by Sue Watson
‘That was a long time ago,’ she said, and her face became closed off, as it had been when we first met and I stood on her doorstep with cake.
‘Yes, it must be almost twenty years ago when you started on Good Night Britain,’ I said, desperately trying to change the subject, but probably digging myself a deeper hole. Even I knew that ship had sailed. Amber was now in her forties. Her career trajectory had gone from network TV weather girl with everything at her feet to a job on local TV. All our horizons shrink as we get older. God knows mine have, but it must be particularly difficult when you’re in the public eye – and once had such promise.
‘Ah, that was my first on-screen job, before I got the job on It’s Morning. Happy days.’ She sighed nostalgically.
‘I remember your saying…’ And we both said in unison, in bright voices: ‘A special goodnight to those who are on their own tonight.’
We laughed.
‘Oh, Lucy, you’re a superfan,’ she said, then looked at me. ‘I’m only joking.’
‘Well, I’m definitely a fan,’ I said. ‘I lived on my own then and found it comforting late at night. It was as though you were talking to me.’
‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ she said, beaming. ‘Hey, why don’t you come in for a quick coffee?’
The invite took me by surprise and I wasn’t entirely sure what I made of Amber. One minute she was open and warm, and the next distant and aloof, but I wanted to know more so of course I accepted, if only to see what she’d done to the house. She opened the front door and led me inside. The brightly lit hall was painted white and dotted tastefully with orchids and huge mirrors leaning against walls, apparently beautifully abandoned but no doubt strategically placed. The floor was pristine white stone and Amber slipped off her shoes and walked in bare feet ahead of me, through to the stunning white minimalist kitchen.
‘So you met your… Ben in TV?’ I prompted her, as she spooned freshly ground coffee into a cafetière.
‘Yes. So I went for an audition.’ She turned and leaned against the kitchen counter, holding the tin of coffee. ‘Our eyes met over a clapperboard and the rest is history.’ She winked and poured hot water onto the coffee, the steamy foam escaping the plunger as she pushed it down.
‘Ah, how romantic…’ I sighed, wondering where her husband had fit into all this.
‘It was,’ she said, seeming to brighten even more talking about him. ‘But Ben was my boss before he was my boyfriend.’ She hesitated. ‘People can be very competitive, very jealous, in TV, especially the other women.’
‘I can imagine.’ I didn’t blame the other women. I would hate to have to compete with someone like Amber. She continued to tell me all about Ben and how they’d eventually fallen in love – which I presumed happened after her husband’s death. I just listened, sensing her vulnerability beneath the perfectly made-up surface of shiny lipstick and glossy hair, as she told me how she was once ‘the golden girl’, but not any more.
‘Life in TV is all about being young and pretty – I’m worried about the future, what’s going to happen to me. I’m in my forties now, Lucy, and not so young and pretty.’ She sighed, moving into the sitting room with our coffees. I followed her into another stunning space, painted in shades of grey, with one huge painting that filled the wall. It was a beautiful swirling blur of red, pink, amber and orange, muted peaks of shimmering pink pushing through nebulous cloud. It must have measured eight feet by eight feet, and just pulled you in.
‘That’s beautiful… just beautiful,’ I said, mesmerised.
‘It’s called Nepal Sunset,’ she said, her eyes following mine to gaze on the painting. ‘Can you see the peaks of the Himalayas poking through the clouds? Michael, my husband, and I travelled to Nepal. We were just students backpacking. We had nothing back then – we really roughed it,’ she said. I glanced at her. She was staring at the painting and I could see she was back there. ‘Years later, when we married, he bought this for me. Said it reminded him of our time there. We’d been so happy. He picked it up for nothing in a little gallery, but I think it’s worth quite a bit now…’
‘It’s stunning.’
‘It is, isn’t it? I don’t care how much it’s worth in money; it means more to me than anything. It’s part of me, my first love. My youth, you know?’ Sitting on the sofa, she brought her knees up to her chin, like she was protecting herself. ‘He said I was like a Nepalese sunset… bright and fiery, slow to settle.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I miss him.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. The air was tight with emotion. I couldn’t think of anything fitting to say, but couldn’t resist asking, ‘Your husband. What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, can we talk about something else?’
I was mortified, and just nodded, burying my head in my coffee cup. We both finished our coffees in silence and she suddenly stood up, stretched and began clearing away the cups. When she wandered into the kitchen, leaving me alone on the sofa, I realised I was being dismissed. I sat there feeling helpless and stupid. I’d offended her by asking about her husband. I’d ruined everything, including a potential friendship, with my insensitive questioning and I felt terrible, cursing myself, wanting to erase the last few minutes. I wanted to run from her house and go home to safety but was now stranded on the pale sofa in a sea of pink cushions as the sun set over the Himalayas. What on earth had made her react like that, though? As a wife I completely understood someone not being comfortable talking about their husband’s death. I was sure I wouldn’t. But it was over twenty years ago. Was she still upset all these years later now she was in a happy new relationship?
Chapter Six
Lucy
‘She’s got a boyfriend,’ I told Matt the morning after that first book club. He barely looked up from his script.
‘Who?’ he asked absent-mindedly.
‘Amber Young. His name’s Ben. She’s all loved up. I can’t wait to see him. I bet he’s gorgeous,’ I said, still wondering about her reaction the previous evening. Despite her gushing about the amazing Ben, it seemed there were still some open wounds left from her husband’s death.
‘Gorgeous or rich?’ Matt said.
‘Or both,’ I said, hoping for a dinner invite once he’d arrived.
A week later, I still hadn’t seen any sign of Amber, or her man, and was beginning to wonder if something had happened. Then, on bin day, she didn’t put her bins out.
‘I hope she’s okay; in this heat she should really put them out,’ I murmured to Matt as I peeked through the curtains. In my opinion, when people don’t leave their bins out when they should it’s often a sign that all is not well and something is amiss in the home. ‘Perhaps I should have put them out for her,’ I said, almost to myself.
‘No, don’t you go moving her bins. It’s her funeral if she wants rats,’ he said.
‘Yes, but now I think of it, I haven’t seen her for days. What if she isn’t well?’
Matt didn’t respond. He wasn’t remotely interested, so I set off for work and discreetly looked at the house, seeing nothing but shuttered windows. I didn’t have time to knock but planned to call round the following day, a Saturday.
I told Kirsty all about the bins, and she was convinced it was significant too. ‘My mother’s old neighbour didn’t put her bins out and when they found her she’d been dead for days, slumped over the cat.’
‘Oh God, I do hope she’s okay,’ I sighed.
Unlike Matt, Kirsty was as interested as I was in the comings and goings of our new neighbour and we talked about her quite a lot on our coffee and lunch breaks at work. I told her everything Amber had said about Ben but made her promise not to tell anyone because I didn’t want Amber to think I’d been gossiping. I was secretly quite flattered that Amber had chosen to tell me – and I didn’t want it going round the whole estate. But Kirsty was as keen as me to know if and when ‘the boyfriend’ was moving in. I knew she’d love to hear all about him, but I never told
Kirsty about Amber’s husband and the beautiful painting. Other than a lack of ‘bin action’ though, there was nothing else to share with Kirsty regarding the resident at number 13.
Then, the next day, just as I was mowing the lawn and contemplating popping over and knocking to make sure Amber was okay, I saw him. A good-looking man pulled up in an expensive car and, after talking for a little while on his phone, got out and strolled up Amber’s drive. He knocked on the front door, leaned against one of the pillars, loose jeans hanging on his hips, big expensive sunglasses just like hers, and when the door opened, he went straight in.
Despite taking my time over the mowing, I didn’t hear or see anything else until late that night when I leapt up at the sound of screaming outside. Matt and I were watching The Ted Bundy Tapes on Netflix with a bowl of popcorn and a bar of chocolate, and when I jumped up to look through the window he yelped with shock.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said, trying to see whose house the noise was coming from, abandoning Matt, Ted and the TV snacks. ‘I think something’s going on at number 13… Amber’s house.’
‘Why do we bother watching TV?’ he grumbled. ‘I mean, you’ve got all the entertainment you need at number 13.’
The screaming was definitely Amber. She was at an upstairs window hurling clothes, golf clubs and all sorts onto her gravelly drive, and the guy from earlier was picking everything up, piece by piece, narrowly avoiding a club to the head. Then, with an armful of belongings, he jumped into his fancy car and drove off – over revving the engine. ‘He made a right racket. He didn’t have to do that,’ I said to Matt, having provided him with a running commentary on events from my perch behind the curtains.
‘Just because they’ve got a fancy car,’ Matt grumbled, ‘think they’re all that, people like her and him.’
I agreed with him. We might grumble sometimes, but Treetops is a nice area with lovely neighbours who respect each other, and cars revving loudly at all hours and people screaming obscenities felt very out of place. I’d happily said goodbye to all that when I left home. I didn’t want it now. But I was intrigued.
‘Forget them,’ Matt said, making room from me on the sofa. ‘Ted Bundy’s just killed again.’
‘It was definitely Ben,’ I said to Kirsty on the Monday at school. ‘And I reckon they’re over.’
‘Is he handsome?’ she asked, loving the gossip, wanting to know every detail.
‘From what I saw, he is, yes… and probably rolling in it too: expensive car, expensive-looking sunglasses, sure of himself. You know the type?’
She nodded. ‘I can imagine. Pretentious like her too.’
‘I wouldn’t describe her as pretentious, but I think she blows hot and cold,’ I said, defending Amber slightly.
‘Yeah, well, more cold than hot if you ask me. I only met her that one time at book club, but she ignored me totally when I saw her in the street the other day.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t deliberately ignore you, she probably didn’t recognise you,’ I said, doubting Amber had even noticed Kirsty. Her head was filled with Ben, or filming that evening’s programme, or planning one of her glamorous getaways. ‘Honestly, she’s lovely, and her house is to die for,’ I added.
‘Mmm, so you’ve said,’ she murmured. ‘Quite a few times.’
I ignored this; I’d noticed that Kirsty was becoming quite mean and jealous where Amber was concerned. Back then I thought she would get over it and grow to like Amber, but if anything she’s grown to hate her even more.
‘So, she’s been dumped by her boyfriend,’ she said. ‘Can’t say I feel sorry for her. She probably cheated on him; I heard she likes the men.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ I said, sure that Kirsty was just being nasty; she didn’t know any more about Amber than I did. ‘I just know she sounded very upset and angry, and I felt sorry for her. Who knows what happened?’
‘Well, I don’t feel sorry for people like that,’ Kirsty replied. She didn’t want to like Amber, and wasn’t prepared to give her a chance – she was just jealous because she saw a woman who had everything and resented her for it. I realise now that she also saw her as a threat to our friendship; she thought Amber would replace her as my friend, and perhaps she has, but it wasn’t deliberate. These things happen.
I felt disappointed by Kirsty’s immaturity around the whole ‘Amber issue’ and I wasn’t going to even listen to her bitchy comments, let alone join in, because I liked Amber. Our last encounter, when I’d quizzed her too much about her husband, had been difficult, but essentially that was all my fault, and I should have been more sensitive. Yes, it was strange that she was still so affected by his death that she couldn’t talk about it, but I saw something Kirsty couldn’t see because she was blinded by her envy. Since that night I had given it some thought and now, instead of seeing the beautiful woman in her gorgeous home, I saw a woman who appeared to have everything but had a vein of deep sadness running right through her. Her husband had died, and now another man had left, and I had a feeling that all it would take was one little tap and the beautiful, brittle facade would be shattered.
Chapter Seven
Lucy
‘Who is he, what does he want… and do we even know he’s a he?’ I say to Amber the morning after JoJo’s as we eat breakfast at mine.
Amber just shrugs. It’s early, Matt’s already left for work and I’m forcing her to eat poached eggs on avocado toast despite her protestations that she doesn’t eat eggs.
‘You eat eggs when they’re foamed at the top of a cocktail,’ I say, feeling like her mother as I point to the plate, a silent instruction to eat up. ‘Just eat the avocado then?’ I try, but she’s just messing about with the food on her plate. Amber only ever does what she wants to do.
‘It’s been almost a year since Ben walked out,’ she suddenly says.
‘Oh wow, is it that long?’ I say, remembering the night too well: the shouting, the low-flying golf clubs and guttural screaming from her bedroom window.
‘Yes, it was a horrible time; it’s been a horrible year since,’ she adds sadly. ‘I met Ben when I was just twenty-two. We’ve had our ups and down since then, but I think I’ll always love him. He said he wasn’t ready to commit,’ she continues, shaking her head, wanting to talk through it, still desperate to work it out. ‘Twenty fucking years I waited and then he tells me he doesn’t love me any more – it’s not me though, oh no, he has commitment issues. I mean, how many clichés can one man fit into a break-up speech?’ she spits.
I try to console her, tell her she’s better off without him, but hear my own clichés, stop talking and just listen. Apparently when he first moved to Manchester from London, the plan was they’d move in together, start a new life, even get married. ‘I found our perfect home, on Mulberry Avenue,’ she says, ‘but when it was time for us to move in together he’d gone cold and rented a bachelor flat in the city. Can you believe it?’
I shake my head. However many times I hear this story, I still can’t believe it.
‘I had a feeling things weren’t right, but I didn’t listen to my feelings, just listened to him and heard what I wanted to hear. Lies,’ she hisses. I’m surprised her anger is still bubbling after a year; she must have really loved him. I suspect she still does, which saddens me, because he is clearly a pig and doesn’t deserve someone as special as Amber.
‘You were obviously wasted on him,’ I say. ‘Amber, you wouldn’t ever go back to him, would you? I worry he’d only hurt you again.’
‘I don’t think so. But I miss him like hell, Lucy. Okay, I’ve had a few dates, seen other men in the last twelve months, but it isn’t because I’m over him, or moving on. I can’t explain it. I feel like I’m looking for him in everyone I meet, except of course I don’t, because it doesn’t work like that, does it? There’s only one Ben and no one else quite does it for me. Weird, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. I’m sure I’d feel the same if Matt and I split – I’d still love him,
so I’d want to be with him. Sometimes I wonder what I’d do if I ever caught him cheating,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what I’d do, and I don’t want to be tested, but I’d probably kill them both.’ I laugh. The thing is, Matt was my first proper boyfriend, and it’s hard to imagine either of us being with anyone else. We met in our teens and I feel lucky we’re still together. My marriage is so easy and uncomplicated. I still don’t quite understand Amber’s relationship with Ben. One thing I do know is that the solution to missing him doesn’t lie in a million one-night stands, or ‘dates’ as she likes to call them.
‘Perhaps you just need some time alone to get over him. Don’t complicate your heart with other men?’ I offer tactfully, but she isn’t listening to my advice.
‘I haven’t told you this,’ she says, avoiding eye contact, ‘but a couple of weeks ago I bumped into him… Ben, outside JoJo’s.’
‘Oh?’ I say, guessing the end to this story before it’s even been told.
‘Yeah. It was all a bit drunken; we didn’t say much. I’d had a few drinks with the guys after work and was waiting for a taxi. He staggered out, apparently looking for one too. I asked if he’d like to share mine and he agreed.’ She takes a sip from the mug of tea I’ve placed by her plate, the eggs and avocado now abandoned, knife and fork splayed across the congealing yellow and greying green. ‘I assumed when the taxi stopped at mine that he’d just get out and come in with me,’ she continues. ‘I thought we’d just pick up where we left off, like we have in the past. But he didn’t…’ She looks at me with such hurt in those beautiful eyes. I can’t believe he wouldn’t want to be with her, and I’m angry at him for hurting her – and maybe even a little angry with her for letting him.
‘Oh, Amber, you don’t need a man like him! I mean, God, the idiot dumped you after you’d moved your life up here to be with him!’
