Everything is Beautiful

by Eleanor Ray

  ‘Are you looking at Facebook?’

  Damn Carthika and her constant nosiness.

  ‘You told us we shouldn’t be on there, even at lunchtime. No place in the office for social media, you said.’

  ‘There’s every place for social media,’ said Liam, approaching their bank of desks. ‘Twitter is the future of marketing.’

  Carthika rolled her eyes behind his back, and he sat down on Amy’s desk. She pulled the Apex file to one side just in time. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked reluctantly.

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied, smiling at her. His teeth looked brighter than they had the last time she’d seen him, and she wondered if he’d been whitening them. He didn’t elaborate on his hopes, and remaining seated on her desk, blocking her access to her keyboard.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m doing an internal communications piece, and I need someone to sound out reactions.’

  What a waste of time, thought Amy. ‘I’m sorry, I’m very busy,’ she said.

  ‘You were on Facebook!’ said Carthika, unhelpfully. ‘After you told us not to, even at lunch.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Amy, although that did sound a little bit familiar. ‘What you do in your lunch hour is up to you.’

  ‘It’s not lunchtime now,’ said Carthika, taking an exaggerated look at her wrist. Amy noticed she wasn’t even wearing a watch. ‘Tut tut.’

  ‘If you must know, I was in at half seven and am taking an early lunch break,’ said Amy. She gestured to a cheese and pickle sandwich she’d picked up from the supermarket. ‘Not that I need to justify myself,’ she added, starting to feel annoyed. ‘I’ve never taken a cigarette break. Unlike some.’

  ‘Chill out,’ laughed Carthika. ‘I won’t tell. And, for your information, I’ve cut down to ten a day. Practically a non-smoker.’

  Liam smiled again at the exchange. ‘So you’ll help?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll nominate Carthika,’ said Amy.

  ‘I really think you would be—’

  ‘Carthika it is,’ said Amy. ‘Would you mind . . . ’ She gestured to him to get off her desk.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. He dismounted with a disappointed thud and walked back to his desk.

  ‘Back to work,’ said Amy. Carthika was staring daggers at her. ‘I need to get back to my research,’ she said.

  ‘Facebook research?’ said Carthika. ‘And all that make-up last week.’ She grinned. ‘Are you tracking down an ex-boyfriend . . . ’ Carthika stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Of course, I’m so stupid, I shouldn’t . . . ’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Amy, discovering her jaw was clenched. She’d never discussed what had happened with Carthika, but clearly she’d been the subject of office gossip. ‘The Jessop accounts need filing.’

  Carthika went back to her work, uncharacteristically quiet. Amy took a minute to swallow her emotions, then allowed her gaze back to the screen. She just wouldn’t think about it. That was best. Perhaps a little distraction would help.

  Amy opened a new window and went to the ceramics section of the Oxfam website. She bought an ashtray in the shape of an upturned tortoise. Feeling better, she opened her packet of sandwiches and took a bite.

  She was interrupted by an instant message popping up. Liam. She chewed her sandwich and frowned. She’d suggested to Mr Trapper that instant messaging be turned off. Her team seemed to use it to chat to one another while appearing to be working, occasionally betraying themselves with a guffaw of laughter.

  Perhaps Liam was using the system appropriately, thought Amy generously. For a message more urgent than email but less intrusive than the phone or another visit to her desk. She read the message. Nice to chat to you today.

  Hardly important. She deleted it without replying.

  Another appeared. If you won’t help me with my research, maybe you’d like to join me for a drink?

  Flakes of Amy’s half-chewed sandwich launched themselves from her mouth on to her screen. She coughed and took a gulp of water.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Carthika.

  ‘Fine,’ stuttered Amy. She minimised the message and went back to the Oxfam site.

  Her fingers hovered over the image of a porcelain canary perched on a gnarled branch. She added it to her basket, then chose a pretty yellow cup and saucer set adorned with a pink lily.

  Another message. How about it? The words were followed with an image of a fat little face indulging in what Amy guessed was meant to be a wink.

  She wouldn’t normally reply to instant messages, but Amy decided this time she must. No thank you, she typed. For any further research questions please liaise directly with Carthika via email.

  Feeling a little better, she went back to Facebook. Of course, she didn’t really go in for social media. Meeting people in person was bad enough, without having to see pictures of people’s kids, dogs and dinners. But she’d kept her profile open all these years. Just in case.

  She had a surprising number of friend requests from people she used to know. Some of them she barely remembered, but other names brought back vivid memories. George Matthew. She’d doubled over in laughter when he’d got a sunflower seed stuck up his nose in primary school. Mary Cook. She’d solemnly told her that her dog had got pregnant by sniffing a baby. Georgina Pewter. She’d deliberately wet herself, age eleven, in PE when the teacher refused her a toilet break. Georgina giggled while she did it and dropped her hockey stick in the puddle.

  Amy ignored the requests. Another message popped up from Liam. This one was only a face, and it seemed to be crying. Amy felt a small amount of pity, then she saw the face was also smiling. Crying with laughter, she realised. Whatever next. Amy deleted the message and did a search on Facebook.

  There he was.

  Simon Oaks.

  His profile picture showed him on stage clutching a bass guitar. Amy scanned his other photos and found a few shots of his band. She didn’t recognise any of the members from the old days; presumably more ‘artistic differences’. He and Tim used to have them all the time, though they’d stuck together.

  Until they hadn’t.

  Amy looked and saw that he had a little green circle next to his name. He was online now.

  No time like the present, she told herself, and took the plunge.

  Amy endured a long hug. ‘I can’t believe it’s you,’ he said, as if Simon were expecting someone to have hacked her Facebook account, arranged a meeting and then impersonated her. ‘You look the same. As gorgeous as ever.’

  Amy knew that wasn’t true, and she couldn’t bring herself to return the lie. Simon had the look of a shoe even Amy would decide was ready to be retired: well-worn and less than fresh. But his smile was still the same, taking over his whole face until his eyes crinkled. She was surprised that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  ‘It’s good of you to meet me at such short notice,’ said Amy. She had been a little taken aback when he’d turned out to be in town and proposed getting together that very evening. She’d fished around for an excuse, but found none. And here they were, hugging outside a pub on a quiet street near the station.

  Amy extracted herself from the embrace with the excuse of buying him a drink. He settled down on a green leather sofa near the door and Amy marched to the bar, trying to compose herself. She ordered a gin and tonic, ignoring the barman’s suggestion to make it a double. She bought a pint of ‘whatever was on tap’ for Simon that came, to her relief, in a rather sturdy and unattractive vessel. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about something more fragile in Simon’s always rather shaky hands.

  She delivered the drinks and graciously clinked glasses with him. Simon took a long draught of beer and grinned at her again. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘Course it is.’ Amy nodded.

  ‘The band is going strong,’ Simon volunteered. ‘Did you meet Tony? Best drummer we’ve ever had.’

  ‘No,’ said Amy.r />
  ‘Oh yes,’ continued Simon, warming to his theme. ‘You should hear us now. Completely different sound. More cosmic. Hoping to get a gig soon at the Sheep and Goat. You should come.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Amy, who couldn’t think of anything worse. They sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘So I saw on Facebook that you’re single still,’ said Simon. ‘Never settled down myself either. Had a few goes, but you know how it is. Never found the right woman.’ He looked at her expectantly. Amy nodded non-committally. ‘Phil married off, couple of rug rats. And Idris too. He had twins with Sandy, remember her?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Amy. She felt in her pocket for the ring. ‘I have to admit,’ she began, ‘I have an ulterior motive for inviting you here.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Simon, smiling at her. ‘We always did have a connection. Course we did.’

  ‘What?’ said Amy.

  ‘Chemistry,’ continued Simon. ‘Wouldn’t have been right back then, of course, but now . . . ’ He paused. ‘It’s really nice to see you. You look great.’ Amy started to wish she’d not applied that blusher Joanna had given her. She took a sip of her gin and tonic, feeling the ice cube clink against her teeth.

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ she said. He frowned at her. ‘There’s something I need to show you.’ She took the ring from her pocket and held it out to him.

  ‘You should wear that on your finger,’ he scolded, leaning back in his chair and taking a swig of beer. ‘It’s just rude, leaving it off. Gives a guy the wrong idea.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to . . . ’

  He leaned forwards again, and enclosed her ring-free hand in his own. His hand was a surprise, warm and rough. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m happy for you. Course I am. I’m glad you’ve found someone. After what happened, we all thought you might . . . ’ He stopped himself.

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said Amy. ‘This ring,’ she said, popping it on to her finger. ‘I haven’t met anyone else. It’s from Tim.’

  Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘From Tim?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amy. She paused.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ he asked. He narrowed his eyes at Amy and she could tell he thought she’d lost it.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Amy. ‘He’s been gone for years.’

  ‘That’s right,’ affirmed Simon.

  ‘I found it,’ she continued, ‘in my garden. I don’t know how long it’s been there; it was buried under . . . ’ She paused again. ‘A few bits and pieces. But he knew I liked this ring. He was the only one who knew. So he must have . . . ’ She stopped.

  ‘I always thought he loved you,’ said Simon. ‘Course I did. I was as shocked as anyone when it happened.’

  ‘Did he ever mention to you . . . ?’

  ‘Never,’ said Simon. ‘Not the ring, not Chantel. Nothing. We were having some creative differences at the time, though. You remember.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Amy.

  ‘So I was surprised when he told you he was meeting me that night,’ said Simon. ‘He wasn’t, course he wasn’t. But it was nice, in a way, being the cover story. I always thought it meant he still considered me a friend, even when he was planning to leave.’

  ‘And he hasn’t been in contact, all these years?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Simon. ‘If he contacted anyone, I think it would be you.’

  ‘Not if he left with Chantel,’ said Amy, bitterness creeping into her voice.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ said Simon. ‘Never did. Tim needed you. You were his rock. Chantel couldn’t be a rock, she was adrift at sea herself.’ Simon smiled. ‘Sounds like that would be a decent line for a song, don’t you think? I might write that down.’

  Amy watched as Simon grabbed a pen and started scribbling on a beer mat, ignoring a scowl from the barman. ‘You were all of our rocks,’ added Simon, when he was done. ‘Tim, Chantel. And me.’ He hesitated, and Amy saw a cloud of hurt drift across his features. ‘I think it was you I missed the most,’ he said. ‘When they went missing.’

  ‘I’ve been here,’ said Amy.

  ‘You were at first,’ he said. ‘When you thought I might be able to help you find them. But when you found out I didn’t know anything, you stopped calling too.’

  ‘I was upset,’ said Amy, feeling the need to defend herself.

  ‘Course you were,’ said Simon. ‘I was too. You guys were my best mates. When those other two went, I thought maybe we’d get closer. But it was like you went missing too.’

  Amy hesitated. She had never thought of her and Simon as particularly close, but they had a lot of shared history, shared experiences. Even a shared flat for a long time. She supposed they had been friends too. And she’d left him. Just like Tim and Chantel had left her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Water under the bridge,’ said Simon, his voice falsely light. He held his beer up to Amy and they chinked glasses again, the sound of glass on glass making Amy flinch.

  ‘Anyway,’ babbled Simon, clearly wanting to lighten the maudlin tone. ‘I hadn’t seen him for a little while before he was off for good. He’d fallen in with some others, a bad crowd.’

  ‘What others?’ asked Amy, her ears pricking.

  ‘House music fans. Up to no good. Wouldn’t know decent music if it hit them in the earhole. He even went to a few “gigs” with them. Not that you can call that stuff a gig.’

  ‘Right before . . . it happened? I don’t remember that.’

  ‘It was probably while you were away in Florence.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Do you have names?’

  ‘No chance. Only met them once myself. Seemed nasty.’ He stood up. ‘Another drink? We’ve got a lot to catch up on.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Amy, ‘I need to get home.’ She hesitated. ‘But another time,’ she added. ‘I’ve missed you.’ As soon as she said the words, Amy realised she meant them.

  Simon smiled at her, his face brightening. ‘For sure,’ he said. ‘Course you have.’

  She heard it before she saw him. Boing boing boing. Irregular, arrhythmic. Sure enough, Charles was bouncing his ball outside her house. ‘I’m being careful of your pots,’ he pre-empted. ‘Look, the ball is under control. That’s fifty-six bounces now.’ The ball rebelled and bounced away from his hand at an acute angle just as he said that. Charles gave chase. He bent down to coax it out from under a parked car. ‘You put me off,’ he scolded her.

  Amy nodded and walked past him to go into her house.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Charles. ‘I don’t mind. I’ve finished now anyway.’ Amy turned and realised he’d followed her up her garden path, his ball fitted neatly under his arm.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m eight and a half now,’ said Charles. Amy looked at him blankly. ‘That’s almost nine,’ he explained. ‘You’re late, too,’ he added. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Nowhere interesting,’ said Amy. She wanted to open her door and go inside, but she’d much rather the boy and his ball were at a safe distance first.

  ‘Was it a date?’ asked Charles.

  ‘That is certainly none of your business,’ said Amy, surprised. ‘Now, if you don’t mind . . . ’

  ‘Would you like a pineapple juice?’

  Amy found she was rather thirsty after that gin and tonic and would like a pineapple juice, but she wasn’t going to admit it now. Not when she needed to go inside and plan her next steps. ‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘Won’t your parents be worried about you?’

  ‘My dad knows where I am,’ said Charles, confidently. ‘And Mum is dead.’

  He said it so matter-of-factly that Amy didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Is Nina home?’ she asked, finally.

  ‘She’s at Rachel’s house,’ said Charles. ‘They are besties now.’ He grimaced.

  ‘Maybe I will have that juice,’ she said, remembering Richard’s invitation to pop in. ‘Just quickly.’

  Ch
arles let out a whoop of joy. ‘You’re the first friend I’ve had to visit here,’ Charles told her, taking her hand in his own clammy one and leading her to his front door, where he released her hand again to struggle with the key for a moment. ‘Do you like diggers?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ replied Amy. She followed him. He turned around to shush her as they walked past the living room. She glanced inside. Richard sitting on the sofa with Daniel curled up on top of him, with a little stream of dribble running from his mouth on to his father’s T-shirt. Richard waved and put his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. Amy crept past. They both looked so comfortable, so relaxed. So happy.

  ‘Excavators?’ asked Charles, when they reached the kitchen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you like excavators? I’ve got a really good one. Fully to scale, just like the one they use on real-life building sites. Dad gave it to me for my eighth birthday, because I’ve been so good.’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Amy. Charles took the juice from the fridge. He filled a glass to the very brim with the bright yellow liquid, and some swilled out on to the floor as he walked over to where she’d perched awkwardly at the small breakfast bar. He lifted her glass to his mouth and siphoned some up before passing it to her.

  ‘Cranes?’

  Amy thought a moment. ‘I suppose they are all right,’ she said. ‘For lifting stuff up high.’

  ‘Great choice,’ said Charles, enthusiastically. ‘Cranes are awesome. They are my third favourite heavy vehicle, after diggers and excavators. Do you want to see my collection?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Amy, sipping her juice. It was wonderfully cold and made her think that she should get her fridge seen to. Nothing ever got this cold at home. Then she thought about having a repair man in her house, and changed her mind.

  ‘I like your ring,’ said Charles, all of a sudden. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No,’ replied Amy. She paused, trying to think of something else to say.

  ‘Good,’ said Charles. He paused too. ‘My dad isn’t married to Nina.’