covered the handset. ‘I was supposed to meet him at six-thirty to go over the campaign. It completely skipped my mind. He’s at the office.’

‘Go. Go. It’s fine.’

‘No. I’ll postpone.’ He looked genuinely deflated.

Em laughed, because it was so unusual to see Brett flustered. ‘Aren’t you rolling out the campaign next week, in time for the international beer festival?’

‘I can meet him tomorrow, if I shuffle some appointments around.’

‘Won’t that look unprofessional? Go. It’s fine.’

‘Sure?’ He spoke to his client then put his phone back into his pocket. ‘Not exactly the way I’d been planning to celebrate our engagement. I’m sorry, babe. It’ll be a late one; you know what he’s like. Branding, bonding and, of course, lots of beer. I could come round after… no. No, second thoughts I probably shouldn’t. I don’t know what state I’ll be in.’

‘Look, it’s not a problem. But you’re right, it’s probably best if you stay at yours. I have an early start tomorrow.’ There was a brief flutter of relief in her chest coupled with a strange feeling in the pit of Emily’s stomach. The sand of her life was shifting. Space to think things through was probably a good call.

He had a sheepish grin as he squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted tonight to be special.’

‘It is. This…’ she looked down at the glittering ring. ‘This is very special. Go! Go out and drink beer.’ She blew him a kiss then finished the rest of her wine. ‘See you tomorrow. Hope your head won’t be too sore.’

‘Love you,’ he called as he strode towards the door. The words were a balm to her heart.

How did love feel?

Did it feel like a nice warm glow, a comfortable pair of slippers, that post-bubbles bliss?

Was it lazy, Sunday-morning sex? Because they were very good at that. Very good indeed.

Was it the ease with which she let him go, knowing he’d be back tomorrow?

She finished the rest of her glass, picked up her bag and promised herself not to analyse anything too deeply.

Of course she loved him; how could she not?

***

Feeling a bit tipsy and ever-so-slightly anti-climactic, Emily made her way to the subway, texting Frankie before she went down the steps and out of cell phone range: Apricot it is. Frou-frou obligatory. Sorry, not sorry!!!

Then she ran down into the dry thick air and jumped on a train almost immediately, finding a seat. Miracle! And finally let out a long, slow breath.

What a day.

What a very strange week indeed; it was as if a zillion stars were all colliding to make things happen for her. After such a bumpy start to her life things were finally settling. She was settling down.

Well, wow. That was not what she’d been expecting when she woke up this morning.

The ride home took no time and she emerged from the subway blinking into the last throes of daylight. Some sort of rap music came from one of the basements giving a sultry buzz to her commute, then the mellow pitch of a saxophone running up and down scales came from across the street, mingling with laughter from children in the play park. In the weak spring sunshine people were starting to shed layers and with them the heavy weight of a long winter.

Fifty yards from her apartment her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her bag, grinning. Frankie no doubt, with a clever come back.

Withheld number. Oh. Not Frankie. ‘Hello?’

‘Emily? Is that you? Is that Emily Forrester?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

Clipped English vowels worried their way into Emily’s tummy. ‘It’s Tamara.’

Well, today was just full of surprises. The giddy, champagne-fuelled, bride-to-be buzz fizzled out. Because, like the dreaded phone call in the middle of the night, any rare call from her stepsister usually meant bad news. Emily’s poor heart, which had already taken quite a battering today, bumped a little. ‘Oh, hi, Tam, what’s up? Is everything all right?’

‘Not really, I’m afraid, Emily.’

‘Oh. Why? What’s happened?’ Watching the last dying rays of sunshine dip behind trees, she tried and failed to control the tightening sensation in her stomach. She’d reached her apartment now, nodded to Freddie, the doorman, and started the climb to her first-floor apartment. Her words echoed off the plaster walls as she tried to walk and talk and breathe. ‘What’s happened?’

‘This call is expensive, so I’m going to just cut to the chase here. You need to come home.’

‘What? Why?’ Home? She hadn’t called it that for a very long time, and even when she’d lived there it hadn’t felt much like a home should.

There was that long-distance static delay and echo that made it sound as if Tam was considering everything very deeply and then speaking down a hollow pipe. ‘It’s Daddy.’

‘The Judge? What’s wrong?’ Em’s heart jittered. She couldn’t walk and talk and now fret, too, so she sat down on the concrete step outside her front door and leaned back against the cool grey wall, her body refamiliarising itself with all the strange emotions she had whenever she spoke to one of her extended family; frustration, anger, sadness…

‘He’s sick, Emily. We need you. Here.’

‘Umm…’ Go back to England? After all these years? After what happened?

As always, when thinking about The Judge she felt ripped in two. How many times had she tried to please him? How hard had she worked for a glimmer of a smile her way? When she’d needed a dad he’d been so busy being one to his other girls that he’d had nothing left when he looked at her. And yet, even now, after all these years, she felt the same hopeless need to please him. Yet she knew it was pointless, because when he’d married her mother he’d just wanted a wife, not another daughter, too.

She didn’t want to say the words, is he dying? ‘How bad?’

There was that weird pause where she could hear her own words echoed back to her. A crackle. ‘Bad enough that we’ve sat down and discussed it and decided to call you.’ More pause. Static that screeched like the white noise in her head at the thought of going back, at the thought of a zillion stars all converging right now, today, for this. ‘Can you hear me, Emily? Are you still there? Emily…? You have to come back to Little Duxbury.’

Chapter Two

Tam’s voice started to rise a little hysterically. ‘Daddy’s… well… how to put it? He’s gone downhill over the last few months.’

Emily had never called him Daddy. Mainly because he wasn’t hers, no matter how many times her mum had told her to ‘call him Dad, Emily Jane. He’d like that.’ She’d had a perfectly good father, who just happened to have died – and she certainly hadn’t been in the market to replace him any time soon. Or at all, really. She’d just wanted his car accident to have been a huge mistake and for him to come back to her. She’d missed him so much. Still did.

And, sad fact of the matter was, The Judge hadn’t seemed to care about anything Emily thought or needed anyway. And yet, even so, there was a clutch in her chest. He was the only parent, no matter how spurious the connection, that she had left. She hadn’t seen him for years, but the thought of him being gone filled her with surprising dread. ‘So, how bad?’

‘Up and down, to be honest. He has good days and… not so good days.’

Her heart was thumping now. ‘Is he dying? Oh, Tam… is he dying?’

Her stepsister tutted. ‘You always were overly dramatic, Emily Jane. No, he’s not dying. He’s chronically ill.’

‘Oh, good, thank goodness…’ Then she realised that must sound pretty shallow. ‘Not for the chronic illness, obviously, but for the fact he’s not at death’s door.’ And great, now she was babbling again – funny, her stepsisters had always had that kind of effect on her, made her nervous, on edge, as if by filling the silences she was filling the void where normal sisterly love should have been.

To say things had never been easy between Emily, Tamara and Matilda was an understatement. She’d entered their lives kicking and screaming and grieving for her father. Then later, sullenly and silently grieving for her mother.

By the time she was twelve and an orphan in the truest sense of the word – both blood parents dead – she’d been bundled off to boarding school, out of sight, out of mind.

By age thirteen she’d been left on her own to rattle around that huge cold house in the long holidays, Tam and Tilda choosing to visit their glamorous mother in Paris rather than stay in the Cotswolds with a brittle, younger stepsister. She could hardly blame them; she hadn’t exactly been the world’s nicest child to be around. They probably hadn’t, she realised now, known what the heck to do with her.

‘Chronic illness is not a good thing, Emily. Do you know how hard it is being here with him? Tilda and I are exhausted. It’s been a terrible year with Daddy, and now Mummy is going into hospital for cataract surgery. We need to be with her and we can’t be in two places at once.’

‘Is she still in Paris? You’re going to Paris to be with her, then? Both of you?’

‘Yes.’ There was a heavy sigh and Em felt it all the way across the Atlantic. ‘We did have a carer booked for him, but she’s fallen and broken her leg and so now we’re stuck. And don’t ask if one of us can stay in Little Duxbury, because we just can’t, okay? Tilda really needs to get away and it looks as if I’m going to have to look after everyone. As usual.’

Emily had clearly missed an awful lot of their lives. She felt a little pang in her chest. ‘I’m sure you’ll do a sterling job. What’s wrong with Tilda?’

‘Nothing that a few days away won’t fix, I’m sure. She just needs some time out from that useless husband of hers. So, as you can see, we have no one else to ask. We need you to come back and do your bit.’ There was another pause. Then a very quiet, and somewhat difficult, ‘Please’.

Emily knew what that single word would have cost Tamara. They’d never wanted her before. They’d definitely never begged her to come home. ‘I don’t know, Tam. It’s been such a long time, I doubt he’d want me there, honestly. Is it high blood pressure? Because, I might even make it worse. You know how it is between us.’

‘Now, now, we need to put all that water under the bridge. We need to pull together.’

She was right, of course; it would be selfish to think otherwise, but a large part of Emily – admittedly, the cowardly part – really didn’t want to go back and confront their past. Not at all. It wasn’t just about how she’d left things with The Judge either… it was pretty much the whole village. She’d probably succeeded in offending all of them at some point, in one way or another. Troubled, her head teacher had labelled her in yet another parent-teacher interview. Disruptive, manipulative…

And yes, she’d been all those things, but mostly she’d just been a sad little girl who missed her parents and their hugs so badly it physically hurt. Moving to New York and reinventing herself had meant she could leave all that hurt behind. But no matter what she did, it was still there in her memories of Little Duxbury and, no doubt, in its memories of her.

But maybe it was being around Brett and his lovely supportive family that made her yearn for something like he had, or maybe it really was just time to try to make things better between them all. She found herself saying, ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, we do need to move on.’

Which would be a whole lot easier said than done.

Tam sighed. ‘Good. Well, I should tell you, he’s changed a lot… not been himself for a while.’

‘So, why didn’t you tell me before now?’

‘It’s been insidious, a bit of memory loss here, an easily explained confusion there. A tendency to repeat himself. Christ, don’t we all? But now we can’t ignore that he’s actually got a real problem. He’s fine physically, you know, he can manage his… self-care – that’s what they call it – if you remind him. But he can’t cook or… anything much.’ Another pause. Then, ‘So you’ll come?’

‘I don’t know…’ But as she said the words, guilt rolled through Emily’s stomach. Even though he’d done as little of his duty towards her as he could, he’d at least not seen her be homeless.

‘When do you leave for Paris?’ She began to mentally pack things for a cooler climate.

‘Sunday.’

‘Sunday? This Sunday? That’s madness. It’s what? Four days away? I can’t just –’

‘You can just, Emily. One week, that’s all we’re asking. One week to help us out. You’ve been doing exactly as you please your whole life.’

Because she’d had no one else.

‘Well, I have a few things I need to sort out. We’re in the middle of some important campaigns…’ It all sounded like feeble excuses, because what kind of person put work before a sick relative? But even so… there were things she needed to put in place before she upped sticks and left the country.

Work, and Brett.

Brett. Her skin prickled at the thought of him kneeling in the restaurant.

His proposal had, for a few minutes, been pushed out of her head by more pressing things. But now, coupled with this call, she felt as if everything she knew was tilting off balance.

The weekend at his parents’ would have to be put on hold. She looked down at the ring, the symbol of their promise, and that little frisson of panic still bubbled away in the bottom of her gut.

Tam interrupted her thoughts. ‘Sunday, then. That’s sorted. Email me your arrival details.’

‘But –’ The line was suddenly as dead as she had believed her family relationships to be.

‘Shit.’

Despite Emily’s bad feeling about this she was already working through the logistics. Even she couldn’t imagine The Judge being ill and left to cope on his own in that rambling mansion.

She threw her phone into her bag and pinched the top of her nose. Took a deep breath and blew it out. Her eyes were on the brink of leaking, but she would not cry about this. It was shock, that was all. A shock about The Judge, and a shock about the proposal.

Emily never cried. Living with The Judge she’d learnt pretty swiftly that crying never achieved anything; it certainly didn’t harness sympathy and was a pretty useless thing to do.

But in a few short hours her life had taken a detour into Crazyville.

She’d said yes. Brett was a good guy, a great guy in fact. Most women would jump at the chance of spending the rest of their lives with him.

Even so, underneath the excitement of what the future held for her, that little panic bubble would not go away. Was it a bad sign that she hadn’t jumped in and told her stepsister about her engagement? That it hadn’t been at the forefront of her mind? That even now there was a small part of her that wanted to keep it to herself until she’d worked things out in her head?

Worked out what exactly?

She didn’t really know. There was just a little niggle that wouldn’t go away.

So maybe, just maybe, some time away from New York would be a good thing. She could fix things with The Judge, and get things back into perspective.

Just maybe going back to Little Duxbury would be a good thing for all concerned.

***

It turned out that fog could do real damage to an airline’s schedule, so Emily was running late… very late indeed.

After landing at Heathrow she tried Tam’s phone but there was just a voice message and a whole lot more static.

Stuart, Tilda’s husband, was no help, either, with his gruff, ‘They left at five.’

‘What? What do you mean? They’ve left already?’ Emily was trying to make herself heard over the tannoy of one of London’s busiest train stations. Although her loud voice was probably more panic-fuelled than forced.

‘They said they couldn’t wait any longer or they’d miss their plane. You’re her sister, right? The runaway one?’

Em sighed. ‘Really? That’s all you know about me?’

‘Well, a few other things, too –’

‘Best not to go there; trust me on this,’ she cut him off, laughing.

She guessed that was what happened when you opted out of family engagements and moved far away; people talked and history was rewritten in whatever form they wanted. It was reinforced by those recounting it and loaded with emotions that instead of lessening, seemed to deepen and grow. Plus, she had crept out of Duxbury Hall in the middle of the night without leaving a note, so what did she expect?

‘But yes, that’s me. Not quite the tearaway I once was, to be honest, so I hope I don’t disappoint anyone. I did hope Tam and Tilda would be able to give me some kind of handover… The Judge’s routine, his medications, that kind of thing.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know anything.’

Me neither.

Work on the positives. ‘Okay, well… how hard can it be, right? Maybe they left me a note. The good news is, I’m at Paddington station. My train’s arriving at Little Duxbury at eight-fifty-nine. Oh, and I’m going to need some help getting to the house with my suitcase.’

‘This house? Oh, no, you can’t… you can’t stay here.’ She could actually feel his anxiety reaching down the phone.

‘Oh, no, don’t worry, really, I’m going straight to The Judge’s. I’ll just need a…’ The station display flashed up the designated platform for her train. ‘Okay, it’s here, I’ve got to run. I’ll Uber when I get there.’

There was a pause, through which she could have sworn she heard the cogs in his brain turning. ‘Er… Uber?’

Now alarm bells were ringing so loudly she had to take notice. There was no welcoming committee. No one to hand over any details. She’d have to get to know The Judge all on her own. No buffer. Just a straight-out family reunion with the man who hadn’t ever wanted her in his family in the first place.

Plus, no Uber? Little Duxbury had obviously not moved out of the eighteen-hundreds. ‘It’s a… Look, never mind. I’ll just get a cab.’ Probably attached to a horse, but she’d take whatever the sleepy village threw at her.

Except…

There was radio silence when she got off the train. The only passenger to do so. Clearly, she was the only person in the entire world wild enough to be going to Little Duxbury on a Sunday night.

She sensed that any minute there’d be tumbleweed blowing down the dark main street, but even the tumbleweed had grown bored of the place and hotfooted out. Sitting on her case she raised her arm in various directions trying to get some reception for her cell phone, but the blobs on the screen weren’t reassuring. No service. Just brilliant.

No taxis. No service. No sister, step or otherwise, to meet and greet. No one. So much for the universe being good to me, Frankie.

No missed calls or texts from Brett either since she’d landed at Heathrow. Things had become a little frosty once she’d told him she was taking a week’s break due to family circumstances. She’d hardly painted a picture of childhood idylls and The Waltons, so she understood why he’d be confused she wanted to suddenly help a sick old man she hadn’t spoken to in over a decade. Especially when she’d chosen to do that over going to his parents’ house and celebrating their engagement in Boston.

After ten minutes of sitting in the whipping wind she realised there was nothing more for her to do but walk the mile or so to her old home. Thank goodness her suitcase had wheels.

She walked slowly, unused to the eerie silence, broken only by the rrrrr rrrrr rrrrr of her suitcase over the uneven pavement. The darkness cast shadows from the oak trees that lined the road, past the post office that was still there. Even in this light she could see the sign needed replacing – currently it read P s Off, which at least made her smile amidst her jangling nerves. One of the two pubs, which had always been the life and soul of the little community, had closed down and was sitting empty.

Turning Heads, the hairdresser’s, was still there, though – she’d once had fun cajoling Debbie to dye her hair a deep acid purple to the shock of her family, and at the cost of a school suspension. The doctor’s surgery was still there – minus graffiti – and the corner shop was still next door.

She skirted the line of pretty thatched cottages that edged the large village green where summers had been spent at the annual fair. And where, in the autumn, they’d spent Bonfire Nights roasting marshmallows and burning their fronts as their backs froze in the icy north easterlies.

It was still a quintessential English country village, adored by its inhabitants; all except her, who had arrived at the age of eight, an outsider who had never quite fit in. But maybe that was more about her than the place. You couldn’t force a square peg into a round hole, after all – and that was how she’d always felt. An outsider.

It seemed as if nothing had changed.

In the light of twelve years’ absence and working in two of the busiest cities in the world, she could see the quaint, old-world charm and the picture-postcard prettiness. There were no neon lights, no noise. It was surprisingly peaceful. She’d bet everyone else here had actually lived the idyllic childhood she’d craved.

She only hoped they had short memories, or that peace would be shattered by the return of the prodigal stepdaughter. She almost smiled at the thought.

Up ahead there was a solitary figure.

Maybe she’d spent too much time in New York, but she knew better than to walk towards a man in the shadows even in a tiny village in the Cotswolds. She slowed, her heart hammering just a little too quickly against her ribcage.

‘Er… Hello?’ she ventured, infusing her voice with a strength she didn’t feel. It wasn’t like her to be spooked so easily, but the place was so dark, so quiet, so unlike NYC where there was always noise, a pulsing beat, always light. Thankfully, she found the torch app on her phone and lit the air.

The hunched figure was muttering, peering not at Emily but at something in the hedgerow. ‘Chip? Chip? Come on, you daft bugger – stop hiding.’ He stopped as the sound of her suitcase rattled towards him. Then he turned, very slowly; there was a drip on his nose and a shake in his voice. He looked Dumbledore-old, and not in any way scary; in fact, if anything, he seemed a little dazed. And quite polite. He shielded his eyes against her light. ‘Hello, can you help me? I’ve lost my dog. Perhaps you could shine that torch over here?’

‘I’ll try.’ Dropping her suitcase handle, Emily inched closer. Whoever the man was, he was ancient and frail. His hands were shaking, which wasn’t surprising given he was only wearing pyjamas. It was May but there was a cruel chill in the air along with a scent of smoky coal. ‘Are you sure your dog’s around here? It’s quite dense undergrowth. I’m not sure you should be out here, sir, dressed like that. You’ll catch pneumonia.’

She sounded like her old late grandma with a hint of Yank. She’d become, she realised, the sum of her city experiences with her highlighted hair, expensive clothes and homogenous transatlantic accent, and was probably unrecognisable these days as that volatile teenager she’d once been. ‘How about I get you home?’

‘Not until I’ve found my dog. Chip? Chip! C’mon boy!’

‘Do you live – wait a minute…’

There was something about him that was hauntingly familiar. Not the scruffy beard, or the stoop, or the wild mane. It was the deeper timbre of his voice. That was the only giveaway, though. The last time she’d seen this man he’d been stylishly dressed in a Savile Row suit and sporting a super-close shave. His eyes had bored into her with such animosity, such overinflated importance, such emptiness. Abhorred by reports of her behaviour he’d been about to throw her out, but she hadn’t given him the satisfaction. You can’t throw someone out if they’ve already left.

Immediately, she felt the swift kick of anger, reliving those last moments in Little Duxbury, all those years of hateful retorts. Bile rose in her throat. Would they just start all over again with the harsh words?

She backed away a little, readying herself for the onslaught, on edge but hoping to keep the peace somehow. Why the hell had she said yes to this? To opening a Pandora’s Box filled with years-old rage?

But he peered closer. ‘Chip? I say, can you help me, miss? My dog…’

Oh. Okay. This man was not The Judge she knew. He was lost and confused and just a little bit sad. The anger receded, ready for another day, she knew – because when she thought about it, it had been there all these years, bubbling under the surface, fuelling her resolve to fix her life. ‘Judge? Is that you?’

‘Judge?’ He paused for a moment, trembling fingers at his whiskers as he mouthed words she couldn’t hear. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I think I am. Judge Evans, that sounds right. How do you do?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Er… It’s me. Emily. Surprise?’ She reached out, not sure whether to shake his hand or go for an awkward hug.

‘Oh. I see.’ The Judge took a step back, his body tensing as they ended up in a sort-of half-hug-handshake, a bit like the young lads in her neighbourhood with their down-with-it fist pump/shake/pat on the shoulder, but with a heck of a lot less street cred and a good deal more fumbling.

Her heart was thumping along surprisingly fast. Her hands were sweaty and shaking a little. She’d done a lot of self-talk prep on the plane, which went along the lines of – take a steadying deep breath before you speak to him, he’s human, too, things could be different now – but the rush of anger had left a residue of jitters.

She also felt indescribably wrong-footed… she’d come all this way not just to look after him, but expecting to have to defend herself, to thrash out deep-rooted differences and, hopefully, fix things. Completely thrown off balance by his frailty, she didn’t know how to act or what to say.

What she did know was that it was late, she was tired, and he was shivering. Now wasn’t the time to dredge up any of the grim past. ‘Let’s get you out of this cold, shall we?’

Taking his elbow with one hand and picking up the suitcase handle with her other she started to shuffle them both towards The Hall. There it was, up on the hill, looking down on the village, a huge house with myriad windows that looked foreboding in the dark.

She shuddered at the thought of going back in there.

The Judge kept craning his neck round and peering at the hedgerow. His lips curling into the name Chip. Then glancing towards her as if trying, hard, to place her. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before. Who are you?’

‘I’m Emily. Emily Forrester, your… daughter.’

‘Daughter?’ He shuffled to a stop and peered at her as if she were a particularly difficult cryptic crossword he was trying to solve. He shook his head. ‘No. No, no, no, no. Have you seen Chip? I can’t find him.’

Biting her lips together Emily squeezed back a sudden rip of sadness. Had he wiped her from his memory? Had he enough good daughters that he’d decided to just forget the bad one? Or was he so confused he didn’t remember he had any at all?

Now utterly out of her depth she fished around for words, her throat suddenly raw. Old feelings of alienation and isolation came reeling back – he hadn’t wanted her then, he didn’t even know her now.

But the man she’d been so angry with wasn’t this shell of a man. And the child who’d been angry, although still a part of her, wasn’t who she was now. She needed to remember that, because all these emotions she thought she’d dealt with were pinging up and taking her by surprise.

‘Right. Yes. Okay. Let’s think… yes, the dog. I’m sure he’s not lost. He sounds like he’s a clever old thing who knows where he lives. I’m sure he’ll come back soon with his tail between his legs.’ She knew exactly how that felt.

‘He’s run off again. He keeps doing that.’ The Judge was now shaking with cold. All she needed was him catching hypothermia under her watch; she could just imagine what Tamara would have to say about that.

‘We can keep looking all the way home. He’ll probably follow us, you know what they’re like. Let’s get you home and have a nice cup of tea.’ She could revisit the daughter issue later, tomorrow.

What felt like an hour or so later, but was in reality probably only a few minutes, they were pushing open the old but beautifully carved Duxbury Hall door and stepping back decades.

The scent of beeswax polish hit her first, backlit with the smoky smell of burning wood. The entrance hall was exactly how she remembered it with the shiny wooden floors she used to skid across in bare feet. Although, the wood was shabbier now. The sweeping staircase rose ahead of them, the carpet leading upstairs a little more ragged and faded, but she could still see the vibrant colours it had once had, the scarlet and the yellow pattern of swirls.

Home Sweet Home. Maybe to Tam and Tilda and even her mother, for the short time she’d lived here. Emily made a vow to try to keep looking at the positives. At least the place was warm.

Someone had lit a fire, she guessed, and discovered, as they wandered through to the library, glowing embers in the hearth.

Suddenly she heard the patter of quick footsteps in the corridor, children’s voices and laughter, and she wondered briefly if she was day-dreaming. Because she couldn’t remember much laughter happening here.

‘JUDGE? Judge Evans?’ A woman’s voice rose and the door crashed open. ‘Oh, Judge, thank goodness you’re here. We were just about to launch a search party. I was so worried, you just disappeared again into thin air – Oh. Hello?’ A pause. ‘Emily? Is that really you? Wow. Well wow, just look at you. You look amazing.’

The thin woman standing in front of her, with two small, dark-haired children hiding behind her legs, gave her a grin. There was something familiar about her, and yet different. Tangled in her memory, Emily had images of a youth club disco, some stolen vodka and a lot of tears.

‘Greta?’

‘You remembered! I wasn’t sure if you would.’

Greta Barnes had been one of those girls on the periphery of the group of teenagers Emily had been part of for about five minutes. Greta had been simultaneously the butt of jokes and the ring leader’s gopher and had been willing to do anything to be accepted into the tight ring of friendship. But they’d made it damned hard for her.

God, Emily hated the way teenage girls behaved sometimes. She’d felt sorry for Greta and had always tried to be nice to her, but when eventually they’d all turned against Emily, Greta had too. ‘Oh my goodness, hello, Greta. I barely recognised you.’

The young woman grimaced and rubbed her palms down her loose, flowery T-shirt and then the tops of her jean-clad thighs. Colour flushed her cheeks. ‘Yes, well, two kids can change a body beyond recognition, believe me. Everything goes south after pregnancy…’

Emily had girded herself against a wall of general animosity from everyone in Little Duxbury, so to be met by a little warmth was surprising. She gave Greta a smile, even though she knew it was a little wary and possibly even wobbly. ‘Don’t be silly, you look fine to me, just the same as twelve years ago. You look great, honestly.’ She did. Okay, so she looked tired, but it was late and she had two little ones, plus, clearly, The Judge. ‘I dread to think how I look after that flight.’

‘So, I should introduce you…’ Greta took hold of the little girl’s hand and drew her forward. ‘This is Caitlin, she’s four and a half… and the half is very important. Say hi, Caitlin. And this wee troublemaker is Beni. Three, going on eighteen. God help me when he’s a teenager. At least at this age I can lock us all in the house and know he’s safe. It’s the quiet moments that worry me most. That’s when I know he’s up to something very bad.’

‘Hi, guys.’ Emily raised her hand in a wave as they both ducked back behind their mum. ‘But, what are you all doing here?’

‘When Tam discovered your flight was delayed, she asked me to come sit with your… er… Judge Evans. Which was fine. I do it from time to time, but usually Sean has the kids when I pop up here.’

‘Sean?’ The jetlag was setting in and Em was finding it hard to keep up.

‘Sean Carter. You remember him? Tall, geeky lad who ran the scouts? Yeah, I married him.’

‘Oh, great. Congratulations. Didn’t you…? Do I vaguely remember you had a crush on him way back when?’

‘Yep. Turns out he had one on me, too. Who knew? All that teenage angst and worry – I’m so glad I’m not there now.’ She did a mock shudder. ‘And that’s probably my whole dull life story; one husband, two kids and not enough hours in the day. And I still never know when to shut up. What about you? What’ve you been doing? It’s been so long.’

Emily glanced over at The Judge just to check he was okay so close to the fire. He was watching them all bemused, but he was smiling. Smiling! ‘Er… nutshell… I live in New York. Not married. No kids.’ She fingered her engagement ring and thought about mentioning it – but everything was just a little too overwhelming right now.

‘Oooh, lucky. Double lucky. And wow – no wonder you look so amazing. Everything’s still in its right place.’ Beni was tugging at his mum’s hand and whispering loudly I’m bored over and over. Greta smiled. ‘Okay, little man, just give Mummy a second. Emily, I do want to hear all about your life and live it vicariously, but I really, really have to go now. Bedtime was hours ago and I’ve got work in the morning. Good to see you.’

‘You, too.’ It really was. Which was something of a surprise. A nice one.

Then Greta paused, biting her bottom lip, and Emily just knew what was coming. Because it had been going well, things had to take their inevitable turn downwards. ‘Er, does Sally know you’re back?’

Emily’s stomach tightened at the thought of her former best friend and the way things had turned so sour at the end. ‘I can’t imagine so. I’m only here for a week. I’m planning on keeping a low profile and hoping she doesn’t notice.’

‘Trust me, she will. She’s got an uncanny gossip radar; she will find out.’

Emily’s tight stomach bumped. ‘I don’t suppose she could have forgotten about it all?’

Greta’s eyes flickered to her kids and she leaned in out of their earshot and whispered, ‘Sleeping with her fiancé? I doubt it.’

‘But… oh… no, probably not.’ Emily closed her eyes briefly and fought the urge to protest her innocence. One day she’d tell everyone the truth about that night; she’d make them all listen to her side of that ridiculous story, but that would have to wait. She really didn’t want to get into it now in front of the kids and The Judge. Perhaps, too, when she did tell them, they’d all believe her this time. ‘Do you two still hang out?’

‘Hang out? What, with two kids, a job and a husband?’ Greta looked about as bemused as The Judge. ‘What planet do you live on?’

‘Planet New York.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. That explains a lot. No, I don’t get the chance to hang out – God, that would be lovely. Look, I do need to go. Sorry about losing The Judge earlier. Potty training and babysitting Houdini don’t go well together.’

But Emily just smiled. ‘It’s fine. Really. He was only down the road.’

The Judge stood up and boomed across the room. ‘Where’s Chip? Have you seen my dog? He was here a minute ago. I need to go and find him.’

Greta nodded. ‘Better sort him out. I’m at the Cosy Café every day. Pop in.’

‘I will.’

‘And good luck. You’re going to need it. And a tracker system. He’s a crafty old bugger. Yes, Mummy said a bad word.’ Greta pigged her eyes at her staring children then whispered again to Emily, ‘I say them a lot. There’s something about having two under five that makes you swear like a trooper. See you.’

‘Wait – I don’t suppose you know what I’m meant to be doing here with him?’

Greta shrugged as she settled Beni onto her hip. ‘Not really; I usually just come up for the odd hour and chat about random nothingness, to be honest. Did Tam not say?’

‘No. You’d have thought she’d have left a message or a note or something.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Looks like it’s baptism by fire, then.’ Emily waved them out, then turned her attention to the matter in hand. ‘Hey, why don’t you sit down, Judge? I’ll pop the kettle on.’

‘Sorry, my dear… but who are you again?’

‘Emily.’ How could he have forgotten so quickly? How did you deal with a confused man? Did you spend your time correcting him or did you just go with whatever flow he chose? ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Oh! Are you the new cook? Excellent!’ He was still shivering, and it seemed as if every muscle in his body was twitching. She found a throw and wrapped it around him and made him sit back in front of the fire. Now, in the full glare of the library lights, she could see just how much he’d aged. It was like looking at a completely different man. Certainly not the one who’d stood here with his hands behind his back and a face of stone, refusing to hear anything she was saying.

‘No… well, maybe I am the cook.’ Among other things. Who knew what she was going to be doing over the next few days? Other than repressing her anger all over again? ‘I can rustle up a pot of Earl Grey if you like and maybe have a look for a biscuit or two?’

He looked so very tired and old. ‘No. No, I think I’ll just turn in. It’s late and I’m cold. There’s a hell of a draught. Did someone leave the door open?’

‘No. No, but you probably haven’t thawed out properly after your walk.’

‘Walk? Did we have a walk?’ He looked down at his pyjamas. ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. Who’d go for a walk dressed like this?’

Exactly, she thought, who would indeed?

Chapter Three

‘He’s a lot worse than I thought. We need to get some regular paid help. Or move him into a home.’

Yes. That’s what she’d say to Tam and Tilda. Firmly and politely as if she were pitching for a new account. Someone needed to take control here and it looked as if it was going to be Emily, whether she liked it or not. All in a week.

Then, when they got back from Paris, she’d be able to leave knowing she’d done her bit. ‘We can use his retirement money. He worked hard all his life, so there must be lots, right? How do we get the ball rolling on this one?’ That’s how she’d pitch it.

After a woeful night’s sleep she was lying in her old single bed staring up at the ceiling, and planning. It was five-thirteen in the morning and the first fingers of daylight were creeping through the ill-fitting, faded, white-and-pink floral curtains – still the same ones as when she’d spent many, many hours sitting here plotting her escape the first time around. The pale-blue wallpaper hadn’t changed either.

Although, now the room had the addition of a strategically placed bucket under what appeared to be a crack in the ceiling. Thank goodness it hadn’t rained overnight. The hole explained the fetid damp smell, and clearly the room hadn’t been used as anything much since she’d left.

They’d removed all trace of her, though. Her boy-band posters had gone, the clothes she hadn’t had room for in her bag when she’d hurriedly packed and tiptoed out in the early hours of that July morning. Her duvet – the one her mum had bought her the Christmas before she died – gone. Now it was just another box room in a house full of empty spaces.

She pulled back the curtains and at the same time heard a beep. Her phone! Back to life! She reached into her bag, which she’d left by the window, and found one lonely blob in the top corner of the phone display.

‘Yay! Reception! Hello, world! I’m here! Anyone? Someone!’ She crawled back into bed and settled herself to read.

The blob disappeared.

‘No. No, no, no! Come back. This is like an end-of-the-world zombie movie and I’m the only survivor. Is there anybody out there?’ She crawled out from under the duvet again and stood by the window. One blob! Clearly phone reception only worked in this corner of the room.

She scanned through her messages – none from Brett, she noticed with disappointment. Timing meant he was probably asleep. She’d call him later and explain again why she was here and see if he understood. Which was probably a fruitless idea, really, because she didn’t wholly understand her need to be here herself.

There was a noise outside, below her room. A thud. Two.

What the hell? Emily held her breath, wondering what to do.

Then she heard the creak of the big front door and voices.

Strange.

Was The Judge up and about already? Who was he talking to?

‘Judge? Judge, is that you?’ she called out. Then clamped her lips together. What if it wasn’t The Judge?

Myriad horror scenes flooded her head.

‘Too many zombie movies, you stupid cow,’ she whispered, as she crept out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. ‘It’ll be fine. Just a cat… or something.’

Investigating the noise was a sure-fire way of meeting a grisly end. But what else could she do?

There was a definite chill in the air, as if someone had let a gust of snow through the house, and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. She followed them.

Through the crack in the door she could see The Judge, dressed in a flimsy, overlarge, collared shirt that would have given his Savile Row tailors nightmares, and ancient khaki shorts. Another man had his back to the door, but from what she could see he was very tall with short hair, and dressed all in black. Like a cat burglar.

Who the heck was he? And why was he here at this time in the morning? Her fists curled by her sides.

If this was someone taking advantage of a confused old man she’d throw everything she had at them. She looked down at her empty hands. She wouldn’t be much of a threat like this. Glancing around, she found an old boot by the door, which she picked up ready to fling if necessary, and another bucket, sitting underneath yet another crack in the ceiling. The whole house seemed to be about to crumble.

‘Judge? What’s going on?’ She strode into the room, aware that she probably didn’t look terribly menacing in her sparkly I heart New York T-shirt and Daisy Duke Denim shorts, brandishing a single, moss-green wellington boot – but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She snarled at the stranger’s back. ‘Who are you?’

‘I might ask you the very same thing.’ The man turned around and stared at her – a long, slow burn taking in her bed hair and T-shirt, her legs, which incidentally felt pretty naked – his eyes widened. Suspicion curled around his tone.

And, whoa. Not a cat burglar at all, but a tall, quite broad man who looked like an extra from a James Bond movie with his all-black get-up outlining honed muscles, and short, mussed-up, blond hair.

She wasn’t scared by him. She probably should have been, but she wasn’t. He was trespassing, after all, not her. ‘I’m Emi – actually, what has it got to do with you?’

His voice was stone. ‘Judge Evans is a friend of mine and I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?’

Hey, she was family not him. ‘I’m his… er… daughter.’

‘No, you’re not. I know Matilda and Tamara and you’re neither of them. Believe me, I’d have remembered meeting you.’ And he didn’t mean that in a good way if the frown over his penetrating blue eyes was anything to go by.

They made her feel just a little on edge. Okay, a lot on edge. ‘I’m Emily. The one no one mentions.’

‘No one mentions her because she doesn’t exist. Let’s ask your daddy, shall we?’ He leaned over towards The Judge, eyes glinting, and pointed at her. ‘Judge –’

She tried to stop him. ‘Oh, you… you think you’re being clever, don’t you? We both know he’s –’

‘Judge Evans, excuse me, sir, but can you tell me who this lady is?’ And of course his voice was melt-in-your-mouth polite to The Judge.

The Judge peered at her with rheumy, sunken eyes and frowned. ‘Can’t say I know, to be honest.’

‘Is she your daughter?’

‘Oh, no. I don’t have… Oh, wait… yes. Yes! I know you.’

Emily snarled at the intruder. ‘See?’

‘Yes… you’re… someone. Now… who? Oh, yes. The cook.’ The old man smiled, clearly pleased he’d passed the test. ‘Have either of you seen Chip? The little bugger’s disappeared on me again.’

The intruder shook his head and bobbed down in front of the old man, his voice a damned sight softer than when he was talking to Emily. ‘Judge Evans, I’m sorry, but Chip’s gone, I’m afraid. Remember?’

‘Gone? Oh, yes… I remember now. The car? That’s right. He was run over. Rum old state of affairs. Poor bugger never had a chance.’

The man shook his head. ‘I know.’ Then he uncoiled to his full, too-tall height and turned to Emily, holding out his hand, all softness gone. ‘The cook? Is that what you told him? I’ve heard about people like you. I need to see some ID.’

‘So do I.’ She did the same with her hand. And there they were in stalemate, eyes locked in a game of who the hell would back down first.

For the record, it wasn’t going to be her.

Just as her arm was beginning to shake with waiting he blew out a breath and fished his wallet out. ‘Here. Here’s my ID. Jacob Taylor. I live next door.’

‘The Lawsons’ old place?’

He nodded, eyebrows rising. ‘Yes.’

‘So if you know Tam and Tilda and The Judge, then surely one of them would have mentioned I was coming here?’

‘I haven’t seen Tamara or Matilda for weeks. I’ve been away for work, flew back in this morning. Luckily, I did, otherwise God knows where The Judge would have ended up.’ It was more growl than conversational. Oh, she did not like this man at all. ‘Now, your ID? Miss?’ He glanced at her left hand, nodding as he saw the diamond. ‘Miss…?’

It was none of his business.

‘You’re not the police. This is my house.’ Kind of, in a roundabout way. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t need to show you anything.’

‘Well, I’m not leaving until I see something that says who you are, or have someone vouch for you.’

She could hardly say, pop down to the village and find someone called Greta who has kids and a husband and a café, she knew me twelve years ago, and finding anyone else in Little Duxbury to vouch for her at this time in the morning would be nigh on impossible, and she so wanted this obnoxious man to be gone. ‘Okay. Okay. Just wait here.’

She was back within minutes, panting after taking the rickety stairs two at a time. ‘Here. My passport. I used to live here, with The Judge and now I live in New York. Fine? Am I allowed back into my own kitchen? Sir?’

He still didn’t look convinced but he snapped the passport shut and gave it back to her. ‘Well, if it is your house perhaps you can spend a bit of time and effort fixing it up. It’s falling apart and your sisters don’t appear to be interested.’

‘Step.’

He blinked. ‘Sorry?’

‘Stepsisters, stepfather. My mum married their dad… a long time ago. Then she died and I was… Well, I’m sure they’re doing their best under the circumstances.’ And wow, those words coming out of her mouth surprised her, but who was he to come in here telling her what to do and criticising her… her family?

That thought was a swift blow to her solar plexus. Just because she’d come here, it didn’t mean she was part of anything. She was just helping out.

He lowered his voice. ‘Where I come from, family isn’t about blood and we look after our own. Judge Evans needs more care than they’re giving him.’

‘Well, I’m here now so things will get done.’ And there was a curl of panic in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn’t going to give in to it.

He carried on as if what she was saying was of no consequence. ‘It’s Sunday, so it’s Tilda’s night. They take it in turns; half a week each and Marion, the sitter, on Saturday. Which, surely you’d know, if you were really their sister. Step or otherwise.’

‘There was something about a carer breaking her leg and Tilda and Tamara had to go to Paris to be with Sylvie – their mother. She needs an operation. So here I am. Not that I have to explain anything to you.’ She shrugged and turned to The Judge to indicate to Mr No Social Skills that the conversation was over. Although, as he appeared to be the only person able to give her any inside information on The Judge, he was probably worth mining for information. ‘Actually, about The Hall, you were saying it needs fixing…?’

Judging by his pained expression she probably didn’t want to hear his answer. ‘The roof is rotten and if it’s not fixed the whole place will fall down in the next big downpour we have. As regards The Judge, Tamara is very bossy and treats him like a naughty child instead of stimulating him. He can’t live here on his own any more. In fact…’ The intruder gestured to her to follow him into the hallway. ‘I can’t say this in front of Judge Evans, but he gets quite confused and goes wandering. He’s going to hurt himself or worse. He’s a good man and I’d hate to see that happen to him.’

Emily sighed, inwardly. She’d come here thinking all she had to do was make the odd cup of tea and provide a pencil for his crossword, perhaps pull a rug over his knees and finally make amends. Some fresh country air, and time out to think about Brett and their future.

Not… not policing a frail old man and mending a broken house.

Suddenly the enormity of what she’d taken on started to become clearer. She didn’t even know how to climb a ladder safely, never mind build a roof… or whatever you did to make roofs watertight. How could she fix things with The Judge when he didn’t even know who she was? She didn’t have nursing skills; that much was proven when her mum died and Emily had utterly fallen apart. Working twenty-four hours in a day didn’t bother her, and neither did the prospect of dealing with two hundred sex-obsessed dogs, but where illness and death were concerned she didn’t have coping strategies, she just panicked. Because serious illness, in her experience, meant death. And she didn’t know if she could face that again.

She could feel that panic start to rise a little. But she wasn’t going to let anyone see that, least of all this stranger. ‘Well, yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m going to fix things.’

‘I hope you’ve got deep pockets and that New York can spare you for a good few months then, because this won’t be an easy fix. Don’t think you can just shove him into a home. He might be prone to confusion, but he’s a stubborn old bugger when he’s lucid, so he’s not going to budge from Duxbury Hall, that’s for sure.’

‘We’ll be fine. Thank you. We’ll manage.’ Somehow. There was his pension, his retirement money and surely he had savings. She just needed to clarify things with Tam and Tilda. ‘You don’t have to worry anymore.’ Or interfere. ‘I’ll work it out.’

‘Well, that’ll make a nice change from your sisters. They couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery.’ Shaking his head he glanced at his watch. ‘This hasn’t exactly been the best start to my day.’

Nor mine, to be honest.

But she suspected he wouldn’t be interested in anything else she had to say.

***

‘Okay, Judge. Breakfast’s ready. Finally. Come eat and let’s have a chat, too.’ What she really meant was, let’s do this getting-to-know-you thing. He’d seemed a little more lucid this morning, not truly back to his old pernickety self, but a step closer. So it was time to find out more about him and what he needed.

After the early-morning start, she’d ushered him towards the bathroom and he’d emerged almost clean-shaven, but his hair was still too long and a little matted. He definitely looked a lot more like The Judge of old, just a little as if someone had opened a valve and let a lot of air out. He was too skinny and his clothes hung off him. ‘Let’s eat here, shall we? I don’t think we need to take it into the dining room. That table’s far too big for the two of us. We’d have to shout across to each other.’

Emily put the laden plates down on the kitchen table, making sure he had everything he needed close to hand.

He nudged the food around the plate, peering at it over his half-moon glasses. ‘Okay, yes, my dear. Why not? I like it in here.’

‘Me, too. We always used to eat in the big dining room, but it’s much cosier in here.’ She’d always liked the comfort of the large kitchen with its warm baking smells and washing drying on wooden racks overhead. Unlike anyone else she knew, they’d had a housekeeper, hired after her mum had died to cook and keep the place clean, and Emily had sought solace from the comfort of informality in here. Often she’d sneak in and just sit at the big old table and wish with all her heart that it was her mum kneading the dough or peeling the potatoes.

So many times she’d wished she could rewind the clock and be with her mum right here again. Just once. She’d tell her everything she wished she’d told her then instead of taking her for granted – because in Emily’s youthful, innocent eyes no one would ever be unlucky enough to lose both parents. She’d thought she’d have her mum for ever.

Her throat filled with a rush of sadness – she’d loved her mum; her mother had doted on her until her marriage to The Judge and Emily knew she’d tried after that, too. Their hours in here together had been filled with laughter and shared jokes but they would never have that again.

She swallowed hard and looked round the room. It was a pity that while she’d been in here all those times she’d never actually paid any attention to how to cook anything.

Or how to use the ancient Aga. What the heck was that about? There were no instructions so she’d had to work it out – switching it on was the first problem, then a long, slow wait for it to heat. Now she was starving and had only managed just-about-cooked, but too-hungry-to-care food.

God, she’d taken the New York twenty-four-hour culture for granted. Pizza at four in the morning? No problem. Cheesecake for breakfast? Be our guest. Here, it was a case of rummaging around to see what scraps she could find.

The Judge glanced up at her, pale-blue eyes wide. ‘They let you eat in the dining room? With them? What kind of people were they? Letting the cook eat with the family? I’ve never heard such a thing.’

‘Oh, but I’m not…’ A cook. She pressed her lips together. He’d been brought up in a different time and with different expectations and they’d never breached that gap of class or age. Looking at the aged decor it felt like she was living in an episode of Downton Abbey. Unfortunately, without the intrigue or sex.

‘So what’s this meant to be?’ He looked down at his plate and prodded the eggs with the tip of his knife.

‘Scrambled eggs on toast. It was all I could rustle up from the empty cupboards. We need to go shopping.’

‘Eggs? Are you sure? Aren’t eggs supposed to be yellow? You’re a cook, you say? How can a cook make eggs that are green? Are you in training, is that it? Have they sent me the wrong person?’

Whoa. Not wanting to show she was in any way intimidated by him – even though she still was – she met his straightforward talking with some of her own. ‘The eggs are yellow, Judge. I just added some herbs from the garden for flavour. Try them. Go on, have a mouthful. If you don’t like them we’ll have to go out for breakfast because there isn’t anything else.’

He reluctantly loaded his fork, sniffed, peered, then tentatively ate a mouthful. She waited with bated breath for a reaction. ‘And…?’

‘Edible. Just. Now, tell me where you were working before. How did you come to be here?’

‘Well, I did a few years in London, then I was head-hunted and moved to New York. I’ve been there just over five years, working for quite a prestigious agency called Baddermans.’

‘New York, eh? You like it there?’

‘I love it. It’s… wonderful. It has everything I could ever want.’ She paused. There was something niggling at the back of her mind, like a word she was trying to remember but that was just too far out of reach… a feeling that didn’t quite sit right with her when she thought about New York.

No matter how much she tried to force it she couldn’t make it tangible, real. It was an itch, or… something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘Anyway, Tamara called and said you needed some help for a few days, so here I am. Is there anything you particularly need help with? Should we make a list or have a chat about your routine?’

‘Someone’s always interfering. Do this, don’t do that, go there. A man isn’t in charge of his own life these days. I don’t need any help, I’m perfectly fine.’ For someone who didn’t like the look of the food he was certainly managing to demolish it. He smacked his lips together. Took a slurp of Earl Grey. Scooped up more eggs. ‘Tastes like soap, but I’ll let you off this time. One more slip-up, though, and I’m afraid we might have to let you go.’

A smile hit her lips. Good Lord, he was curmudgeonly. ‘And yet somehow you’ve managed to eat it all.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers. A man needs to eat. Now I have to go to work.’ He scraped the chair back and pushed himself upright, uncurling slowly, as if all the bones in his body were creaking awake one by one after a very long hibernation. ‘I’ll be in the library.’

She scooped up his plate and popped it into the dishwasher along with hers, wiped her hands and turned as he was shuffling towards the door. ‘Wait… Work? Are you still working?’ Because, God help the poor client, if there was one. ‘I thought you’d retired. Aren’t you retired?’

‘Actually… I don’t know… Maybe I am. Retired, eh? Already?’ He looked down at his veiny hands as if the answer were there in the curl of arthritic fingers. His shoulders slumped forward. When he looked back at her his eyes were clouded with confusion. ‘What am I meant to do now?’

‘Oh, Judge.’ Surprisingly, her heart contracted at the thought of a once highly respected and very busy man being so utterly lost. Where she’d expected to feel anger she now just felt sorry for him. ‘Hey, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.’

‘Good.’ He nodded, and even though his voice was barely audible she caught his words. ‘Thank you.’

‘Right, then. Next thing…’ There wasn’t any point getting emotional about this; it wasn’t going to help. She had to hold herself together and fix things. Write a list. Make a plan. Action. That was what she needed.

No point in sitting around ruminating.

Emily looked round for another job to fill her time. In the cold, early-morning hours after Jacob Taylor, the International Man of Mystery, had gone back home, she’d scrubbed every surface in here clean. Washed their bedding and hung it outside to dry on the saggy line in the walled kitchen garden. Emptied and replaced the buckets under the suspicious-looking ceiling cracks.

Then she’d run around The Hall, opening all the doors and windows to let some fresh air in, and reacquainted herself with the place – which had clearly gone to rack and ruin in the time she’d been away. It needed a complete decoration overhaul and a lot of cosmetic fixing; of broken door handles, cracked wooden frames and blown light bulbs. But now she didn’t feel like staying in the place a second longer, especially if The Judge needed entertaining. ‘You know what, Judge? There’s a wee bit of sunshine out there. Get your coat on, we’re going for a walk.’

He looked grateful to have been given a task. ‘Right you are, then. Give me a minute.’

It was humbling the way he did as he was told and it felt wrong giving him orders, but if she didn’t keep him going he’d just sit and stare into space. In fact, the more he sat the more confused he seemed to get.

So, tempting as it was to just sit in her room, too, and try to get some 3G signal on her phone – she harboured no illusions that 4G might be available in this forgotten part of the twenty-first century – she couldn’t let him stagnate. He needed stimulation and company. ‘We need to buy some groceries and hopefully find somewhere in the Land That Time Forgot that has Wi-Fi.’

Maybe then she could actually reach Tamara or Tilda and start solving all these problems she’d only just discovered she had.

Chapter Four

From their vantage point at the top of the hill Emily could see the rolling green hills surrounding the village that spread out towards Greater Duxbury and beyond; the many different colours of grass punctuated by stone walls and bright blooms of red and yellow. She’d forgotten how pretty it could be – or had she never even looked? She’d forgotten, too, about the sheep and the quaint noises they made. And the lambs! She grinned as she walked by them, and then laughed at herself. She was supposed to be a sophisticated city dweller now, entranced by the bustle and vibrancy of urban life, not by fluffy lambs.

But still… cute.

On her walk last night, she hadn’t noticed a couple of other shops that hadn’t been there all those years ago: a fish and chip shop that smelt divine even at this early hour of the day, a busy hardware shop, plus a nice-looking café that advertised Wi-Fi on its Cosy Café sign outside.

That one had been an old-fashioned newsagent’s years ago, a place her mum would take her for some sweets and her favourite comic once a week when they’d first arrived at The Hall. That was before her mum had died; before being shunted off to boarding school; before being expelled from boarding school and having to try to make a place for herself at the local high school.

Before all of that. Back when her mum had made a game of exploring their new home, feeding the ducks in the pond, playing Pooh sticks at the bridge, having picnics on blankets lakeside at The Hall. When her mum had tried so hard to make everything work. She’d been an optimist, the kindest, gentlest soul – a complete contrast to The Judge. Opposites in every way. But even at eight, Emily had understood the intensity of their passion for each other, the love in her mother’s eyes for this larger-than-life man who was a father replacement but not a daddy.

There was a sudden swell of sadness in Em’s chest. She wondered what her mother would have thought of what followed. The rage, the anger. The unbearable grief. The graffiti on the surgery walls. The smashed pub windows. Slashed tyres. Stolen alcohol. Running away.

Yet, here she was, shoulder to stooped shoulder with the man she’d believed had been the cause of it all, even though now she could see she’d been nothing more than a heartbroken little girl lashing out at the world in revenge for her abandonment and isolation. But, because of his illness, she still had nowhere to channel the vapours of those emotions that ricocheted through her.

And to add to that there was shame. Shame that she’d damaged property, caused hurt and pain and distress to people she barely knew.

‘Coffee?’ she asked The Judge, infusing her voice with sweetness. Be more like Mum. Make her proud – because, God knew, she wouldn’t have been proud of her daughter back then.

Emily assumed the Cosy Café was the place Greta had been talking about and she started to walk towards it, beckoned in by the beautiful hanging baskets above the windows, which by summer would be chock full of colour. But the White Hart pub opposite also advertised Wi-Fi and The Judge seemed to be steering towards there on autopilot, so, taking a deep breath to arm herself against whatever response she was about to get from the good ole people of Little Duxbury, she followed him in. ‘I’m not sure they’ll be open at this time in the morning, Judge –’

A lanky teenager was vacuuming the empty snug. He kicked the off switch as they walked in. ‘Come in. Come in. Hullo, Judge Evans, haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?’ Then he turned to Emily with a smile. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?’

The Judge seemed to make a beeline for a particular corner of the pub that she assumed was his usual seat, and sat down, picking up a discarded newspaper. The place had hardly changed since the last time she’d been in here; flock wallpaper, a pungent aroma of hops, mirrors on the walls advertising age-old beer. But, different staff. And all the windows present and correct. Thank goodness. She did not particularly feel up to confronting her past at this time in the morning.

The Judge boomed across the room, ‘Coffee will do. Hot, black and sweet. Anything to eat? I’m starving.’

Emily frowned. ‘We’ve only just had breakfa… never mind.’ The more she could get down him to fill out that loose skin, the better. ‘Can I have a look at the menu?’

The lad shook his head, swiping a hand over a muss of mousey hair. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed. ‘We haven’t got anything, not yet. To be honest, it’s a bit early and you’ve caught us on the hop. Give us another hour or so. But I can nip over to the Cosy Café and grab something for you? They do a mean custard tart.’

The Judge raised his hand. ‘Yes, and make it quick, lad. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. And this one’s no help. She’s starving me, I swear it.’

The boy didn’t bother to smother his grin as he looked from The Judge to Emily. ‘This one?’

‘Is called Emily. Pleased to meet you.’ She leaned a little closer. ‘I don’t think he has an inside voice. So apologies in advance. Black coffee for him and a cappuccino for me, please.’

‘Tom. Pot collector and general dogsbody.’ He thrust out thin fingers. ‘And we all know Judge Evans, no need to apologise. His voice is bigger than his bite.’

Unless you’re in any way related to him. ‘Nice to meet you, Tom.’

He let her hand drop and his face brightened. ‘Who are you? A new carer? New… er… wife?’

If there’d been coffee in Emily’s mouth Tom would have been wearing it. ‘I’m his daughter.’ It still felt so strange to say that, but it was easier than giving everyone she met her whole life story.

‘He has another one?’

‘You haven’t heard about me?’ Why would he have? It was old news. Everyone had moved on; the only person who cared about her past was Emily. Clearly. ‘It’s like a reverse Cinderella: the evil youngest one and the gorgeous, harassed and saintly older two.’

‘Evil? No. What? Sister? You’re Tamara and Matilda’s sister? Blimey.’ He whooshed the milk in the frother while the coffee machine made spluttering noises. There was a sudden and delicious smell of coffee in the air. ‘You don’t look much like them.’

She fiddled with a beer mat while Tom made the coffee. It was good to see that not everyone here held a grudge against her. Either he was too young or too innocent to have heard the details of her misdemeanours. Or… maybe she’d blown everything out of all proportion and things hadn’t been as bad as she remembered? He was still looking at her with a bemused expression. ‘Without going into too much boring detail – we’re a stepfamily. My mum married Judge Evans. A long time ago, obviously.’

Placing the cups onto a tray Tom nodded. ‘Yes, steppies – I get it. I’ve got a couple of them myself, plus two half-blood sibs and one full-muggle brother. That’s too many people trying to play happy families in one house, and also why I’m here and not at home – couldn’t wait to get out, to be honest.’ He rang the price up on the till. ‘Four-fifty, please – I’ll let you know the price of the tart later. Liam, my brother, runs this place so, if I’m not at college, I try to doss upstairs in one of the B and B rooms. Which is all too much information. If you don’t mind my saying, Emily, you’re not a bit like the other two.’

‘That is definitely a compliment. Now, I’d better take these over before he dies of starvation – because that can happen, you know, after a double serving of scrambled eggs on toast less than an hour ago. Can you tell me the Wi-Fi password, please?’

‘No problem, it’s here...’ Tom handed over a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the spiel I have to say: no illegal downloads; no large files; no longer than thirty minutes, if possible.’

She took the paper and glanced up at a noticeboard on the wall. ‘Hot yoga classes at the community hall? Zumba? Wow, Little Duxbury is moving slowly into this century. And what’s that? Oh, really? Do you still have that quaint country fair? Do people still come to it?’

‘No, ‘fraid not.’ Tom shrugged. ‘That’s why they’re asking for volunteers for the committee. It’s died a death and they either need to stop it altogether or ramp it up a bit to attract new people.’

She laughed, remembering the sad little home-made chutneys, drop-stitched, crocheted doilies and donkey rides. ‘It was old-fashioned twenty years ago. But it was very popular, must have made a mint for the stall holders.’

‘Not any more. Not a lot of interest in knitted toilet-roll holders these days. Don’t suppose you’re interested in helping out? Jazz it up a bit?’

She laughed. ‘No. Sorry, I’m back in New York at the weekend. Otherwise I’d have loved to help.’

‘Liar.’

She raised her hands. ‘Yes. You got me. Really not my kind of thing.’

‘Don’t suppose it is, being all New York and everything.’ Grinning, he lifted the bar hatch and walked through. ‘Right then, at least I tried. The boss said I had to ask around. Done my bit; now I’ll go get that tart.’

‘Thanks!’ So that was the second person in Little Duxbury who seemed friendly. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

She punched in the password. Held her breath. And…

Wi-Fi! Never had a black triangle in the top corner of her laptop been so damned welcome. ‘Back in the land of the living, Judge. Right here.’

She scrolled to the email she wanted to read first;

<brettfallon@baddermans.com>

Babe,

I hope the Brits are making you welcome. Although, from what you’ve told me about them, that may not be happening. Hang in there, it’s only a week.

Don’t worry about your clients, I’ve asked Martha and Gez to take some on board, so if you could liaise with them that’d be great.

Let me know when we can touch base. Mum and Dad send their love – I still haven’t mentioned anything so it’s all hush hush until we see them. Hopefully that’ll be real soon.

Miss you.

BF x

Miss you, too. Emily pressed her thumb and finger on the bridge of her nose and tried to control the emotions whirring around her. The rock was still on her finger, glinting brightly in the pub wall lights. She ran her fingers over the sharp edges.

Her heart ached at the thought of him, but there had been times she’d been so consumed with her current problems that he hadn’t flickered across her radar.

Was that a bad sign?

Her laptop pinged with more incoming messages, including one from Tam.

<TamaraPForrester4727@hotmail.com>

Emily,

We hear you’ve landed in LD. Thank you for coming at such short notice.

We know everything will come as a shock to you. We’ve been trying to cope but our father is becoming very hard to look after and we’re at our wits’ end. He refuses to allow us to make any decisions with him and he’s determined to stay at The Hall. To be honest, that’s not an option as you will probably know by now. Apart from the fact he’s not safe on his own, the house is falling apart and we just don’t have the money to renovate it. The cost of roof repairs alone is astronomical.

You should know, too, that Daddy’s been the victim of several scams over the last few years. Before we knew he was ill, he had handed out his password to computer scammers. Twice! Next thing, he paid someone upfront to come fix the roof – ridiculous amounts, you wouldn’t believe – but they took the money and never came back. Not surprisingly.

We’ve got control of his accounts now but there isn’t much left in the pot, and the rest of it is tied up in trusts for us when he dies. Unless we have a miracle or win the lottery we’ll have to sell The Hall just to pay for proper care – and it won’t bring much given the state of disrepair it’s in.

So now you know. It’s a terrible state of affairs and we’re totally lost as to what to do.

Daddy gets worse at night, so you need to make sure all the doors are locked or he’ll get out.

Oh, and keep him away from the new neighbour, Jacob Taylor. He seems very shifty and we think he might be hatching some kind of scam. Daddy is a prime target for that kind of thing as we know.

Don’t do anything silly. Please.

Tamara and Tilda

Brilliant. Just brilliant. A weight settled on Emily’s chest, thick and dark and bordering on the panic she’d felt earlier. The neighbour is a scammer. The house is falling down and The Judge is a liability.

Great. Just great.

After ordering a restorative pot of tea, and finding The Judge a pencil for the cryptic crossword, she took a deep breath that wasn’t anywhere near as helpful as she’d hoped… and replied:

What’s his routine? What do I actually need to do for him?

How much are the roof repairs going to be?

Is there really nothing we can do?

Sell some of the land off? We do have a lot and we don’t need it.

Have you actually asked for professional advice either for the roof or for The Judge?

What about a nursing agency?

Couldn’t we get daily help?

A sleepover companion?

Security?

How’s Sylvie?

HELP!

She crossed the last word off. She didn’t need their help, just some answers. Plus, she was starting to rue ever finding the damned Wi-Fi in this village. There was a lot to be said for living in the Dark Ages; blissful ignorance for one.

She asked Tom to pop over and buy a vanilla slice for herself and wondered about Face Timing Brett, but decided to do it when she didn’t have an audience.

Another incoming… a surprisingly quick reply from Tam and Tilda:

Just sit with him, basically, and tell him what to do and when. His tablets are in a box marked with the days of the week, kept in a cupboard above the fridge in the kitchen.

Can’t afford to pay for daily help, sleepover companions or long-term nursing care. The roof repairs were estimated at almost a hundred thousand. There’s no money.

We could sell some land – good idea. But not to just anyone, and not to that Jacob Taylor.

Sylvie is going in today. She’s quite worried, as is Tilda. I’m fine, of course, holding everyone together as usual.

Will be in touch.

T

Emily glanced over at The Judge who was staring through her, the tip of his pencil in his mouth, completely lost in his own world. When he sensed her watching him his thick eyebrows rose and he gave her a gentle smile that was at odds with the way she was feeling. She was stuck here trying to deal with the fallout from years of neglect on the heels of years of arguments. She couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever smiled at her, when she’d ever appeared to generate in him any kind of fatherly pride or pleasure. But now he didn’t know who she was, he seemed to quite like her. Go figure.

But, maybe it was better if he didn’t remember who she was. Remembering what they’d said to each other would probably just upset him all the more.

And just sit with him? It didn’t make sense. Surely he needed to be stimulated, as Mr Taylor had said? She made a note to look into that and make a call to the local GP. She hoped old Dr Shepherd had left, because she had a few bad memories that lingered there, too.

Funny how none of her youth had mattered at all for the last however many years; she’d put the whole bad teenage behaviour thing behind her and moved on. Until now. Every time she walked past a house or a shop here she expected someone to haul her in and tell her off.

As they meandered back to The Hall, carrying shopping bags loaded with fresh vegetables and chicken for a healthy home-made soup, Emily’s panic began to abate. She would Skype Brett. She would call a realtor… what did they call them here? Estate agent, yes… and get a valuation of The Hall. She could do a lot of her work offline from there, too, and then wander down to the café for email updates. Most of her clients need never know she was even out of the country. She had a little money set aside, she could use some of it to sticky-tape this whole disaster together until the girls came back.

It’d be fine. She’d sort it all out. Wave her magic wand or something.

Although, with him hobbling beside her, muttering about that missing dog again, her magic touch suddenly felt a little underqualified.

But, she had a plan. That was a start. Wasn’t it?

They’d just about reached the Duxbury Hall driveway when a dark car drove by and turned into Jacob Taylor’s driveway. The Judge raised his stick and waved.

‘What do you know about Jacob Taylor?’ she asked him, dropping the shopping bags and letting the blood flow back into her fingers as she craned her neck to peer into the back of the car. But she saw absolutely nothing but glass. ‘Who is he? What does he do?’

‘What does who do?’

‘Jacob Taylor?’ The scammer. Her heart began to thud. She’d need to keep an eye on him.

‘Who?’ The Judge couldn’t even remember two seconds ago.

‘Never mind.’ She hauled the bags up again and made towards The Hall. ‘I’ll work it all out for myself.’

Just like she always had.

***

‘Shoot! No. No! Not again! Why is this so bloody hard?’ Working things out for herself was proving more difficult than she’d thought it would be.

It was Wednesday morning and Emily was fixing a breakfast of pancakes, berries and natural yoghurt. At least, that had been the plan. What she hadn’t accounted for was the batter sticking to the bottom of the pan and burning, not once, not twice, but three times.

Pancakes had seemed like an excellent idea when she’d absentmindedly picked up the ingredients, her mind on so many other things, but now she was down to the last dribble of lumpy goo and her head was starting to throb. Mainly, she assumed, because she’d gone from mildly hungry to absolutely starving in the time it had taken her to use up all of the batter ingredients and fail each time. ‘Damn and double blast! Nigella, where are you when I need you?’

‘Oh, hello there.’ The Judge wandered in wearing the same clothes he’d had on for the last three days: a khaki shirt and baggy trousers. Something red had spilled all over his shirt between last night and this morning, and his hair was scruffy and wild. He looked like an extra from a zombie movie. ‘What are you cooking, er…?’

‘Emily.’ Remember? Squishing down the tang of frustration that he still couldn’t remember her name or who she was, she surveyed the damage made by the splodges of crusty batter mix across the Aga top, the slightly squashed berries and insipid-looking yoghurt.

If only her mum were here, she’d know what to do about the food, The Judge, everything. If only her mum had had the time to teach her to cook. If only her mum had had more time, full stop. If only. There were so many if onlys. Too many. God, she still missed her, especially here in this too-large place filled with memories. Em swallowed back the lumps in her throat. ‘How does burned goo on toast sound?’

‘Lovely. I’ll have two, please.’ The Judge took his usual place at the large table and waited, knife and fork primed. She imagined he’d done this all his life – been waited on, looked after, nurtured, either by wives or daughters or housekeepers or harried secretaries. And yet, he’d somehow been unable to pay that forward.

She wondered how that felt – always knowing there was someone to care for you, even if not to care about you. And she told herself to stop being maudlin. Her parents were gone and The Judge had never cared either for or about her, but she had Brett now, all those miles away, waiting anxiously for her return. Funny thing was, he hadn’t flitted into her thoughts much at all yesterday.

Admittedly, she’d been busy trying to write a proposal for an account while chasing down The Judge and answering emails in the pub. The afternoon she’d spent stripping all the beds in the twelve bedrooms, assessing damp damage, ceiling patency and generally trying to dry everything out. She had a list now of everything that needed doing – it was so long it gave her heebeegeebees just looking at it.

Guilt worried its way into her head. Why hadn’t she thought about Brett until now?

She pushed all that away, promising to contact him later, and concentrated on the more pressing matter of her grumbling stomach. ‘Actually, none of this looks lovely at all, Judge. It looks, frankly, like a hot, inedible mess. And that’s because it is. Let’s eat out. My shout. And while we’re at it, we’ll get you a haircut. You look like a hippy.’

‘Right you are.’ He scraped his chair back and fastened a loose-fitting beige cardigan over the stained shirt. Unfortunately, there was plenty of stain – what the hell was it? – still visible. ‘The pub?’

‘No. We’ll try the café today seeing as you had top pick the last two days. But don’t you think you should change your shirt? You look like you’ve murdered someone.’

‘Again?’ He laughed.

‘What? What? You haven’t?’ The Judge of old hadn’t joked – at least, not with her. Had he? She couldn’t remember things so clearly any more. She’d built up a whole story of her Little Duxbury life that had started and ended with everyone being horrid to her.

But what if that hadn’t been the case? What if she’d clouded some of her memories, piling feeling onto feeling until everything had just got so built up inside her that now she believed everyone had been horrible to her when that wasn’t the truth at all?

She looked at him again, smiling at his little joke. They were getting along quite well during the day. Which was a mini miracle all of its own. Night-times were still challenging, as he seemed to get grumpy as soon as it started to get dark. ‘You are joking? You haven’t actually murdered someone, have you?’

‘Of course not. I’d be in prison otherwise. Silly girl. What strange ideas you have.’

Takes one to know one. ‘So, the shirt?’

His eyes slowly moved from her face to where she was pointing. ‘Oh? What’s this? How did that happen?’

‘Clearly you missed your mouth. I’m assuming it’s food. Hoping…’

He sniffed some of the cloth. ‘I think it might be tomato sauce. Or soup.’

‘Not that out-of-date stuff I was going to throw away… at the back of the cupboard?’ She opened the microwave and found a puddle of red stuff in there, too. And yes, the plastic container was in the bin. ‘Midnight snack, was it?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He turned to go but his eyes darted to the cupboard above the fridge. ‘Oh. Now, do I…? Should I…? Have I forgotten something?’

‘Tablets! Of course. You superstar. I’d totally forgotten.’ Was Alzheimer’s catching? She reached up and retrieved the tablet box. ‘It’s Wednesday today. Hang on… What’s been going on here? There’s some missing.’

The Wednesday and Thursday boxes were empty. Her stomach lurched suddenly, like in the jolting lift at Baddermans as it started its quick descent. ‘Have you been helping yourself to them? I think you might have taken too many.’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I take any tablets? There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Hmmmm. When did you take them? Can you remember? More importantly, do you feel okay?’ Slightly panicking, she reached over and felt his wrist, searching for his pulse. She had no idea what it was supposed to be like. She’d just seen people do it on Grey’s Anatomy. Mind you, she’d seen a lot of medical procedures performed on Grey’s Anatomy and she wasn’t about to start trying any of them. Hip replacement? No problem – just lie down on the kitchen table.

All she could tell was that his pulse was a little fast compared to her own. But was that normal in an elderly man? ‘How do you feel? Weird? Faint?’ What other symptoms might he have? ‘A rash anywhere? Are you okay? Really? Do you feel okay?’

‘I’m fine.’ He shook his wrist away.

‘Well, you don’t look pale or anything, but what happens when those tablets kick in? You’ve had a double dose. Well, that’s… that’s also called an overdose. Blimey, I’m going to phone the doctor and see if we can get an appointment this morning.’

He frowned at her. ‘Stop fussing, I’m right as rain.’

‘Fussing? Fussing? You’ve taken too many tablets, Judge. It’s all I can do to stop myself phoning 999. I’m ringing the surgery for immediate advice. And I’m going to ask what the tablets are for, at any rate, seeing as there’s apparently nothing wrong with you. Why do you have a selection of pills if you’re perfectly fine?’ He wasn’t fine, she knew that. Everyone knew that. But the stress of a possible overdose was making her say and do the wrong things.

He, on the other hand, was quite calm and reasonably alert. ‘You know, you’re quite bossy at times.’

‘Good.’ She ushered him out of the room. ‘Get a different shirt on and meet me here in five minutes. I’ll call the surgery.’

And please, please be okay.

***

‘Judge Evans, are you happy for Emily to be here with you?’

The doctor was only doing his job, she supposed, but what a ridiculous question. ‘Given he walked in with me we can safely deduce he is.’

Dr Shepherd – yes, indeed, to her dismay this was the same doctor as twelve years ago – greyer, flabbier but just as efficient and slightly officious – leaned over to The Judge and raised his voice. ‘Eric, is it okay with you that Emily is here with you today?’

He doesn’t have a hearing problem, she wanted to say. But thought better of it. She didn’t think he’d take suggestions on behaviour from the woman who’d thrown up all over his shoes after he’d hauled her out of a ditch.

Eurgh. The memories were coming thick and fast, followed hot on their heels by mortification. Still, more than a decade later, she could ride over that, couldn’t she? She had to, for The Judge’s sake.

The Judge looked up from his close examination of his fingers and peered at Emily and smiled. Again. ‘This one? Here? Yes, why not? Let’s get on with it, I have things to do, man.’ They both breathed out a sigh of relief.

‘So, Emily rang and said you’d taken some tablets?’

Emily waited for The Judge to say something, anything, but he didn’t, so she bowled right on ahead. ‘I didn’t actually see him take them. I don’t know he took them for sure, but some are missing and he’s the only suspect. So, I need you to check him over. I’ve got the box here.’ She held out the evidence. ‘Exhibit one. You see Wednesday and Thursday are empty.’

The doctor looked at the empty compartments and nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I want to make sure he’s okay, obviously. But also, I’d like to know what the tablets are for and whether he needs them all. Is there anything to help him put on weight? And he’s been complaining about lower back pain. Actually, I’ve made a list –’

Dr Shepherd held up a hand. ‘Okay. One thing at a time. Taking an extra dose is nothing to worry about, but you were right to bring him in. I haven’t seen him for a while. Tamara usually just requests a repeat prescription.’

‘Well, I think he needs assessing.’

The doctor’s smile frayed at the edges. ‘It’s good that everyone in the family wants to be involved – but having this kind of conversation with each one of you separately will take its toll; particularly on me and all my other patients waiting for appointments.’

Feeling a little chastised, Emily grimaced. ‘Yes, I see. I’m sorry to bother you, but he did take too many tablets so I thought that might be a medical emergency. And, Tamara isn’t here and I’m feeling a little in the dark.’

‘It’s okay, Emily. I understand why you’re worried. But there’s no need to be. The orange pills are to help with the memory and he’s on a low dose – so taking too many of those won’t harm him. The white ones are just a mild diuretic. He’s been on them for years. He seems quite his normal self, no ill effects. Although he may spend a lot more time in the bathroom than normal today.’ Once he’d had a good prod of The Judge’s ankles he said, ‘Eric, I need to test your urine. Here’s a bottle, can you go and do a sample for me? Toilet’s across the corridor. I’ll call Angela in to give you a hand.’

‘No need. No need. I can manage perfectly well.’ The Judge took the bottle and shuffled to the door.

Emily waited until he was out of the way then couldn’t hold in her thoughts any longer. ‘Geez, he’s only sixty-nine. Look at him.’

‘It’s a nasty disease.’

‘Nasty? It’s bloody awful. It’s humiliating and cruel. I can’t get my head around it, to be honest. Most of the time he’s pleasantly confused but able to function. At night he’s been worse – it’s like a switch has been flicked. And I’m embarrassed to say, sometimes I feel as confused as him.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘And he looks dreadful. I barely recognised him. The hair’s not helping. I’m going to take him to the hairdresser’s after lunch.’

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