I tried to take her hand, but she smacked it away.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”
I backed away, half tripping over a bottle. My hand still stung where Amber had slapped it, and that pain, and the voice of self-destruction now willing me on, meant I found myself reaching for the most spiteful thing I could think of to say.
“So that’s it, is it? Even after what I did for you that night.”
After the door slammed, all I could hear was Amber’s sobs as she hurried away. I sat very still for a moment—and then I burst up out of my chair and ran out into the street, looking wildly around and shouting Amber’s name, but she was gone. I trudged back to the flat. Sitting in the wreckage of the kitchen, there was only one person I could think of to call for help.
I arrived back home in Kemble the next day. The moment Mum opened the door and took me in her arms, I started crying. The sobs were so violent that I was terrified they wouldn’t ever stop. When they finally did, I was so exhausted that I had to lie down on the sofa. Mum covered me with a blanket and sat down with me, gently pushing her hand through my hair. For the next three weeks she mopped my brow and rubbed my back as the shakes took hold of me. She made me soups and stews, and when I felt up to it, she’d walk me to the end of the road and back. I felt so ashamed that she was having to do this for me. But I don’t know what I’d have done without her. Or maybe I do. It would have been so easy to carry on down the path of self-annihilation . . .
After a month, I was strong enough to go out by myself. I went for long walks, breathing in the country air as deeply as I could, hoping it would purify me. Only once did I nearly slip up—standing for forty-five minutes outside the Thames Head pub in the rain, shivering and stuck to the spot. But I managed to push past it. As I warmed myself in the bath at home later, I allowed myself a small moment of pride, but then I thought about how Amber was still refusing my calls, and it all felt like too little too late.
I canceled my upcoming work, thankful that I’d stopped partying before I’d squandered the last of the money I’d made since I got to London. As time went on, I got into a routine where I’d get up just after dawn and walk all morning, slowly increasing the distances. I enjoyed being up before everyone else, save for the odd dog walker. It was so peaceful. The boredom I’d abhorred I now relished. I bought a pedometer and counted my steps—the ones I’d taken overall, and the ones I’d taken before I thought about having a drink. I tried to do the same with thoughts of Amber, but that was impossible. I missed her terribly still. I had been so poisonous to her, and all she’d ever done was love me. In my lower moments, I nearly messaged her to tell her about the milestones I’d achieved. Three months without a drink now. But I knew that didn’t count for anything. It wouldn’t make up for how I’d treated her. The drinking may have made things worse, but it wasn’t the cause of my behavior—it was just the end product of a man who’d never tried to deal with what was underneath it all.
After six months, I decided to move back to London. I had to get back in the saddle with my job, my residual cash now pretty much gone.
“Are you really sure, darling?” Mum said. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you want.”
It made my heart ache to hear her say that. She made it sound like everything had been normal. Like I’d just come home for Christmas and she was inviting me to stay for New Year’s, too. I had taken some comfort in seeing how Mum seemed to have found her sense of self again. She’d started a book group and was volunteering at a charity shop twice a week. She’d made new friends through both. The garden had become her pride and joy. But even though both of us were better, we still hadn’t sat down and talked properly—not about why I had arrived home in such a state, and certainly not about Mike or the accident. I don’t know whether Mum thought if she tried to rake over the old coals I’d have clammed up or bolted straight to the pub. Perhaps I would have done. But in the end I left without us having anything close to a heart-to-heart.
Thankfully, I still had enough of a reputation intact that I got some writing work straightaway when I got home. That meant I could afford to rent a flat in Peckham, the place I’d eventually buy. I had a desk by the window that looked out over the park. There, I wrote and wrote like it was the only thing keeping me alive. I was so prolific that days would pass at a time without me seeing anyone.
After a trip to the dentist—which ended in farce, as the dentist and his assistant had a big falling-out about something in full view of everyone in the waiting room—I got home and wrote feverishly about what I’d just seen. It had been so dramatic, but there was real pain there, too, when the dentist reappeared and had to put on an act, as if everything was normal. I wanted to write a show that captured the pathos of pretending. When I pitched the idea to Jane, she thought it was too dark, too sad. Would I be open to collaboration to get the tone right? The old me would have run a mile, downing pints in the pub and haughtily dismissing the suggestion as my sneering contemporaries applauded me for having such integrity. But I realized that was all bollocks. This was real life—you had to make compromises.
As I waited to meet my would-be collaborators, I got a text from Markus, my old flatmate. He had proposed to Emil and they were having an engagement party at the end of the month. Did I want to come? It took me a while to reply. I’d been in a couple of situations where drink had been around and I had just about coped, but that wasn’t the reason I hesitated. It was because I knew Amber would be there.
I walked around the block three times before I went into the bar. I spent the evening chucking sparkling water down my neck and having near heart attacks every time the door opened. I was talking to Markus’s sister, Astrid—a tall, striking woman who’d told me how bored she was approximately eight times in the ten minutes we were together, asking me if I knew where she could get some coke—when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hi,” Amber said with a shy smile.
“Hey—hello!” I replied, too enthusiastic, too manic with forced This is normal, isn’t it? happiness.
We hugged slightly awkwardly, our cheeks jarring as we air-kissed, like strangers meeting for the first time. Before we could say another word, Emil had whisked Amber away to meet someone, and that was that. She was like a shooting star rushing across the night sky.
I managed to escape Astrid and headed to the roof terrace, which had emptied as rain began to fall. I smoked a cigarette in the cold. This was a trick I’d stumbled on which allowed me to escape when I felt the urge to drink. I’d just lit a second when I heard the glass door slide open and turned to see Amber.
“You got a spare one of those?”
“Sure,” I said, offering her the pack.
After several attempts to spark my lighter, Amber said, “Wait, might be easier if I just . . .” and pulled me gently by the shoulder so that she could use the cigarette in my mouth to light hers. She turned and looked back indoors. “Emil and Markus, then, eh?”
“Yup,” I said. “All very grown-up.”
“Was that Markus’s sister you were talking to when I arrived?”
“Yeah. Astrid.”
“She seemed nice. Very pretty. I bet she does yoga.”
“Probably,” I said. “We didn’t really get that far.”
Down below us, a motorcyclist and a cabbie were having a shouting match.
“Ah, London,” Amber said. “How I’ve missed you. With your rain and your anger.”
As I’d gathered from the papers, Amber had been in Berlin filming a police drama for the last few months.
“How’s Germany, then?” I asked.
“Oh, you know,” Amber said, swirling her cigarette in the air.
“German?”
“German.”
“I thought it might be.”
Amber shivered against the cold. I started to take my jacket off, but she shook her head.<
br />
“You look well, by the way,” Amber said. I saw her glancing at my glass. I was having to fight the urge to tell her exactly how long I’d been on the wagon.
“I was going to say you look like a movie star,” I replied. “But then, you always did.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment, but then I saw Amber’s mouth twitching into a smile and I broke.
“Okay, that sounded far less cheesy in my head . . .”
Amber laughed. “Oh, it’s not that. I was just thinking how ridiculous it is to think of me in the same context as the words ‘movie star.’ This show I’ve been putting my blood, sweat and tears into is clearly going to be a disaster, and the director, François, is a nightmare.”
“How so?”
Amber stubbed out her cigarette.
“He gives direction like this.” She took my shoulders in her arms and put on a pained expression. “ ‘Amber, zis is not truth. Where is your truth, darling?’ ”
“Yikes,” I said. “And where is your truth?”
Amber shrugged and turned back to face the city. “Oh, god knows. Wherever it is, I know it’s telling someone that it was a mistake me taking the part and that I should never have left London.”
I went to take a sip of my water, but my glass was empty.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” I said, “I’m sorry if I played any part in that decision.”
“You didn’t,” Amber replied. There was nothing reproachful in the way she said this. It was just a fact.
Just then, the glass doors opened again. It was Markus.
“Heyyyyy, you two,” he slurred, swaying a little as he came over. He threw his arms around us both. I could smell tequila on his breath. “And why are you not inside dancing, please?”
“Ah,” Amber said. “Sorry, but I’ve suddenly remembered I’ve broken both my ankles.”
Markus looked at me. “Jooooel?”
“Me too, I’m afraid—what are the chances?”
Markus threw his head back theatrically. “Urghhh, you two. It’s just like the old days. Always on the edge of the party. Always together.” He bopped both of us on the nose in turn and giggled to himself. Then he heard a song he recognized and began dancing his way back inside, where Emil arrived at the same time to jump into his arms. Amber and I watched them dancing as the other guests stood around in a circle, cheering them on.
“They look so happy,” Amber said, sincere, but unmistakably sad. She shivered again. I knew we’d have to go inside before long.
Ever since Amber had come out to the terrace, I’d been trying to find a way to steer the conversation to a place where I could apologize for everything I’d done, but the words I’d planned to say just seemed so facile.
“So,” I said, “I don’t really know where to start when it comes to an apology. I don’t even know if you want to hear it.”
Amber’s expression didn’t change. She’d obviously been expecting this.
“Would it help,” she said, “if I were to preempt what I imagine you’re about to say?”
I laughed a little nervously. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Amber took a breath, then started to speak, deliberating over each word, becoming more sure of herself as she went.
“I think you want to tell me that you’re sorry for taking out your pain on me. That you loved me but partly for the wrong reasons—because a big part of what drew you to me was because I helped you escape when things got hard.”
Amber looked at me as if to say, Right so far? and I nodded.
“You want to say that the drinking got out of hand and the worse it got, the more you needed it, and by the end you barely recognized yourself, especially when you said what you did about Alice’s accident to me that night. You wanted to self-destruct in the biggest way possible, and that meant saying the worst thing you could think of to the person you loved the most.”
I had the strangest urge to drop my glass and see if it shattered, because it felt like I was dreaming. “But that’s exactly . . . basically word for word. How did—”
“Because I know you, Joel. Because I love you.”
My heart skipped a beat at her use of the present tense.
“Oh” was all I could muster in response.
“I knew I had to leave you that night,” Amber said. “I could have stayed and tried to stop you drinking—paid for rehab or therapy and made sure you kept the appointments and stayed on track—but—”
It was my turn to jump in. “But that would have meant I’d have been doing it for you rather than myself. There’d always be a part of me that wanted to burn it all down again. The resentful part that didn’t like that you’d made me get better.”
Amber nodded. “I think that sounds about right,” she said.
There was a blast of noise from inside. We looked back to see people forming a line, grasping each other’s waists.
“Wow,” Amber said. “I have to say, I hadn’t predicted a conga.”
“Me neither. It’s almost charming, isn’t it?”
Just then, Astrid and an equally haughty friend stepped outside—obviously not conga people—and Astrid produced a telltale plastic baggie.
I turned to Amber. “You know, I’ve always wanted to say this phrase, but I’ve never found the right moment until now.”
“What phrase is that, then?” Amber asked.
I made my elbow into a crook, and Amber slipped her arm inside.
“Shall we get out of here?” I said.
We had to wait for the conga to pass, like we were at a level crossing as a cumbersome goods train trundled through. It felt even colder when we finally got outside again, and this time Amber accepted the offer of my jacket. This, more than anything, gave me hope.
We walked south toward the river, talking about everything and anything, switching topics every ten seconds, going off on tangents, going from serious to trivial, heartfelt and ironic, silly and mature. It was the way that only two people who know each other completely talk when they’ve been apart—where there never feels like there’s enough time to say everything because there’s always a new spark that sends you off in another direction.
By the time we’d run out of steam, we had walked up and down the South Bank and were standing on one of the little jetties that juts out into the river by the Oxo Tower. It was the early hours of the morning now. Looking around, we were practically the only people I could see. The last revelers had made their way home. The morning joggers were yet to appear.
As I stood with my arms braced on the jetty wall, I felt Amber rest her head on my shoulder. It was so good to feel her touch again. I tried my best not to spoil the moment by asking whether she could see a future for us, but I heard the words spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them. “When you’re back from Berlin, do you think we—”
But Amber squeezed my arm tight, signaling me to stop. We stayed quiet and still, listening to the gentle lapping of the river on the bank. Eventually, Amber lifted her head from my shoulder.
“I still need some time,” she said.
“Of course.”
She hadn’t said no. That was all that mattered.
Then she leaned up and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you got better.”
* * *
I didn’t see Amber again, or even hear her voice, for another six months. But I emailed her and asked for her address in Berlin, and we began writing letters to each other. I wrote until my hand seized up. It felt easier to talk like this—for me to try and explain why I’d ended up in the state I had.
I barely socialized with work people those days. I’d got tired of people telling me I should “just have a drink, for fuck’s sake.” I never really felt like leaving my flat, but I was lonely without any company, too. After a week without a letter from Amber, I walked past a pub
and felt a dangerous longing. I managed to push past the temptation, but it still scared me. The next day, I booked my first therapy session.
The following week, I was sitting in the waiting room when an email popped up on my phone from Jane Green.
Hope you’re sitting down, m’boy. Can confirm that The Tooth Hurts has an official green fucking light!
I stood up and sat down three times in a row. Another patient in the waiting room eyed me nervously.
I began to think of that waiting room as my happy place, because even though the sessions were painful and left me completely drained, it was where I’d received the good news from Jane, and then, before my sixth session, I had another message that had me doing my jack-in-the-box routine again. This time it was from Amber.
Hey. So here’s a funny thing. I’ve just been offered the part for the lead in a sitcom on the BBC. I gather you might be involved. I’m flying back tomorrow for a meeting. Dinner? X
* * *
The taxi jolted to a stop and I opened my eyes. The driver mumbled an apology. A fox—the reason we’d stopped—trotted past.
“Little chap looks like he’s on his way to work,” Mum said. She had her handbag on her lap, tapping away at it as she watched London go by. She was wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat, newly bought for the holiday. As she looked out of the window, a sliver of sun that had forced its way through the clouds caught her face. In that moment, I could imagine her when she was young—younger than I was now. I realized with a pang of sadness how little I knew about her at that time in her life—how I couldn’t remember seeing any photos of her before she’d had me. I was determined to find out all I could on this holiday, to build that bridge to the past.
“That hat really suits you,” I said.
Mum beamed, and her cheeks flushed a little. “Why, thank you.”
When she looked back to the window, she was still smiling. It was a smile that made my heart swell and ache at the same time.
When We Were Young Page 21
