Louisa George - The Secret Art of Forgiveness - A feel good romance about coming home and moving on

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.’