The Secret Art of Forgiveness by Louisa George

cockerel that woke her up at silly o’clock and the strangeness of her neighbour. But she didn’t. For some reason it all felt too much like hard work and she didn’t think he’d understand. What was it Tom had said? Being all New York and all. So she went with… ‘How’s work? Managing without me?’
    â€˜Just. Obviously the rate of winning accounts has dramatically dropped, but we’re coping. The beer launch went really well yesterday… thank you for asking.’
    â€˜Shit. Sorry. I clean forgot. It’s just… I feel so disconnected here.’ Her failures were stacking up and up. ‘I’m so glad it went well. Of course, it would, though… you’re brilliant at your job.’
    â€˜Gez has been working on the Kids First campaign, and HCH were asking about studio time.’
    â€˜I asked Gez to sort that out.’
    â€˜Sure. But you haven’t forwarded the meeting notes.’
    â€˜Oh? I did, didn’t I? Maybe they didn’t send? I’ll check. No, look, they’re still sitting in my outbox. Damn it. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out straight after this.’ She jotted it down on her to-do list just as a mum approached on the footpath pushing a very wide buggy containing triplet babies.
    Normally Emily wouldn’t have paid any attention but they were just too cute, three little peas in a pod, all dressed in matching little boy-sailor outfits. She had no idea how old they must be but they were definitely at that pre-crawling, but just interesting enough, stage. One was fast asleep, lolled a little to one side, but the other two were staring and smiling.
    She jumped up and dragged the table closer to make space for the pram to get through. ‘There you go. Oh, they are absolutely gorgeous. Lucky you. So cute.’
    â€˜Triple the trouble, triple the love,’ the mum answered, as if she’d said it a thousand times before, but still got a thrill from it. ‘Thanks.’
    Once they’d squeezed by Emily sat down again. ‘Sorry, Brett. I had to get out of the way –’
    â€˜Yes. Yes, I gathered. It’s all go in Little Duxton.’
    â€˜Little Dux bury . And it’s only because I’m outside. They were adorable babies.’
    â€˜So you just had to talk to them?’ There was a smile, but it was irritated.
    â€˜Everyone’s got time to stop and chat here, it seems. And it feels rude not to. Not like New York where no one looks you in the eye for fear of some kind of actual real communication.’
    â€˜You love New York.’ He sounded put out.
    â€˜Yes… yes, of course I do. You know I do. It’s just so… rushed, compared to here.’
    The irritation increased a fraction. ‘Your spiritual home, I think you called it when we were in the roof garden, drinking cocktails at sunset, looking across Manhattan. Exciting. Breathtaking.’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Yes, I adore it. That was a wonderful night.’ Their first real date, discounting the champagne-fuelled tumbling into bed. Their first real organised date, so sophisticated and glamorous. ‘This is just so different. Look at the views.’ She picked up her laptop and spun it round so he could see the rolling fields beyond the village and the thatched cottages by the green. The willow tree that dipped lazily into the stream, the sound of laughter. Birds. Actual birdsong. ‘Isn’t it lovely? And there’s the pub The Judge and I go to. It has great beer and a –’
    â€˜Yes,’ he interrupted. ‘Picture-postcard, honey. Very English.’
    â€˜I knew you’d like it.’ She was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Maybe we could come here to visit one day? I could show you the sights in person… which would take about three whole minutes. The rest of the day we could spend in the pub.’
    â€˜Or bed.’
    â€˜Yes… or bed.’ She gave him a coy smile