by Sue Watson
I never stopped loving Michael, but Ben was my exciting dirty secret, and after a while I wanted more than just the odd night – I wanted Ben full-time. It was a horrible mess, but after months of rented afternoon hotel rooms and snatched kisses in the lift at work, we agreed to leave our marriages and run away together.
I didn’t waste any time. I didn’t want to continue living a lie and hurt Michael any more than I had to, so I told him straight away. I was very honest, said I loved someone else, and packed an overnight bag and left immediately, while he begged me to stay.
I was young and selfish and Michael wasn’t my future, Ben was, and I wasted no time in going straight to the hotel, where Ben and I had arranged to meet once we’d told our respective partners. I checked in and waited in the room where we’d plan our new lives together. I waited, and waited, and when it got dark outside, I had this horrible feeling that he might not be coming, which was confirmed when the hotel reception rang. At first I thought they were calling to tell me he’d had an accident, so sure was I of our future together – only an horrific accident could stop him from being with me. But they were calling to tell me Ben had ‘a family emergency’, which of course was his way of backing out.
Ben had allowed me to ruin my own life, my own marriage, but hadn’t kept his part of the bargain. So I went back home, to the only real home I’d ever had – with Michael. But things were never the same and I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.
I’m thinking about Michael when my phone rings this morning. I panic slightly; it’s not a number I’m familiar with. But I pick up anyway, and hear Ben’s sexy voice.
‘Amber… It’s Ben… Ben from work?’ As if there was any other Ben in the world. I’ve seen him around the studio in the last few weeks, but as I don’t work for him directly and have a different line manager, our paths rarely cross. I’m amazed that his voice still has the ability to turn me to mush.
‘You’ve changed your number,’ I say.
‘Er… Yes, I… A different contract.’
And I suddenly realise with deep embarrassment that I’d made rather a lot of calls to his old number when we’d parted last. He’d changed it so I couldn’t contact him.
‘Do you have five minutes… quick chat?’ He’s straight to the point, no messing about, but that’s Ben.
My heart misses a beat. Is he calling to ask that we get back together or is he ringing me about work?
‘Yes… I just have to listen out for Mia,’ I say, sounding like the perfect new mum, which I’m not (though since Lucy left I’ve been forced to learn fast).
‘I was just wondering how you are.’
I relax at this; it’s music to my ears. ‘I’m good.’ I’m smiling from ear to ear but don’t want to give anything away. He wants me back, he can’t live without me. But this time even if we do get back together, I won’t make it quite so easy for him. ‘Look, Ben, it’s good of you to call, but is this about work?’
‘Yeah… kind of … It’s about the case you were involved in. The stalker? I watched it closely.’
I don’t say anything. My heart drops. Where the hell is this leading? Is he going to use the stalker drama as a way to get rid of me at work? Not good for the brand, the advertisers don’t like it et cetera. I’m clutching the phone to my face while pacing the living room. What if I lose my job? My career? Apart from Mia, who I adore, whose sweet little face is what gets me up each morning, work is the only thing that’s keeping me sane.
‘I love the late shifts and the audience figures are good, I think.’ I try to hide the question in my voice.
‘Yes, they are. You’ve always been a popular on-screen talent.’
Thank God! So he isn’t calling to sack me.
‘I’m calling because… I’d like to chat. Perhaps we could have coffee, talk about the court case?’
I have to sit down – how intriguing.
I realise in this moment that the answer is YESSS! I know I’d also sleep with him in a heartbeat, but I continue to play it cool. ‘I’d love… to have coffee with you,’ I say. Whatever happened between me and Matt, I know that it’s over. There’s only one man I want, one man I’ve ever wanted – Ben.
***
So while other teenagers kissed and drank cider in the park, I sat on the sofa dreaming of stormy oceans and endless continents. I watched in awe as those weather girls purred over warm fronts and tingled as they talked of Arctic winds. Those women had time for me, they were perfect in their designer suits and shiny hair – they didn’t piss their pants and fall down the stairs drunk. They were real women.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lucy
I received a letter in the post from Matt this morning, informing me that he would never come to terms with what I’d done. He said that Amber was happy now I wasn’t around, that her mental health had suffered because of me. He said he didn’t know how I could sleep at night after what I’d done to her, the trauma I inflicted on all their lives.
These days, my life is so different. I live in a small, rented flat, I have no job and Matt’s letter felt like something from the past, another life, another time. I can barely say her name, I’m filled with such resentment and hatred – she’s taken everything, and she did it right under my nose. She pretended to be my friend. I gave her so much and still she took more.
I can’t comprehend what’s happened to me. In just a few hours my life changed, and nothing will ever be the same again. I lost my home, my job, my marriage and my future – there’s nothing left to live for – and it’s all Amber Young’s fault. The police only found one message on my lost phone, but still I have a suspended sentence and a criminal record. And my crime? My crime is that I cared too much about my friend. As it is, I can’t go near her, Mia, my husband or my home, and if I do anything that is considered to be against the law, I’ll be sent straight to prison.
I thought I’d done the impossible and transformed myself, changed my life, fought nature and nurture and come out the other end as Lucy – kind, sweet Lucy, the teacher married to Matt. I thought I’d changed, but perhaps it’s my destiny. People who knew me as a kid had me down as someone who would end up in prison. Even my own mother said I was trouble, so she wouldn’t be surprised at the way things turned out for me. But I tried so hard, I really did, and for a while I thought I was winning.
From an early age I had problems at school; my family was considered dysfunctional, and I was emotionally unstable. Now I can see that like many children from ‘difficult’ homes I was simply unsupported and misunderstood. I’d fight, scream in class, swear at teachers and didn’t attend school; I was angry and antisocial.
Then, in my final year, Miss Brownley became my year tutor. As a new, young teacher, she was an idealist, believed anything was possible and, where other teachers hadn’t bothered, she tried to reach me. She’d ask my opinion, seemed to care what I thought and most of all wasn’t scared of me. Until then, teachers had behaved defensively towards me, as if I might stab someone every time I walked into the classroom. I was staggered when Miss Brownley asked me to stay after class and, instead of reprimanding me for something, invited me to join the English reading group with all the swotty kids. My instinct was to say fuck off, but I said a grudging ‘okay’ because even that torture would be better than going home, and the fact she’d even bothered to speak to me like I was human made me feel special. The other teachers treated me like an animal, probably because I behaved like one. So I started her reading group and discovered how books could help me escape my horrible life.
I loved being around Miss Brownley; she smelled of fresh, cut flowers and sunshine, unlike my mother, who reeked of nicotine and alcohol. She glided to the blackboard, putting pencils through her long auburn hair to keep it there; she was effortless, graceful, beautiful – a goddess to me. In the following weeks, I stayed on after school tidying the classroom, reading the books she’d given to me, and sometimes she’d stay behind too and mark her papers.
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br /> ‘You not going home tonight, Lucy Lou?’ she’d say. The nickname she always used for me made me feel like I belonged. As a teacher myself I now realise she must have guessed I didn’t want to go home, and was probably concerned about me. I see the warning signs with troubled children in my class – they are only small, but the imprint is already there for life. I always hope that I’ve got there in time before the damage is done – but when is too late?
Then one day, Miss Brownley invited me to her house for tea. I couldn’t believe it, I’d never even been invited to tea by classmates and so-called friends. No one’s mother wanted me near their kid, so to be invited by my favourite teacher was amazing. I could barely concentrate on my lessons all day, and after school I went home, where I told my mum, who didn’t care because she had more pressing business with a vodka bottle and twenty ciggies. So with Miss Brownley’s address written on a bit of paper, I ran all the way there, unable to contain my excitement. I was sixteen years old and I’d never been in a house like hers: a lovely little cottage with groaning bookshelves, a squashy sofa and a kitchen heady with the strange and exotic aromas of garlic and basil. We talked books, books, books, my blissful escape into other worlds, kinder, cleaner, more tranquil lives. I remember pointing out that she shared the same first name as Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby and she recoiled in horror.
‘I do hope I’m not like Daisy Buchanan,’ she said.
‘Yes, she’s beautiful, like you.’ I was confused, I’d meant it as a compliment.
‘It’s not about how people look, Lucy, it’s who they are that matters,’ she said, hunting for the book on her crammed bookshelves and flicking through until she found what she was looking for and then reading out loud: ‘“They were careless people, Tom and Daisy – they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness...”’ She looked up from the dog-eared Penguin copy, with its orange spine and yellowing pages. ‘Daisy was rich and beautiful, but she isn’t someone to aspire to.’
‘No, I take it all back, you’re not like Daisy,’ I said, and she laughed.
Miss Brownley seemed to me to be the opposite of Daisy Buchanan; she was far deeper, more thoughtful, more loyal even. My Daisy would never hurt anyone. But later that summer, I realised how much like Gatsby’s Daisy she was – she smashed up my life… She’d given me hope where there was none, then retreated back into her safe little life. My Daisy’s carelessness had been as vast as Daisy Buchanan’s.
But during that first perfect evening in her home, how could I possibly envisage what would happen as we chatted and she cooked glamorous Italian food? I’d never had Bolognese before – it tasted strange and exotic and quite delicious. We ate outside at a little wooden table on rickety seats in her tiny garden and afterwards we watched the sun disappear behind the trees. My personal heaven on earth.
‘Miss, I feel like we’re in Italy,’ I said, and she smiled affectionately.
‘Ciao bella!’ she said, lifting her water glass to meet mine, and we clinked them together.
After we’d eaten, she showed me the roses in her garden, making me close my eyes to smell their sweetness. I can feel it now, the velvet rose tickling my nose as she held it to me, the rich, heady fragrance of summer. As we stood amid the blooms, her hand accidentally brushed mine – it was nothing, yet at sixteen, for me it was everything, and the frisson went through me like an orgasm. Dusk was enveloping us in warm pink and I dragged my eyes from the sea of pink roses to look at her. She was already waiting for me, her eyes on mine, and I wasn’t surprised when she reached out her hand, the softness touching my face. It felt surreal when her middle finger began stroking my lips. I was dizzy with desire, the roses like pot in my nostrils, my head filled with the moment, everything crowding in.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the kiss. But it never came, and after a while I opened them, and could see from her face, the glitter in her eyes, that she felt the same way. It would be our secret.
Before I could say anything, she’d moved to the table, collecting our empty plates, chattering about how she had lots of marking to do and she’d drive me home now. I was confused, but at the same time I was so happy, because I knew she felt the same as me. We had all the summer ahead of us and it was a matter of time before we kissed in her beautiful garden.
The next day in class, I held our secret close, just watching her, mesmerised. I let my imagination run away with me, daydreaming about us living together in that lovely little cottage. It was innocent, naive – but for a damaged child looking for love it was also intense, a fire that couldn’t be extinguished without someone being hurt.
When she invited me again for tea, I was beyond excited, taking along a bunch of giant daisies bought with money I’d taken from mum’s purse. I considered asking her that evening if I could go and live with her; she’d told me once she was lonely and I was lonely too. I proudly presented my bunch of daisies to her at the door as she swept me up in a warm hug. Then she grabbed me by the hand, pulling me into her home, me tripping behind her, giddy with expectation, my face flushed with the promise of what was to come.
We walked into her warm, cosy kitchen. I remember a row of mismatched glass jars filled with deep amber chutney lined the windowsill; they each had red-and-white checked covers that looked like hats. All neatly labelled, the whole picture epitomised a clean and tidy life, one with labels and lids all neatly planned and laid out in a row. How beautiful they looked. How clever she was. How I wanted to live this life.
‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ she suddenly said in a grown-up voice as we entered the kitchen. ‘Tony, he’s my fiancé…’
I couldn’t quite take this in. She had someone else? She’d betrayed me with someone called Tony. Everything I was hoping for – my escape, our new life together – was gone in a moment. And here he was, a smug smile on his face, a patronising hand reaching out to shake mine. My rival, my nemesis, was standing in our kitchen. I wanted to take the kitchen knife and stab him right there and then.
I don’t know what came over me, but I remember silently heading straight for that perfect row of amber chutney. Wiping my arm across the windowsill, I toppled them all, and they came crashing down, a mess of glass and fruit. The sweet, tangy fragrance hit me even in my traumatised state. I screamed obscenities at both of them as they stood in shock, Daisy with tears streaming down her face, him standing in front of her protectively. And then he bundled me out of the house and locked the door. I’ll never forget the clicking of that lock; it was a metaphor for my life. As if I would ever have done anything to hurt Daisy Brownley.
It was all so horrific, I still sometimes cringe now at my reaction, my lack of control, my animal rage and hurt. In that moment, I proved all the teachers and social workers right, and proved Daisy Brownley wrong. All the words that had been used to describe me were accurate – I was antisocial, out of control, violent and unpredictable. But in reality I was little more than a child who thought she’d found love. And lost it.
I never saw Daisy Brownley again after that summer, which made me sad – but there was so much worse to come.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Amber
I’d implied to Lucy and Matt – and everyone else – that number 13 was mine, that I’d bought it when I moved here to be the weather girl, but in reality it was just rented. I couldn’t afford to buy it on my own, so arranged to rent until Ben joined me and then we’d buy it together, but when he dumped me that all collapsed. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave, so just paid ridiculous rent and got myself into debt because I had an image to keep up. Everyone on Treetops Estate seemed so impressed by my rather minor celebrity. I didn’t want to disappoint them, so kept up the pretence. I used to tell everyone I was going away for weekends in Cannes on millionaires’ yachts. I’ve never been to bloody Cannes – I just wanted to give the girls at the book club a thrill and let everyone think I lived this amazing fucking life of parties and champag
ne. What I was really doing on my ‘fabulous weekends’ was staying in the house with the shutters closed getting some bloody peace and quiet and trying to fight the demons that come to me when I’m alone in the dark. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by what I did, by what I had and lost and by my empty, pointless life with no future. I’ve always been tormented by my failure to succeed and, though I have my beautiful baby, I still feel regret about the past and fear for the future. And now there’s no place to hide. I’ve really gone and fucked everything up. I’m stuck in a bloody three-bedroomed rabbit hutch with someone else’s husband. It’s a huge mistake and it’s all my fault. And guess what? The grass wasn’t greener and this isn’t what I wanted, and what makes it even worse is that I am the antithesis of everything I ever wanted to be. I am living my worst nightmare – I take care of Mia, I clean and I wait for Matt to come home at night. There’s no Lucy to babysit, so when I’m not at work I’m tied to the house – and Matt’s become so needy I don’t even fancy him anymore.
