The Secret Art of Forgiveness

  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 poster
s, 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…’