by Eleanor Ray
Amy sat, feeling like a chocolate-covered child having her face wiped by her grandmother, while Joanna fussed around her. ‘There,’ Joanna said eventually, standing back and admiring her work. ‘Not bad at all. You have beautiful skin. You’ll only need a very light foundation once that bruise has healed.’
She handed Amy a mirror and Amy inspected her face. Her eye looked a little puffy, but it was nothing that a bit of water retention and a bad night’s sleep couldn’t explain. The bruise itself was gone, hidden beneath a mountain of concealer. Her cheeks looked flushed, as if she’d been for a run.
‘I’d love to get some eyeliner on you, bring out those beautiful grey eyes, but it’s probably not a good idea right now. Come back and see me when it’s healed and I’ll do a proper makeover.’
‘Excellent work,’ said Amy, politely. ‘It will do nicely.’
Joanna smiled at the compliment, then took Amy’s hand. Amy waited to see what she’d apply. But instead she just squeezed it.
‘If you need anything else, you just need to ask me,’ she said, looking straight into Amy’s eyes.
‘Thank you,’ replied Amy. ‘But you’ve done a great job.’
‘Anything at all,’ added Joanna, with her hands still holding Amy’s. ‘My cousin . . . ’
Amy took her hand away. Why couldn’t anyone mind their own business? ‘Where’s the till?’ she asked. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
Joanna gestured to the front of the shop. ‘It’s three for two on make-up,’ she added, with her business voice again. ‘If you want to get the blusher too.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I’d recommend arnica, to help the healing.’
Amy waited in the queue, clutching her foundation, concealer, a small tub of arnica and the pale pink blusher. It sparkled like powdered gemstones under the fluorescent lights.
As Amy entered the office, she had a sudden urge to turn around and go home again. She could call in sick. Although she’d eaten nothing but a small bag of Hula Hoops once she came to last night, it wasn’t just her eye that hurt. She felt sick to her stomach.
She couldn’t skip work, she decided. In all the years Amy had been an administrator, she’d barely ever called in sick. Except for when it happened, of course, and she didn’t count that. Sometimes, perhaps she should have stayed at home. She still remembered the rather unpleasant train ride into the office the day after she’d experimented with some discounted shrimp from the station deli. That was a day that should have been spent within easier reach of a toilet.
Amy made her way to the kitchen. The smell of sour coffee from the machine was making her stomach worse, and a cup of the stuff would do her no favours. She perused the teabag selection and chose an organic-looking bag of chamomile tea.
‘Bright and early again, Amy.’ Trevor Trapper smiled at her as he came into the kitchen. He said that every morning, and had done for the past seventeen years. Amy passed him his favourite mug, a large white one that even Amy didn’t care for. It declared his support for Nottingham Forest Football Club. He took the mug then frowned. ‘Not having your usual coffee this morning?’ he asked, looking at her selection.
‘I’m feeling a little under the weather,’ replied Amy, hoping he wouldn’t notice her eye. ‘I thought a chamomile tea might be softer on the stomach.’
‘Ah, yes. You do look a little . . . Mrs Trapper swears by the stuff when it’s her time of the . . . ’ He paused and suddenly seemed very interested in the inside of his mug. ‘Let me know when the papers come in from the Apex family,’ he said, over the whirr of the coffee machine as it spat out foam for his cappuccino. ‘I’d like to deal with that estate personally.’
‘Of course, Mr Trapper,’ replied Amy.
She took her tea to her desk and settled down, the pile of post in front of her. Most of her communications were by email now, but physical documents still played a large role in this financial advice firm. She’d had the same swivel chair since she’d started here, and years of sitting in it meant the contours perfectly matched the shape of her body. She was determined not to keep any of her treasures at work, tempting as it was to make use of extra storage space. Instead she kept her desk neat, tidy and anonymous. She didn’t even have a special mug in the office, choosing whichever of the generic office mugs happened to be free. Colleagues had adorned their workstations with pictures of children, partners and holidays, but Amy didn’t have anyone to put there. Not any more. She could put a picture of Scarlett up, but she didn’t think the others would understand.
She closed her eyes, but it wasn’t Scarlett’s image that came into her vision. It was the ring again, seemingly imprinted on the insides of her eyelids. She lifted her right hand and massaged the base of her left ring finger. She felt as if there was an absence there, as though her finger missed the ring it had never worn. ‘How did it get there?’ she mused. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’ Amy opened her eyes to see Carthika frowning at her.
‘These Apex papers,’ said Amy quickly. She must be more careful: speaking her thoughts out loud was beginning to get embarrassing.
‘No wonder you don’t understand them,’ said Carthika. ‘You haven’t even opened the envelope.’
Amy looked down. Carthika was right. A large white envelope sat in front of her, unopened.
‘How do you know it’s from Apex?’ asked Carthika. Zoe, sitting across from them, stopped typing and listened.
Amy found to her embarrassment that heat was creeping up her neck into her face. She must be blushing. And she was meant to be the head of the team – it hardly instilled confidence. She glanced down again. ‘When you’ve been working here as long as I have,’ she said, trying to will the colour from her face, ‘you start to recognise handwriting.’ The address was written in a large, clear hand, with little circles instead of dots on the i’s. She inserted her letter opener, shaped like a small dagger, opened the envelope and scowled. The documents weren’t from Apex after all. ‘Oh,’ she said to herself, and put it in the pile to be processed.
‘Maybe you’re losing your touch?’ enquired Carthika, sounding rather more amused than the situation warranted. She looked up and noticed Zoe, Emma’s replacement, staring at her.
‘You look different today,’ declared Zoe. ‘Are you wearing make-up?’
‘She is,’ agreed Carthika, as though Amy couldn’t hear them. ‘And she’s distracted.’ She paused. ‘I know! She’s got a crush!’
‘It’s probably Liam from marketing,’ agreed Zoe. ‘She likes his shiny suits.’ They both laughed.
‘It is not Liam from marketing,’ snapped Amy.
‘So it’s Tony from the post room then?’ said Carthika. ‘I knew it.’
Amy made a harrumphing noise that she hoped communicated that they’d discussed the subject long enough and it was time to get back to work. She began tapping at her keyboard in case the message was not clear. It worked. The others turned back to their own screens, still sniggering, and Amy listened to the reassuring rhythm of keys being pressed. Work being done. She breathed deeply and found her eyes closing again.
The ring floated into her vision. She’d left it at home, guarded by Scarlett, but now she wished she had it with her. She wanted to feel it. To squeeze it in her hand. To check it was really there and she hadn’t imagined it.
Amy felt the sick feeling inside her belly rising up, until it was level with her heart. What did it mean?
She put her hand on her heart, trying to quell the sensation. Then she realised what it was.
Hope.
Amy found she couldn’t think about anything else. Not while she processed papers, not while she ate her cheese and pickle sandwich, not even while she attended the team meeting that she was meant to minute. As it concluded, she realised all she had were doodles of concentric circles, like hundreds of little rings that fitted neatly inside one another.
Finally the day ended. Amy caught the train home on autopilot; it was lucky the platform hadn’
t been changed or she could have ended up anywhere. She got out at her station and walked slowly home.
‘Amy!’ To her dismay she saw Rachel and Nina lingering by her front gate, the midpoint between their houses. They were deep in conversation. That was all she needed. ‘Nina told me what happened.’
‘Your cat broke my pot,’ said Amy, hoping they’d get out of her way. That incident felt like years ago now.
‘We both know that’s not the issue here,’ said Rachel, standing her ground so she blocked Amy’s path. ‘Now, I’ve been very patient, but there are children here . . . ’ She paused, made a funny little sound and Amy saw Nina uncross her arms to place a steadying hand on Rachel’s shoulder. ‘Children,’ repeated Rachel. ‘And it’s not a safe environment.’
‘They shouldn’t have been in my garden,’ said Amy.
‘We all know that,’ said Nina. ‘I’ve told them. But that fence is your responsibility. Richard was very generous to offer to replace it.’
‘There’s help for people like you,’ said Rachel, in that sanctimonious voice that Amy felt Rachel reserved for her.
Amy had a vision of Rachel and Nina trying to pave over her beautiful wilderness. ‘I like my garden,’ she replied. ‘And it’s good for the local wildlife. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ’ She pulled open the gate and the women finally stepped aside.
‘It’s not just the garden,’ added Rachel, as Amy put her key in the lock. ‘You need help.’
‘You need to mind your own business,’ said Amy. She was torn. She wanted to get inside, but she could feel Nina’s eyes on her back, waiting to have a peek at Amy’s hallway.
She breathed a sigh of relief. The women were retreating, both back to Rachel’s house. ‘I do my best to be compassionate,’ she heard Rachel say. ‘But it’s just getting worse.’
‘You’ve got enough to deal with,’ agreed Nina. Amy looked around. They were out of eyeshot. She opened her door and quickly stepped inside, pulling it shut behind her.
Amy selected a mug adorned with a meandering honeysuckle and made herself a cup of tea. She went to the living room and sat with Scarlett and the ring. The tiny diamonds sparkled in her inside light, but not with the same intensity as they had outside, where they greedily gobbled the light of the sun and spat it back as rainbows.
She would put the ring on, she decided. For safe-keeping. She paused. For some reason it seemed not quite right to wear it. Like putting on a dead person’s clothes.
She took a deep breath, ignored her misgivings, and slipped on the ring. It felt like a tiny hug, wrapped around her finger.
But cold.
Amy admired her hand, then got up, feeling the weight of the ring on her finger, and went into the kitchen. She saw the broken pot, forgotten in the excitement of the ring, and felt a pang of guilt. She collected the pieces and tried to fit them back together, like a three-dimensional jigsaw.
It was hopeless: too many were missing. Amy looked regretfully at her bin, and picked up the shards to dispose of them. One of the pieces caught her eye. A complete flower gazed back at her.
She stopped.
Even broken, the shards had beauty. She turned away from the bin and put the pieces back on the kitchen counter. There would be some use for them still, she decided. She didn’t paint any more, of course, but they could become tesserae for a craft project. She was warming to the idea. Maybe she could make a mosaic to frame one of her mirrors. Or she could set them into her front path. Or, if she bought a fish tank, they could live inside as lovely little decorations.
For the moment, they could live on the kitchen counter. She had other fish to fry, so to speak.
She looked at the pieces again, remembering the pot. It had sat by her front door for so long. She felt a wave of excitement.
Could that be how the ring arrived in her garden?
Amy pictured the scene. Tim, standing outside the door. Wanting Amy back. Clutching the ring, ready to propose. Getting scared. Posting it through the door instead, knowing that Amy would know what it meant.
Not knowing that Amy’s house was already filled with treasures.
But then, why did he not come back? That pot had been in the garden for . . . Amy didn’t know how long. Years. It must be. Why hadn’t he rung the doorbell? Why hadn’t he come back for her?
The doorbell rang and Amy jumped. She hurried to the door and swung it open, half hoping that Tim would be there, ready to explain.
Richard. Only Richard. Looking embarrassed.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said, clearly uncomfortable. Amy stepped out and pulled the door almost closed behind her, feeling disappointment flooding through her. ‘Rachel told Nina that something had happened, and . . . ’ He paused, and glanced behind him. They both watched Smudge, who was taking a leisurely stroll across the road. ‘And the women thought that maybe, if you needed someone to, you know . . . ’
‘What?’ asked Amy.
‘A bit of muscle,’ said Richard, shrugging.
Amy laughed, feeling the tension dissipate as she did so.
‘I have muscles,’ insisted Richard, with mock offence. ‘It’s not that funny.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Amy, trying not to look at him so she didn’t laugh again. ‘It’s just Rachel. One bruise and she thinks I’m being beaten. Something fell on me, that’s all.’
‘It’s your own business how you keep your house, but if it’s not safe . . . ’
‘I dropped something on myself,’ insisted Amy, wondering how he’d guessed the truth. ‘My house is fine.’
Richard held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snoop.’ He smiled. ‘We can leave that to Rachel.’
‘Thank you,’ said Amy. She waited for him to leave.
He lingered for a moment, looking as if he might like to be invited in.
‘Goodbye,’ said Amy.
‘Bye then,’ he replied. Amy waited until he turned to leave then went back inside.
She looked around. Her hallway was a little cluttered, she thought. Richard must have caught a glimpse of it, to have jumped to the conclusion he had. She laughed at the memory of his face, when she’d made the muscle comment. He had a sense of humour, and it was a while since she’d shared a joke with someone. It felt nice.
Amy went back to the living room, carried her tea into the kitchen, left it by the sink and made her way up the stairs. She took a deep breath at the sight of her upstairs hallway. Last night, when she came to, she’d not even attempted to pass the mess and had just made her way down the stairs again. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas that must have been ten years old slowly defrosting on her face. In the morning, she’d just about managed to scramble over the fallen boxes into her bathroom to have a quick shower, but she hadn’t even looked at the damage. Now was the time.
She’d been lucky: the box that hit her in the eye was fairly light. It could easily have been full of cookery books. That would have been dangerous. Or a mirror could have fallen and smashed into sharp shards. Amy made another resolution to sort through her things. At the very least she should make sure everything heavy was at the bottom.
She opened the fallen box and carefully rummaged through, looking for signs of damage. She felt a flood of gratitude to the Amy who’d packed this box. It was full of mugs, each one encased in thick bubble wrap like a spider would wrap a fly. Everything seemed intact. She unwrapped one of the mugs, just to check. It had a handle in the shape of an electric guitar and was inscribed with a motto: keep music live. Tim would have loved it, she decided, and she put it on the carpet. She’d use it for her tea in the morning.
The morning. That was when she’d sort the rest of this mess out. Amy yawned, and looked at what was in front of her. Clocks, mirrors, boxes, cookbooks, lighters. They’d all been piled in that room and now they were strewn over the hallway, blocking her route to the bathroom. Luckily, she had a small toilet downstairs. She couldn’t face clambering over all t
his tonight. Amy went back downstairs. Maybe she’d be best off sleeping in the living room again.
She wasn’t used to wearing make-up, or needing to wash her face in the evening. She went to the kitchen and splashed herself with water and wiped her face with a dishcloth. Even ‘ivory blush’ looked orange on the cloth, but after three washes the same amount still came off each time. She grabbed a bottle of washing-up liquid, squirted a tiny amount of the emerald-green gel on to the palm of her hand, lathered her hands together and then, with her eyes tightly shut, spread it on to her face. She rinsed, shuddering at the soapy taste that had managed to sneak into her mouth even though it was clamped shut. She rinsed again and dried her face with another dishcloth.
Her skin was so dry that it felt too tight for her skull, and Amy wondered if this was how her mugs felt after she’d washed them up. She applied a bit of hand cream from one of several bottles of the stuff on the counter, but it was little match for the dryness. She dabbled on some arnica and decided that tomorrow she’d visit Joanna again to buy some proper cleanser and a face cream. This injury was proving expensive.
Amy went into the living room. It was nice to sleep here, among her birds. Like the sleepovers she used to have at Chantel’s house as a girl. She turned out the light and carefully felt her way to the sofa, where she sank down and pulled a blanket up to her chin.
She’d need to clean up the upstairs hallway, she knew that. But maybe she didn’t need to find that box. She closed her eyes and visualised it. It might have been ten years or so since she’d looked inside, but Amy knew its contents by heart. It wouldn’t help.
Her fingers went back to the ring. She needed to confirm that Tim had bought it. And she needed to know when.
The answers wouldn’t be in that box. She needed to go back. Back to somewhere she hadn’t been for a very long time.
December 1999
‘Where am I going to sleep?’ Tim chewed the edge of his fingernail and looked out of the train window.
