Heller’s Decision

Chapter 1

You’re rather a hefty lass, aren’t you? he grunted, the effort of maintaining my weight evenly across his shoulders bunching his straining muscles.

Hey! I’m not hefty, I’m just tall, I protested, my voice muffled into his shirt, clutching on to his hair so tightly he grimaced in pain. Everyone knows that tall women weigh a little more.

I said that not without some small measure of guilt. My evil, lying bathroom scales insisted I’d stacked on an unwanted five kilograms in the last few months, an unpalatable truth I wasn’t willing to swallow, even though apparently I’d been swallowing far too much of everything else lately.

My job as research assistant to one of the nation’s top TV stars often meant long hours and no time to exercise. But surely that couldn’t be considered my fault. The fact that there always seemed to be some sort of launch or celebration at the TV studio, with loads of food and booze on hand, didn’t help much either. And besides, didn’t a woman always put on a bit of weight when she was as loved-up as me? Not that I was thinking of my sexy Viking love god at this particular moment in time, perched precariously on a ladder high above the studio floor, now trusting in the broad shoulders and muscular arms of the man trying to rescue me – the very same shoulders and arms I’d surreptitiously admired only a short time ago.

It had all started so well. I’d been pleased with the line-up of stories I’d organised for Trent’s evening show. I’d planned four stories – a nice mix of celebrity scandal, weight loss, controversy and sex. We rotated the same topics so frequently I once joked to Trent that I should just use a dartboard of stories to pick which of them would feature on the next night’s show. We had no shortage of material and it wouldn’t make any difference to our loyal viewers.

Trent had smiled and patted me on the cheek. Predictability pays off, Tilly.

And who was I to argue? After all, Trent Dawson was host of People’s Pulse, one of the nation’s most regularly top rating shows. He knew a lot of viewers wanted nothing more than to watch fluffy infotainment after a hard day. And he reliably delivered, night after night.

We were in the studio pre-recording the stories for the night’s show. Trent would later provide live linking commentary between the stories when the show aired in the early evening, his usual practice. Everything was running smoothly so far and I watched from the sideline of the set in case Trent needed me for anything. As I did, I quietly cracked open my third can of high-energy drink. Long hours at work, combined with long hours in bed with Heller every evening, were taking their toll on me. I needed a little extra help in the form of a caffeine blast to make it through the day (and night).

I took advantage of a break after story one to dash on-set, barely dodging the steaming C-grade actor storming out of the studio in a huff after enduring an intrusive interview about his fourth drink-driving conviction. I informed Trent that the guests for his third story had arrived and were nervously waiting their turn before the cameras. Trent, never one to shy away from contention, had decided to do something rather risky with his third story – a discussion on animal rights bringing two opposing views together. In response, I’d managed to round up a fanatical animal activist and an animal trainer as his guests, virtually guaranteeing some heated words, stormy debate, and as Trent always hoped, higher ratings.

The animal trainer had brought along with him his gorgeous spider monkey, Pei Pei. The little monkey had costarred in a recent locally produced stinker of a children’s movie, Monkey Mobster. A morally ambivalent story at best, the plot revolved around the bond between a girl and the monkey her father rescued from an animal shelter, only to force the pair into petty thievery to earn him money. The monkey turned out to be the best actor in the whole cinematic disaster, outshining every other hammy performer with its rather menacing gangster act. But for some unfathomable reason, the trainer had decided today to dress Pei Pei in a frilly dress and miniature bonnet for its big appearance on Trent’s show.

They weren’t the only guests waiting in the wings. For the final story of the show – a puff piece – we’d brought in Warren and Chase, two firefighters also known as Mr April and Mr October. They’d been invited on to the show ostensibly to talk about fire safety in the kitchen, but really to advertise their ‘Firefighters on Fire’ calendar, each month decorated with a picture of a sizzling hot, half-naked firefighter doing interesting things with his, er . . . hose. I’d campaigned with Trent to include them in the show, fed up with all the bra and bikini stories we’d been running over the last few months. It was time to give the female viewers a treat.

After delivering my message to Trent, to my horror I returned off-set to find Pei Pei greedily sculling the energy drink I’d carelessly left sitting on a chair. I guiltily looked around me, but nobody else had noticed. Trent was checking himself out in a small mirror, perfecting his hair; Pei Pei’s trainer was taking a phone call, his back to us; the animal activist was having more face powder applied, his eyes shut; and the firefighters were casually chatting to each other.

"No! I whispered fiercely to the little monkey. Naughty Pei Pei. Give it back."

The monkey looked up at me, spun around and chugged some more drink. I crept over and tried to snatch the can from its paws before anyone spotted us. It yanked back, its paws clasped firmly around the can. I tugged harder. We stared at each other, both of us recognising an adversary when we saw one. It pulled back on the can again. I did as well. And though I acknowledge it’s fairly undignified to struggle with a monkey, I had to admit to a small thrill of victory as eventually my superior strength prevailed and I regained ownership of the can. Pei Pei scampered over to its trainer, shooting me an unhappy, mutinous glance over its shoulder.

I shook the can, realising with dismay that it was now almost empty. Oh dear. I knew next to nothing about spider monkeys, but I could bet that energy drinks weren’t an ideal nutritional choice for them.

I dithered over whether I should confess to Brady, the show’s producer. I still hadn’t learnt if Brady was his first or last name, and I wasn’t going to be the one to ask him either. A sour, monolithic man with bad dress sense, he hadn’t cracked one smile the whole time I’d worked there. He also had an annoying gum-chewing habit that drove me nuts every single day. Not to mention that for some questionable reason, he’d taken an instant dislike to me. But before I could make up my mind whether to brave it and tell him or not, Trent wrapped up the second story (a video interview with the ‘CEO’ of some spurious miracle slimming tea company – hmm, mental note to self to look into that product) and it was time to start filming the next story.

Viv, the production assistant, ushered the two guests to the set to sit at the desk, either side of Trent, wasting a few minutes fussing around them. I opened my mouth to say something to Brady, but he dismissively cut his hand through the air, signalling I should shut up, as filming was about to recommence. So I shut up and stood off to the side, watching nervously.

Though Trent tried his hardest to keep it lighthearted, the discussion quickly degenerated. Seamus, the animal activist, a very large man with an unhealthily red face and an unpleasant sweating problem, was aggressive from the start. Julian, the animal trainer, small and earnest, was instantly defensive. They argued bitterly over the ethics of training wild animals for entertainment purposes, talking over the top of each other, neither willing to listen. Julian insisted that Pei Pei was well treated, to which Seamus responded by calling him a cruel, exploitative monster.

Gentlemen, admonished Trent gently, though secretly enjoying the acrimony and toting up ratings numbers in his head. Despite this, I noticed him discreetly pushing the button located on the underside of his desk. This alerted Viv to his desire to have some station security on hand in case things grew out of control. I only hoped it wouldn’t be one of the meathead security men I had to pass every day on my entrance to the station who came to assist. They had about as much love for me as a supermodel did for a double cheeseburger.

I hovered anxiously off-camera, biting my nails and hoping everything was going to be okay. A vain hope, as it turned out.

Seamus railed again, repeatedly pointing his finger in Julian’s direction. And I cannot believe you called this beautiful monkey Pee Pee. How degrading. It just shows how little respect you have for animals.

It’s not Pee Pee! spat Julian. "If you were paying any attention at all instead of wallowing in your self-righteousness, you’d have noticed that it’s pronounced pay pay. It’s a beautiful Chinese name, you culturally insensitive ignoramus."

Seamus snorted in derision. Ha! You’re the one who’s culturally insensitive. Don’t you even know that spider monkeys come from Central and South America? Why did you give it a Chinese name, you fool?

"She’s not an it, she’s a she!"

Gentlemen, gentlemen, interceded Trent again, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He probably hoped one man would take a swing at the other. There’s nothing quite like a spot of fighting on TV to set tongues wagging the next day.

Personally, I didn’t care about the others – I kept my eyes on Pei Pei. She sat quietly in Julian’s lap, her huge, soulful eyes moving back and forth between the verbal combatants. Julian didn’t notice at first, too busy arguing his point, but Pei Pei became increasingly fidgety – craning her head to look all around her, tugging on the buttons of Julian’s shirt, pulling up her dress to show her disposable nappy. Still in heated debate, Julian distractedly smoothed her dress back down again without breaking his train of argument.

Show me evidence my lovely monkey’s not happy, he demanded.

Seamus snorted again. He had an amazing collection of snorts. "Why don’t we ask her? Oh, that’s right, we can’t because she’s an animal, unable to speak up when she’s being mistreated."

"I do not mistreat my animals!"

Animals? Seamus appealed to Trent. You heard him. He’s not content with confining just one wild animal; apparently he has a whole bloody menagerie in his house! All of them trapped in an unnatural environment, forced to wear stupid, demeaning outfits.

Pei Pei’s outfit is not demeaning – it’s extremely tasteful! My wife made it herself.

Then your wife is as big a fool as you are, and an even bigger fashion disaster.

Julian half-rose from his seat, clutching Pei Pei. Don’t you dare bring my wife into this, you self-important walrus.

Gentlemen . . . Trent tried again. Julian lowered his butt, still glowering at Seamus.

Sensing the tension in the room, Pei Pei’s own agitation skyrocketed. She stood in Julian’s lap and climbed up his torso to sit on his shoulder. It was only then that he gave her his full attention.

He patted his lap. Come sit down, Pei Pei.

She ignored him, climbing on to his head, pulling at strands of his hair. Impatience flickered across his face. He reached up to pat her a couple of times and then patted his lap again. Sit down, Pei Pei. Be a good girl.

She screeched at him and leapt across to land on Trent, clawing on to his suit jacket. He screeched himself, startled by her sudden move and trying to recoil from the clingy monkey. But Pei Pei had other ideas, scampering up on to his head. She rested there, eyes darting around the studio, blinking in the bright lights.

Trent laughed nervously and shot Julian a significant glance that clearly messaged, get this frigging monkey off my head. He threw a fake smile at the TV camera and gave an even faker chuckle. Never work with animals, folks. Always unpredictable.

But when Pei Pei began to comb her fingers through his hair, thoroughly messing up his carefully coiffed locks, Trent’s fake smile faded into an unimpressed frown.

"Can someone please remove the monkey? he demanded in a low voice, gritting his teeth together. And we’re going to edit this out, right?"

Horribly embarrassed, his face flushing, Julian jumped up to retrieve her. He called her name in a soothing tone. Pei Pei barked at him like a dog. He reeled back in shock. Pei Pei!

What’s that mean? asked Trent, desperately trying to keep his head still while the little monkey twisted and turned on it, scrutinising everyone, her hands firmly tangled in his hair.

It’s a defensive noise, Julian explained, concern puckering his brows. His voice became sterner. Pei Pei, come here now. You’re being a very naughty girl.

Pei Pei barked at him twice, her voice rising.

I don’t know what’s got into her today, Julian fretted. It’s not like her. She’s usually so well-behaved.

She’s probably sick of having to wear those ridiculous clothes, sniffed Seamus.

Will you just shut up? snapped Julian, clearly stressed and at the end of his tether by the whole situation.

Can you get it off my head? Trent repeated, hissing tersely.

She’s a she, not an it, huffed Julian again, holding his arms out for Pei Pei. She refused to go to him, clamping her fingers further into Trent’s hair, and pulling back on it as if she was reining in a horse. His grimace and small yelp suggested it hurt more than a little.

Trent started to lose it. Get this fucking creature off my head now!

Maybe offended at being called that, Pei Pei leaned down so that she was looking at Trent upside down. She stuck her fingers up his nostrils. Surprised, Trent pushed his wheeled seat backwards causing it to spin. The sudden movement excited Pei Pei and she danced on Trent’s head, her fingers jammed into his nostrils like a bowling ball, rummaging around inside.

With Trent shrieking in pain and not knowing what to do, I glanced around, catching Brady’s eye. He glared at me balefully, working the gum in his mouth, as though I was somehow responsible for the mayhem. Pushing aside the guilty thought that I was a teeny bit responsible, I fumed. Just because a few little, minor, unimportant, uninteresting ‘incidents’ had occurred since I’d started working with Trent, Brady now blamed me for everything.

After all, I hadn’t meant to set off the fire alarm in the middle of a live broadcast on one of the rare evenings we had a studio audience, creating a mass panicked stampede to the exit. And I hadn’t planned on being caught on camera on my knees in front of Trent, my head bobbing towards and obscuring his groin as I desperately tried to fix the zip on his trousers before the show started. It had been an entirely innocent situation and I couldn’t help it if some people had dirty minds – particularly those three hundred and thirty-seven outraged people who’d immediately rung the station to complain. Trent had laughed off that particular occasion, but I hadn’t missed the slight frown of worry creasing his forehead.

Avoiding Brady’s accusing eyes, I spotted the near-empty energy drink can sitting abandoned on a chair like a beacon of guilt. Oh shit! I had to get rid of that evidence before anyone noticed, especially him.

I edged over to the chair just as Julian edged closer to Pei Pei, intending to snatch her off Trent’s head, where she continued to cling tightly.

Keep your head still, Julian instructed Trent as he reached his hands over at a snail’s pace, ready to grasp Pei Pei around her tiny body.

Checking over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching me, in my haste to reach the drink can I tripped over a power cord lying neatly coiled on the floor. I stumbled wildly forward, hands out in panic, running headlong into a spare spotlight. It crashed heavily to the floor, the loud noise reverberating around the studio.

Pei Pei, frightened by the sound, bolted from Trent’s head, ripping at his nose on the way. She jumped hard on to Seamus’ stomach, an emphatic oomph gushing from his mouth. He jerked back in his chair in horror and it tipped over, spilling his large mass on to the floor.

Pei Pei! shouted Julian, lurching over to grab her. She evaded his grasp and shimmied up the nearest piece of stage rigging. There she perched far above our heads on a steel beam, barking down at us.

Trent sat dazed at his desk, his hair a mess, blood dripping from his nostrils on to his impeccably tailored white shirt. Seamus floundered on the floor, trying to right himself. Julian stared up in horror at his monkey.

Brady turned to me, still flat on the ground tangled in the spotlight and power cord, his eyes cold. His mouth twisted with dislike. I just knew this would have something to do with you.

Pei Pei, wailed Julian, wringing his hands in despair, craning his head back so he could peer up at her. She nimbly scampered back and forth across the beam, stopping at the end of each run to stand up, bark and screech.

Viv held a terse and brief conversation with Brady, ending with that man’s curt, dismissive head shake. It appeared as if he refused to cut the cameras, obviously smelling a ratings landslide, even at the cost of Trent’s embarrassment. So poor Viv crept into the line of the camera over to Trent, who sat staring at his bloodied fingers in disbelief. She handed him a wad of tissues, then went to the rescue of Seamus. That large man was slippery with sweat under the hot lights and as she yanked on his arm, she suddenly cried out with pain. My back! Oh God! I’ve just done my back in.

Someone get up there and rescue Pei Pei, demanded a tearful Julian. I would, but I’m afraid of heights.

Nobody rushed to volunteer.

Don’t look at me, snapped Trent, holding the tissues to his nose.

Can’t. I have a dodgy knee, said Brady, totally uninterested.

Viv clutched her back, agony imprinted on her face. She wasn’t going to step forward. Neither was Seamus, who’d at least managed to roll himself over and push himself up on to his hands and knees.

One of the camera crew had his wrist in a cast and the other was seven months pregnant.

I glanced around the studio for the two firefighters, but they’d wandered off at some stage, perhaps to get a coffee before they were on. With doomed resignation, I struggled to my feet and dusted myself off.

I guess I’ll have to be the one to try, I sighed, but I held no particularly optimistic hopes about how all this was going to end.

Chapter 2

I assessed the tiny iron ladder situated to the side of the permanent studio rigging with a heart not just sinking, but also drowning. There was barely space for one foot on each rung. You’d have to be a monkey reincarnated to human form to gain any enjoyment from climbing that thing. I turned around to see if anyone would dissuade me from this rather insane activity. Nope. Nobody.

I placed my foot on the first rung and tested my weight on it. It creaked ominously. Geez, maybe I did need to lay off the snacks a little.

How old is this rigging? I threw back over my shoulder to anyone who’d listen.

Brady shrugged, his jaw moving languidly from side to side. The station’s been using this studio for twenty-five years. Never had any issues with it before. I’m sure it’s fine.

Get my Pei Pei down, entreated Julian.

Okay. Geez, I grumbled under my breath, carefully placing my other foot on the second rung. What do you think I’m trying to do? I’m not doing this for fun, you know. I climbed higher. In my opinion, people should look after their own stupid monkeys and not send innocent young women up into the stratosphere to imperil their lives.

The ladder made a strange squealing sound, which I echoed in fear.

Put on the safety harness first, Tilly, advised Trent, the tissues muffling his voice. And Brady, for God’s sake, turn that fu . . . that darn camera off. Trent smiled weakly into the camera, always the professional, even with a tissue stuffed up each nostril.

I’m not missing this, Brady snapped back at him. It’s ratings gold.

Trent shot him a glance loaded with loathing, promising that the debriefing session after the show was going to be particularly fiery tonight. The two men had a reputation for not seeing eye to eye on a lot of things such as . . . well, everything really.

I searched the studio fruitlessly. Where’s this harness?

Trent pointed over to a tangle of nylon straps hanging from a hook and connected by a wire to one of the ceiling beams. After five minutes of puzzlement, and with Brady growling out impatient directions, I managed to figure out how to put it on. I slipped my legs into the lower loops and fixed the other loops over my shoulders, clipping up the clasp across my chest.

This isn’t very comfortable, I whined, not happy at how the crotch-hugging, butt-cupping straps forced my short skirt to ride up my thighs. I squirmed around trying to adjust it to a more modest length, a difficult task as it was a rather teeny skirt and hadn’t been particularly modest to start with. Let’s just say that I was showing off a whole lot of leg.

Better to be safe than comfortable, intoned Trent with muffled piousness. We wouldn’t want anything happening to you.

Well, don’t send me climbing up some rigging chasing a frigging monkey, I muttered darkly under my breath again.

Securely fastened in the harness, I recommenced my ascent up the dodgy ladder.

Pei Pei, I coaxed in a singsong voice, stepping higher and higher. Come to Aunty Tilly. That’s a good girl.

She sat on the beam staring down at me in bemusement, her head angled to the side, as if she couldn’t quite work out what I was doing up here in her neighbourhood. I climbed a few steps higher, trying not to look down at the ground as I did.

Come on, I said, daring to stretch out one of my hands to her, holding tightly to the ladder with my other.

Pei Pei scampered over to me, leaned over to look at my hand and then, insulted that it didn’t hold any sort of treat for her, sank her teeth into the fleshy part of my palm.

Hey! That’s not nice! I squealed in pain. Pei Pei barked at me and scampered back to the far side of the beam. Get back here, you horrible little monkey. You need a good talking to, young lady. You just can’t go around biting people.

With impotent futility, I reached as far as I could towards her, but didn’t even come close to being able to grab her. The ladder screeched again and with an indescribable tearing noise, the rung I stood on collapsed underneath me. Alarmed, I leaned over to grasp the beam, when the rung under my other foot also collapsed, leaving me dangling with no foothold, clinging on to the beam.

"Shit! Someone help me!" I screamed down at the small group of people watching me from the safety of the ground. In desperation, I thrashed my legs out in all directions, trying to locate something, anything, to stand on.

Trent jumped up from his seat and searched around him frantically. Someone find something to put under her!

Not caring for my rather precarious situation, I made a valiant effort to pull myself upwards with my arms, cursing my lack of exercise over the last few months, especially my lack of chin-ups. With some extremely unladylike grunts and inelegant moves, I managed to swing one leg high enough to throw over the beam, wishing again that I hadn’t worn such a tiny skirt today. To be fair to myself, I hadn’t expected to end up flashing my underwear at work, but there was no denying that those on the ground were copping an extended view of some of my skimpiest underwear, a pair of panties that barely covered my most important bits. Why on earth didn’t I wear sensible undies today? I despaired silently.

When I’d worked for Heller as a security officer, I’d always worn practical, comfortable underwear, not knowing what would be in store for me on each job. But since working for Trent, I’d become a little riskier with my choices. I suppose that was bound to happen when you’re screwing a man like Heller, a man more than a little appreciative of sexy lingerie. But sometimes lingerie like that didn’t survive his appreciation for long. Sometimes he was so impatient to remove those flimsy scraps of delicate lace, silk and gauze, they tore under his strong, demanding fingers. One night, gazing in sorrow at yet another pair of shredded panties, I’d queried the extravagance of him having to replace such expensive lacy nothings so regularly. He’d merely laid back in bed, crossed his arms behind his head, half-smiled in that lazy way of his, and drawled that it was worth every single dollar to him. Then he’d pulled me towards him, proceeding to demonstrate very thoroughly again exactly how much he thought it was worth. And by the end of that lovemaking session, I could only agree with him that sex that good was worth any amount of money.

Realising that now was probably not the most appropriate time to be fantasising about Heller, after much adjustment and wriggling around, I found myself lying prone on top of the beam, hugging it with my arms and legs with great neediness like a . . . well, like a monkey, I guess. Except that the real monkey sky high up here with me wasn’t clinging to anything. Instead, she danced up and down on the beam, supremely confident in her balance and skills. She scampered up close to examine me and plucked at my hair before scuttling back to the far end again.

Be careful up there, Pei Pei, shouted Julian in concern.

Oh gee, thanks, I snarked to myself. Don’t worry about me at all.

Tilly, are you all right? asked Trent, craning his neck to look up at me.

No, I’m not, I squeaked, trying not to panic. I’m stuck up here. That ladder’s falling apart. It’s not safe to use.

There’s one on the other side of the beam. Can you make it over there?

I’ll try. I shuffled forward on my belly across the beam, not making much progress, but managing to drag my skirt even higher up my thighs. At this stage I was beyond caring about whether anyone could see my panties. I just wanted to be back safely on the ground.

Don’t be afraid. You have the harness, remember?

I’m sorry, but after seeing how that ladder collapsed under me, I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m suffering a small crisis of faith in the integrity of this harness!

You’ll be fine, Trent assured unconvincingly.

I inched forward again, still clinging to the beam. Pei Pei decided that what I was doing looked like a lot of fun. Without any warning, she sprang on to my back for a free ride, jolting a very loud and rude word from my mouth. I sure hoped Brady had stopped filming, because my mother was a regular viewer of People’s Pulse. I didn’t think she’d yet acknowledged that her only daughter, her baby, could be a little mouthy on occasion. Pei Pei gripped handfuls of my hair and yanked on them, all the while jumping up and down on my back.

Ow! Pei Pei, stop pulling my hair! I squawked. You are the naughtiest monkey I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. And considering that she was the only monkey I’d ever met, my standards for exemplary simian behaviour hadn’t been set particularly high in the first place.

As if she could understand my words (and who knew, maybe she could – I’ll admit my knowledge of spider monkeys would barely fill a thimble), my scolding enraged her. Fuelled by her caffeine high, she screeched and danced on my back, wrenching on my hair. It was the worst – the only – monkey tantrum I’d ever experienced.

"Pei Pei! Stop that!" yelled Julian sternly.

It worked for a minute, Pei Pei halting her tantrum and peeping down at her trainer, her fingers still gnarled in my hair. But then she barked again and leapt on to my head, leaning down to cover my eyes with her paws. Oh, just great! I was too afraid to let go of the beam to prise them away, so lay there, scared and now blinded.

What the hell’s going on here? called up a different voice that I recognised as belonging to one of the firefighters. We go away for a few minutes and now there’s a woman stuck up in the air in her panties.

And my monkey, wailed Julian. My Pei Pei’s stuck up there too.

I’m wearing a skirt! I insisted hotly, worrying about just how much of my undies were now showing and really, really hoping Brady had turned off the camera. It’s just ridden up a bit.

Can you guys rescue Tilly? asked Trent. You’re firemen, after all. Isn’t that kind of your job?

I don’t need rescuing. I just need some . . . assistance. That’s all, my voice floated down to them from above, like some rather inept angel who’d fallen from the sky and managed to get herself caught on a steel beam on the way down. With a monkey on her back. And her undies on display.

Someone, who I presumed was one of the firefighters, strode purposefully across the studio floor. I secretly hoped it would be Mr October to the rescue – he was really cute. But then I heard noises indicating he was about to scale the very ladder that had failed me so badly.

"Not that one!" I joined another five voices in simultaneously shouting out the warning to him.

That one’s broken, Trent explained.

Footsteps moved over to the other side and noises came to me of someone skillfully and swiftly ascending the other ladder.

Keep sliding over to me and I can help you to the ladder, instructed one of the firefighters, and it was Mr April. We met before. My name’s Warren. You’re Tilly, aren’t you?

Yes. And I’m sorry, Warren, but it’s a little tricky for me to move at the moment. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I have a very badly-behaved monkey covering my eyes and I’m kind of afraid to move while I can’t see.

Hey, monkey! he demanded, his voice authoritative, demanding to be heard. Stop harassing the poor lady and go back to your trainer. Now.

Pei Pei freed my eyes and sat up on my head on full alert, all of her attention directed towards Warren. She abandoned me to scamper to the end of the beam, her head on one side, observing the firefighter on the ladder with curiosity. I wasted no time to scoot to the end of the beam on my tummy to join her.

Good work, Tilly, soothed Warren. Now comes the tricky bit. You need to reach your left foot down to me and I’ll help it to the ladder, so come as close to the end of the beam as you can.

As Pei Pei refused to budge, I wasn’t able to move right to the end, forced instead to stretch one leg out towards the ladder from where I was. Warren clasped my calf and guided my foot to a rung higher than the one on which he currently stood. I spent an uncomfortable minute or so split, with one leg straining to touch the rung, the other still wrapped around the beam.

You’re doing great, Warren said when my foot secured its position on the rung. He spoke in such a warm, comforting voice, I wondered if he was the one they sent out to coax people down from high ledges. Lean down and grasp the ladder with your left hand. When you’ve done that, reach out your right hand to me. I’m going to hold it and help it to the ladder too. You won’t fall because you’ll have hold of the ladder and I’ll be holding your other hand. Do you understand what I’m saying?

I nodded, barely able to articulate even a squeak.

Okay, so when you’re safely holding the ladder and your other hand is in mine, you’re going to unwrap your right leg from the beam and I’ll assist you to the ladder with it as well. Remember you’ll be holding on to something at all times, so don’t be afraid. You won’t fall. But you have to keep your foot on the rung at all times.

Are you sure about this? I asked faintly, perturbed. Frankly, it all sounded a little too complicated, coordinated and acrobatic for me to ever accomplish successfully.

He didn’t respond, not pandering to my well-deserved doubts. But then he didn’t know my limits as well as I did. I hung down, stretching out my hand towards the ladder, my fingers eventually closing around the rusting metal of its strut, my right arm and leg