Chapter 8
Pippa
By the end of the shift, AJ Hodgson looks less like a journalist and more like a man who has been gently reversed over by professional development.
Not destroyed.
Annoyingly, not destroyed.
He has held up better than I expected. Not without several expressions that suggested he was briefly communing with his ancestors. But he listened, adjusted, asked sensible questions when he needed to and did not once pretend to understand something he didn’t.
That last part matters.
A lot of people would rather get something wrong than admit they’re lost in front of a crew they’re trying to impress.
AJ, for all his polished shoes and carefully trained voice, is not quite as stupid as I originally hoped he might be.
Which is inconvenient.
He stands near the bay doors now with his notebook under one arm and his own jacket back on, rubbing one hand over the opposite forearm as if checking whether all his limbs have made it through the day.
I sign off the last of the checks, hand Dan the clipboard, and walk over.
“You survived,” I say.
“Your warmth continues to overwhelm me.”
“You’ll recover.”
“I’m not certain I will.” He shifts his weight, then winces so quickly I almost miss it. “Actually, there is a strong chance I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
“You jogged, carried hose and did some basic drills.”
“And aged seven years.”
“You’ll get them back with sleep.”
His mouth twitches. Mine does not. Mostly because I am a professional and also because Kev is close enough and I don’t need this becoming group entertainment again.
AJ glances towards the yard. “Do I get any advice for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
He waits.
I pick up my bag from the bench. “Don’t be a baby.”
His eyes narrow. “That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
“I thought you weren’t joining in with that.”
“I waited until the end of shift. That shows restraint.”
He looks at me for a second, then laughs. Not a big laugh. Not one of his polished little remarks. A real, tired sound that slips out before he can dress it up.
It suits him.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. “Drink water tonight. Eat something decent. Stretch if you know how to do it without making it weird. You’ll ache, but you’ll live.”
“That sounded almost kind.”
“I said you’ll ache.”
“Still.”
I should leave then. It would be sensible. Clean ending to the day. Professional. Tidy.
Instead, for one unnecessary second, I look at him again.
His green eyes still sparkle despite his tiredness. His hair is flattened where the helmet has been, and the clean lines of his face make him seem less guarded than he did this morning. Less arranged. More present.
That might be the exhaustion.
I hope it is the exhaustion.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
He straightens a little, which he probably regrets immediately. “Tomorrow.”
I turn before either of us can say anything else, because there is no good reason to stand around any longer.
No good reason at all.
By the time I reach my car, I can hear Dan behind me saying, “Night, babyface,” and AJ replying something I don’t quite catch but which makes Kev laugh.
AJ appears in the station doorway a moment later, phone in one hand, bag over his shoulder, looking as if every step is a negotiation.
“Heading back to Carlisle?” I ask before I can decide not to.
He shakes his head. “B&B in Fellside. Marie Louise decided two weeks of driving back and forth would make me unbearable.”
“She thought you weren’t unbearable already?”
His mouth curves. “She likes to believe in potential.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Rose Cottage B&B.”
I nod before opening my car door. “Drink water. Eat something that isn’t crisps from a petrol station. Stretch.”
“Yes, Watch Manager,” he grins.
I get into the car before that smile can become any more of my problem.
Amanda and Nour live in a house that looks as if it has been designed by people who know where the spare batteries are.
From the outside, it is warm stone, white-framed windows and a front garden that always looks one weekend away from being under control.
There are two scooters by the wall, a pair of muddy children’s wellies near the step and a small painted sign on the door that says Welcome in Amanda’s careful lettering, with a red fire engine added in the corner by Jamie, complete with a ladder twice the size of the house and flames coming out of what I think is supposed to be the roof.
I remember when Amanda and Nour first moved here, newly married and full of plans, with Nour talking about opening a small gallery in Grasmere and Amanda pretending not to be terrified by how much she wanted the life they were building.
Back then, Jamie and Samantha were still more possibility than reality.
Now the house is full of evidence of the family they chose and built together.
It is one of the reasons I applied for the Fellside job when it came up.
Not the only reason. I wanted the post. I wanted the challenge. I wanted the chance to do the job somewhere it would matter.
But being closer to my big sister mattered too.
I would deny that under questioning.
Obviously.
Inside, the house is warm and tidy without being terrifying, full of small signs of family life even when the children aren’t there.
A school jumper hangs over the back of a chair.
A half-finished drawing sits on the sideboard.
A toy fire engine stands guard beside a fruit bowl, one plastic ladder raised as if the bananas are in immediate danger.
One of Jamie’s football boots is by the back door, and I make a mental note to ask whether it has a mate or whether this is now a decorative choice.
I follow Nour through to the kitchen, where Amanda is standing at the hob, stirring something that smells like garlic, tomatoes and the sort of dinner a person makes when they want to pretend it is casual even though they have clearly chopped things in advance.
My sister turns, wooden spoon in hand. “There she is. The woman of the hour.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’ve only just arrived.”
“I sensed tone.”
“You sensed correctly.” Amanda points the spoon at a chair. “Sit. Wine?”
“Yes.”
“Bad day?”
“No.”
“Good day?”
I take the glass Nour hands me and sit at the kitchen table. “Complicated day.”
“Tell me all.” Amanda turns back to the hob. “Jamie and Samantha are at Mum and Dad’s, nobody is going to ask for pasta with no sauce, and I have been promised the full story of the journalist in the fire station. I’m invested.”
“You need hobbies.”
“I have children. Hobbies are what I remember fondly from another life.”
Nour sits opposite me, chin propped on one hand. “Start at the beginning. Did he apologise?”
That is the problem with Nour. She owns a business, spends half her working life coaxing people into talking about why they’ve put a particular painting in a particular corner, and brings exactly the same calm, dangerous patience to family conversations.
“Yes,” I say.
Amanda looks over her shoulder. “Properly?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
Nour smiles. “What did he say?”
“That he was sorry for the article. For the framing. For putting those comments next to my appointment and not thinking about the connection readers would make.”
Amanda stops stirring for a second. She says, “That is annoyingly decent.”
“I know.”
“Did you accept?”
“I said I appreciated the apology.”
Amanda turns, spoon still in hand. “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
“I am capable of basic manners.”
“You once told a man at a community safety event that his question had managed to insult women, firefighters and common sense in under thirty seconds.”
Nour laughs softly into her glass.
I should probably stop there. But I don’t, because this is Amanda’s kitchen and I am off duty and the first glass of wine after a long shift always loosens the day from my shoulders before I remember to hold on.
So I tell them.
Not all of it. Not the moment in the locker room where we locked eyes. Not the way he went still when I helped him with the razor. Not the strange little pause between us before I stepped away.
Absolutely not that.
But I tell them about him arriving early, trying very hard not to look nervous, and the crew deciding almost immediately that his dignity had been overfunded.
I tell them about AJ pretending the kit was not heavy, about his face when Kev suggested a BA set, about the beard negotiation, about him suggesting Marie Louise as a possible route of appeal before realising she had sent him to us in the first place.
Amanda laughs so hard she has to put the spoon down.
“He wanted to call his editor?”
“He floated it as an option.”
“And you said?”
“I said she’d tell him to shave.”
Nour covers her mouth. “Did he?”
“He did not test the theory.”
“Wise man,” Amanda says.
“He has moments.”
The words come out before I think better of them.
Amanda turns.
Slowly.
I immediately regret being born with a sister.
“He has moments,” she repeats.
I look at my wine. “Most people do.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
Nour sits back, eyes bright. “Interesting.”
“Don’t make this a thing,” I sigh. Last thing I need is my sister and her wife dreaming up some matchmaking nightmare.
I exhale. “He held up better than I expected. That’s all.”
Nour’s smile softens at the edges. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It was an assessment.”
Amanda’s mouth opens.
I point at her. “Don’t.”
“I was only going to say assessment is what you call a compliment when you’re wearing steel-toe boots.”
Nour laughs, and I decide the wine is no longer my friend.
“He listened,” I say, because apparently I am defending him now, which is new and unwelcome. “That’s all. He listened, he didn’t push past instructions, and when I explained why the training mattered, he took it seriously.”
Amanda watches me with the kind of expression she used to wear when we were teenagers and I insisted I did not fancy someone despite knowing his timetable, favourite crisps and bus route.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“Amanda.”
“It’s just that you know an awful lot about a man you’ve only professionally challenged for one day.”
“I did not torture him.”
“I didn’t say torture.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m your sister. Of course I was thinking it. I know you.”
Nour lifts her glass. “For the record, I was also thinking it.”
“You are both extremely unsupportive.”
“We are very supportive,” Amanda says. “We’re supporting the truth.”
“The truth is that he is here because he made a mistake and now he has to understand the work we do.”
“And yet somehow, in one day, you have learned that he runs mountains, talks too much when he’s nervous, listens when it matters, takes correction better than expected, and has moments.”
I stare at her.
Nour’s smile widens. “That is quite a list.”
“It is a basic factual summary.”
“It is a character study,” Amanda says.
“I hate both of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Nour says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand briefly. “You moved counties to be nearer this level of irritation.”
“I moved for a promotion.”
Amanda’s smile turns smug. “You like us.”
“I tolerate you.”
Nour laughs, and for a moment the kitchen feels exactly like the reason I came.
Warm, irritating, familiar. Amanda at the hob.
Nour with one leg tucked under her, wedding ring catching the light when she lifts her glass.
Evidence of the children everywhere, even when they’re out of the house.
A family I did not build, but one I get to stand close to.
Then Amanda ruins it by saying, “So is he attractive?”
“No.”
Nour tilts her head.
I correct myself. “Objectively, yes. Subjectively, irrelevant.”
Amanda laughs. “That is the least convincing sentence you have ever said.”
“It’s perfectly convincing.”
“It sounds like it came from an HR policy written by someone having a breakdown.”
“He is here because he wrote an article that undermined me.”
“Subtly undermined you,” Amanda says. “We’ve covered this.”
“Yes, thank you. I was there.”
“And now he’s here learning not to do that again.”
“He is here for two weeks.”
“Long enough.”
“For what?”
Amanda gives me an innocent look. “Personal development.”
Nour picks up her wine. “Very immersive personal development.”
I lean back in my chair. “There is nothing happening.”
“Did anyone say there was?” Amanda asks.
“You’re implying it.”
“I’m your sister. Implying things is in the contract.”
I take a sip of wine and decide that, sisterly contract or not, Amanda is absolutely reading far too much into one exhausting day.