The Present. Charlotte Phillips

drawing soft lines in the dust that coated its polished surface. There had been a small creak, but nothing serious, it was obviously going to hold, so she relaxed and lunged forward.

      The room disappeared from view in a cloud of dust and plaster as she plummeted through the attic floor with a yell and a splintering crash.

      As the dust cleared, she could see the box, still sitting smugly just out of reach in the dusty corner. While she was now stuck waist deep in the floor. Unless she could muster up some kind of help she would most likely still be here come teatime. Gran had been in hospital for a week, and Rod wouldn’t miss her for hours yet, not until he arrived home from work on the dot of seven and wondered where – her mind automatically scrolled through their weekly meal plan – the chicken stir-fry was.

      What the hell was she doing thinking about food? She must be in shock. Mentally slapping herself, she suddenly remembered Gran’s handyman, last seen half an hour ago through the window as she climbed past it on her way up the loft ladder, outside shoring up the garden fence. Not her first choice of rescuer. With a build like Tom Hardy and a trail of adoring girlfriends in his wake, Jack Marchant was perfect for admiring from afar while smugly knowing you’d bet on the safe and dependable option who would never break your heart. Gran was forever gossiping about Jack’s latest conquests. Having bet on the safe option however, didn’t make it palatable to look a total numpty in front of the hot option, and so she did a quick mental run-through of all her other choices, of which there really were none. The joist she was leaning on gave a warning creak, and, discarding her pride, she gathered all her strength together, took a deep, dusty breath, and yelled at the top of her voice.

      ‘HELP!’

      She waited and listened. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but another creaky, splintering sound as she shifted her weight a little against the joist. The unpleasant fact crossed her mind that she could probably shout as long and as hard as she wanted to, but she might still be stuck fast for hours. She opened her mouth to yell again, this time adding in some real top-of-the-lungs volume, just as Jack Marchant’s head and shoulders appeared through the loft hatch. He had tousled dark hair, strong cheekbones, and eyes that crinkled a little at the corners, as if there was the slightest amusing thing about her current situation. It was too late to stop the yell, and he screwed his face up as it echoed through the attic. Even her own ears rang with the force of it.

      ‘I’m not sure they heard that in Central London,’ he said, pulling himself up easily and sitting on the edge of the hatch.

      She made an apologetic face.

      ‘Sorry. I went for full volume because I thought I’d be stuck here for ever.’ Her face felt hot underneath its coating of plaster dust. He looked as if he’d walked off a film set, with his tool belt and his work-shirted broad shoulders, and she suddenly felt very stupid, buried in the floor. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to turn up in the first two minutes. What are you, a superhero?’

      He winked at her.

      ‘I could be.’

      For goodness’ sake.

      ‘I also do gardens and building care. I just save the world in my spare time.’

      She stared at him, and he grinned back at her.

      ‘I came in from the garden to fix that dodgy window in the kitchen, so I could hear you crashing through the floor.’

      He made it sound as if she were a baby elephant.

      ‘You need to keep your feet on the joists, or make sure you stay on the boards at that end.’ He jerked a thumb to the other end of the loft where the lifetime’s worth of clutter was piled up.

      ‘I know that,’ she said, nettled. ‘I’m not a complete idiot. There’s a box over there in the corner, balanced on that joist. I was trying to snag that. I honestly thought that if I was careful there wouldn’t be a problem.’

      ‘Without the boards put across, these places just aren’t made to bear that kind of weight.’

      Losing patience with the general implications that she was heavy, which he was doing absolutely nothing to dispel, she made another futile attempt to pull herself up, struggling to free her legs. Bits of wood and plaster splintered and chipped, and something gave underneath her, making her squawk in fright.

      ‘Stay still for heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘The whole thing could go at any moment.’

      He stood up quickly, and balanced on the joists, his head bent to avoid the ceiling.

      ‘If you’re trying to get me to stay calm, you need to work harder,’ she squeaked.

      ‘Just don’t bloody move, and you’ll be fine,’ he said, moving carefully, keeping his feet on the cross-joints.

      ‘Do you think you can get me out of here?’ She could hear the edge of panic in her voice. ‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’

      He nodded.

      ‘’Course I can. Just let me work out how best to do it.’

      ‘I’m Lucy.’

      ‘I know,’ he said. He walked around her, effortlessly sizing up the situation. She looked up at him from the floor feeling totally foolish. ‘Your gran talks about you all the time.’

      Oh, just bloody great. She hadn’t considered that gossip worked both ways. Lucy could just imagine Gran making him a brew and forcing home-made cake on him while she held up his work, chatting non-stop about her granddaughter. She closed her eyes briefly. She badly needed to get her head around the idea of Gran no longer being formidable and full of energy. Her soldier-on façade had been so effective that Lucy had continued to think of her as managing perfectly well for far too long. This most recent fall had made that glaringly clear.

      ‘I’ve seen you around, obviously,’ she said.

      Obviously. He was pretty hard to miss, with his super-fit physique and jeans-and-work-boots combo. As he worked in the daytime and Lucy was generally around more in the evenings, there hadn’t been much opportunity to say much more than a quick hello, but she’d been increasingly aware of his presence over the last year or two. Another sign that Gran, a keen gardener herself, was doing less while he was doing more. Another sign that Lucy should have stepped in earlier.

      ‘Grab onto me and I’ll haul you up,’ he said, at last, bracing his feet on the joists and leaning forward. Before she could suggest any alternative, possibly one that didn’t involve him being in her personal space, he slid one muscular arm around her waist and snapped away bits of broken wood with his free hand. Her face was pressed briefly into the soft fabric of his shirt. He smelled of wood and furniture oil and warm skin. She clutched at his shoulder as he started to pull her. If he happened to let go now she would go straight through the floor.

      ‘I’m not going to let you fall, okay?’

      There were splintering and scraping sounds as he pulled her up, and then suddenly she was blissfully free of the floor. He placed her down carefully, making sure she put her feet on the joists. She noticed he didn’t rush to take his arm away, supporting her as she found her footing.

      ‘Are you hurt?’

      The right leg of her jeans had a long and ragged rip in it, and her knee throbbed a bit. He crouched and examined her leg gently.

      ‘Well, there’s my pride …’ she said.

      He looked up at her and gave a half-smile, which to a different girl in different circumstances might have been heart-melting, but in her case could only be interpreted as sympathetic. There was dust in her hair, dirt smeared on her clothes, and he’d just seen her at possibly her most undignified.

      ‘You’ve got quite a graze there,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’ll need sorting out. Let’s get you downstairs.’

      ‘So you do medical treatment too?’ she said, batting his arm away as he tried to help her across the attic and back to the hatch. ‘I can do it, I’m fine.’