Don't Want To Miss A Thing

by Mansell, Jill

  ‘Put some effort in,’ Amber told Sam. ‘Practice, practice and more practice.’

  Molly smiled at them both. ‘Exactly. And have fun.’

  Twenty minutes later, Sam had completed his first caricature. He showed Molly. ‘Well?’

  ‘That’s really good.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Um . . . Mick Jagger?’

  ‘No!’

  Amber stifled laughter.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Molly.

  Sam gave her a wounded look. ‘It’s meant to be Steve Tyler.’

  ‘Well, it looks just like him. Both of them, in fact. They’re practically twins anyway,’ said Molly.

  He peered across at Amber’s drawing pad. ‘Who are you doing? Is that Shrek?’

  Amber looked innocent. ‘Actually, it’s you.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ He grinned.

  She liked the way he took her teasing in his stride. ‘No, it’s Shrek. So are you going to be coming along every week from now on?’

  ‘I don’t know, depends what else is on. Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Cheltenham.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You’ve got a short memory. Sam.’

  ‘I know that. Surname.’

  ‘Why, so you can look me up?’

  Rumbled. Amber shook back her magenta curls and said impishly, ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Sam Jones. But I’m not on Facebook.’

  ‘Seriously? Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s possible to live without it, you know.’

  ‘How about BBM?’

  ‘No.’

  Shocked, Amber said, ‘So how do you keep in touch with people?’

  ‘Emails. Texts. Don’t worry, I manage.’

  They carried on drawing and chatting. For a while they talked about music. Then things moved on to the A levels he was taking in the next three months, his plans for a gap year before university and how his parents were coping with the prospect of him leaving home.

  ‘My dad’ll be fine. Mum’s dreading it. How about yours?’

  ‘Oh, I’m only in year twelve, I’ve got another year to go yet. But they’ll miss me when I move out, I know that. There’s only me,’ said Amber. ‘So they won’t know what to do with themselves once I’ve gone.’

  ‘And your mum runs the café. She seemed nice when I saw her.’ Sam was now attempting a caricature of Prince Charles; he paused to peer at the photograph he was working from. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘My mum? She’s the village agony aunt. If people have problems, she’s the one they come to. It’s that thing she has.’ Amber searched for the right word. ‘Empathy. It’s like she always understands and never judges. Kind of the opposite of me,’ she added with a grin. ‘I’m not gentle at all and I’m very judgy.’

  ‘Judgemental.’

  ‘I also don’t like it when people try to tell me I’ve said the wrong word. I prefer my way.’

  ‘More of the judgy, less of the mental.’ His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘What’s your dad like?’

  ‘He’s great. Always busy,’ Amber amended. ‘But fun too. We’re just a really happy family. Sorry if that’s not very interesting, but it’s the truth. How about yours?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Nothing too traumatic. Same, pretty much. Better than a lot of people.’

  ‘How are we getting on here?’ Having done the rounds of the group, Molly was back. She stood behind them, rested her hands on each of their shoulders and surveyed their work. ‘Very nice, both of you.’ She winked as Amber twisted round to look up at her.

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t even think it,’ said Amber. ‘I’m not his type and he isn’t mine.’

  ‘OK, so that’s me told. In that case I want you to move your chairs so you’re facing each other.’ Molly took a step back and gestured with her arms. ‘And I want you to draw each other.’

  Sam frowned. ‘What, our faces?’

  ‘Whole body caricatures. As exaggerated as you want. And I wouldn’t ask you to do this if you were each other’s types,’ said Molly. ‘Because you’d probably end up being offended and having a massive row. But seeing as you aren’t, you can draw away and be as mean as you like.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Amber’s eyes gleamed in anticipation.

  ‘So come on.’ Molly addressed Sam. ‘What would you exaggerate in order to draw Amber?’

  ‘Mad hair.’ Sam made spiralling gestures around his head.

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘Giant gypsy earrings.’

  Amber jangled them with pride; she always wore huge silver hoops in her ears.

  ‘And?’ said Molly.

  ‘Bony shoulders. Big feet.’

  Amber gasped at this slur. ‘Hey, watch it, Bambi.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Sam.

  ‘Your eyes! Those great long girly eyelashes. Like a camel.’

  ‘Draw each other,’ Molly said calmly, ‘and try not to come to blows. Can you manage that, d’you think, or shall I pair you up with Greg and Toby instead?’

  Sam looked at Amber. ‘Would you rather do that?’

  Amber smiled slightly. ‘No.’

  He shook his head at Molly and said, ‘It’s OK, we’ll be fine.’

  Chapter 16

  The evening class was about to come to an end. Frankie, watching from the doorway, inwardly revelled in the sight of Amber and the good-looking boy sparring with each other as they compared their finished drawings. After all these weeks he’d come back. What’s more, they seemed to be getting on well together. Was this a sign that Amber was finally growing out of her grunge-boy phase? No offence to all the grungy boyfriends she’d brought home over the last couple of years, but please God make it so.

  ‘Mum, over here!’ Having spotted her, Amber enthusiastically beckoned her over. ‘Look what we’ve been doing!’

  ‘Hello, nice to see you again.’ Frankie beamed at the boy with the long-lashed green eyes, floppy hair and fresh complexion.

  ‘Hi.’ He smiled back at her.

  ‘His name’s Sam,’ said Amber, showing off her artwork. ‘See how I’ve given him a camelly kind of face?’

  ‘Very good. You don’t really look like a camel,’ Frankie assured Sam. Then she burst out laughing at the sight of the caricature he’d drawn of Amber.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Amber tutted. ‘You’re only supposed to laugh at my picture of him.’

  ‘I can’t draw. I’m rubbish,’ Sam said good-naturedly. ‘But it’s been fun.’

  He was wearing really nice aftershave; such a novelty. ‘They’re both great. And having fun’s what it’s all about.’ She smiled again at Sam and hoped she wasn’t scaring him. Was this how Carole Middleton had felt when Kate first introduced her to Prince William?

  ‘Actually, Mum, I was telling Sam about you being a kind of agony aunt, good with problems and stuff. And he’s got one you might be able to help with.’ As Amber said the words, Frankie saw the boy tense up and look momentarily panicked.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Amber’s earrings jangled as she reassured him. ‘I know it’s hard to come out and say it. Want me to do this for you? The thing is, Mum, Sam’s got this secret and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He likes dressing up in girls’ clothes. Skirts and high heels and stuff.’ Lowering her voice she added, ‘And, you know, lacy underwear. I’ve told him it’s fine, nothing to be ashamed of, but do you think he should tell all his friends?’

  For the first few seconds Frankie had believed the story; her brain had shot into overdrive, ricocheting wildly from Oh no! and Poor boy to How can I help him? Then she’d realised it was just one of Amber’s silly jokes and there was no need to worry after all.

  What was interesting, though, was the way she and Sam both relaxed at the same time, as if the two of them had been simultaneously bracing themselves for whatever Amber may have been about to say.

  Then again, that was the trouble wi
th Amber; no one could ever know with certainty what might be about to come out of her mouth.

  Frankly, was it any wonder the poor boy was nervous?

  As he left Briarwood behind him, Sam’s heart was racing. He’d covered his tracks, hadn’t he? Left no clues. Two visits now and he knew he shouldn’t be pushing his luck. But what he hadn’t anticipated was how strong the pull would be.

  Was this how it felt to be addicted to hard drugs? Knowing it was wrong and that you were dicing with danger but feeling the overwhelming need to go ahead and do it anyway?

  Well, maybe once he was back at home he’d come to his senses. Realise that he should leave it now.

  He’d already done what he’d come here to do.

  Sam’s heart quickened.

  Hadn’t he?

  Facebook, Facebook, brilliant Facebook. What Amber loved most about it was the way it wasn’t just a question of who you knew, but who your friends and their friends might know. Similarly, she might not go to school in Cheltenham but she knew some girls who did.

  Bournside was by far the biggest; the odds were that Sam was in the sixth form there.

  Except . . . after asking around a bit, it seemed he didn’t.

  Never one to give up at the first fence, Amber doggedly made her way through the other schools in the area; the independents, the boys only, the Catholic one . . . eventually she even double-checked that Cheltenham Ladies’ College hadn’t started taking boys.

  But no one anywhere had heard of Sam Jones.

  Which . . . and there was no getting away from it . . . was totally weird.

  The other thing that had piqued her curiosity was the comment her mother had made in passing: ‘Did you see the look on that boy’s face when you said he had a secret? For a moment there he was terrified!’

  ‘Maybe he really is a transvestite.’ Amber had looked innocent.

  Her mum had been appalled. ‘Oh darling, don’t say that. Of course he isn’t.’

  This had happened earlier, been said jokingly over dinner in front of the TV. Neither of them had thought any more of it at the time. But it was midnight now and Amber was beginning to have second thoughts. Adjusting the pillows propping her up in bed, she frowned at the screen of her laptop. Sam Jones. Samuel Jones. Could Sam be short for some foreign name that might solve the mystery?

  The front door opened and closed downstairs, signalling her dad’s return. He’d been working down in Dorset for the last two days.

  Amber heard her mum say, ‘You’re home!’ and knew they were hugging each other in the hallway.

  ‘You didn’t have to wait up for me.’ Her dad always said it every time he got home late and her mum always waited up anyway.

  ‘No problem. Hungry? There’s pasta left, or cold chicken and potato salad.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I grabbed something at the services outside Winchester. Where’s my girl anyway?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Oh. Asleep?’

  He sounded disappointed. There was something wonderfully comforting about overhearing yourself being discussed by people who loved you. Switching her laptop on to standby, Amber sang out, ‘I’m still awake,’ and heard footsteps bounding up the staircase.

  ‘There you are.’ Her dad appeared in the bedroom doorway. ‘Hey, sweetie, missed you.’

  ‘Missed you too.’ Amber held out her arms for a kiss and breathed in the scent of the aftershave he’d bought himself the other week, more lemony that the one she was used to, but still nice.

  ‘Brought you a present.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘A nice jar of fish eyes and some pickled pigs’ ears.’

  It wasn’t that, of course. She watched as he produced a packet of Maltesers. Maybe it was childish but it was a long-standing tradition that whenever he came home he brought her a tiny present and told her it was something revolting.

  ‘Pigs’ ears are my favourite.’ Amber held out her hand and he dropped the Maltesers packet into it. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘How’s school? Get that essay finished?’

  ‘Yeah, it took ages.’ She moved her feet out of the way as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘But was it good in the end?’

  ‘It was brilliant.’ She grinned. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. And so modest too. Now look at the time.’ He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘You should be asleep.’

  She was tired. As he took the laptop away from her and placed it on the chest of drawers, Amber said, ‘Dad, what should you do if you find out someone’s been lying to you?’

  He looked serious. ‘Who is it? One of your friends?’

  ‘Not really. Just a boy.’

  ‘Daniel with the shark-tooth necklace?’ He tried not to sound too hopeful.

  ‘No.’ Her parents weren’t great fans of Daniel. ‘Someone I’ve only met twice. He came along to Molly’s class tonight.’

  ‘And is he keen on you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Amber shook her head. ‘He says he isn’t. But Molly and Mum think he probably is.’ A huge yawn overtook her.

  ‘Maybe he’s just showing off, trying to impress you. But if you’ve only just met this boy and he’s lying already, it’s not a great start. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.’

  Another yawn, she was really tired now. As her dad reached the doorway Amber said, ‘Don’t worry, I already don’t trust him.’

  He gave a nod of approval. ‘Good.’

  In the changing room of his select West London health club, Henry Baron was in the process of placing his belongings in a locker when his phone went ttting to indicate the arrival of an email in his inbox.

  Force of habit meant he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it. It wasn’t just that he was terminally conscientious; when you worked as a hedge fund manager, time was money and you never knew what you might be missing out on. Henry unzipped his sports bag, took out his phone and saw that it was a message from Dex.

  OK, just a quick look. He opened the email, which said: ‘And this is me introducing Delphi to my new girlfriend . . .’

  The attached photo was of Delphi in an orange bobble hat and purple anorak pulling a comically surprised face as a result of finding herself nose to nose with a beady-eyed, tufty-chinned goat.

  Henry didn’t mind admitting – though only to himself – he’d had his concerns about his friend’s ability to handle such a radical change of lifestyle. But so far, thankfully, Dex appeared to be managing to cope. He smiled, but his gaze was already being drawn to another character caught in the background of the photo. Her light brown hair was half blowing across her face but she was laughing at Delphi’s expression as she passed behind him, carrying a tray of cups.

  The door to the changing room was pushed open and Henry’s squash partner stuck his head round.

  ‘There you are! We’re waiting for you.’

  Henry said absently, ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  The door closed again and he enlarged the photo as far as it would go. Delphi and the goat disappeared off the bottom of the screen as he zoomed in on the woman whose face was almost hypnotically drawing him to her. She was around forty, at a guess, and wearing a red shirt and jeans. Her figure was curvy, her face lit up; her smile was . . . oh God, Henry couldn’t believe he was even thinking this, but it was just magical. He didn’t want to stop looking at her, which had to be the most ridiculous situation ever, because it wasn’t as if he knew her or she was even someone famous . . .

  OK, get a grip, switch off the phone, you’ve got a squash match to play.

  An hour later, with the match won, Henry switched his phone back on and texted: ‘Great photo. Where were you when you took it – some kind of zoo?’

  See? Subtle.

  The reply pinged back less than a minute later. ‘No! Right here in the village at our local café. It’s where that TV show Next to You was filmed, hence the goat. PS: Who isn’t really my new girlfriend. Mainly because he’s a boy goat.’
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  Yes. Henry experienced the kind of adrenalin rush he got when he took a major punt on a risky deal and saw it pay off. This meant if he did happen to find himself in Briarwood he might just decide on the off chance to call in at the café and there was a possibility the woman might still be working there –

  Oh God, unless she didn’t work there. He shuddered at the belated realisation that she might not, could in fact just have been a customer carrying a tray.

  And there was definitely no way he was going to ask Dex, whose capacity for mischief was second to none.

  OK. Think, think. He was possibly one of the few people who hadn’t watched Next to You, but he’d heard of it. And it had presumably featured a goat . . .

  Henry put Next to You + Briarwood + café into Google.

  And up it came, Frankie’s Café, a modest website welcoming visitors to Briarwood, explaining the history of the show and the opening times of the café. There were also photos of the house, of various items of Next to You memorabilia and of the tethered billy goat whose name was apparently Young Bert.

  Best of all, there was a photograph of Frankie, who owned and ran the café and wasn’t a Frankie of the Sinatra kind. It was her, this time aware that she was being photographed and visibly self-conscious about it, her shoulders a bit stiff and her smile fixed. But that just drew Henry to her all the more. He was the same, tensing up whenever a camera was pointed in his direction. Some people could relax and not let it bother them; some actively loved it, relishing the chance to preen and pose and show themselves off. Personally he found it as relaxing as root canal work.

  It felt like another connection between them. Henry gazed at Frankie’s face, taking in every last detail, feeling as if he knew her and knowing that he definitely wanted to. Was he going mad? It wasn’t normal, surely, to be this affected by a photo of a complete stranger?

  Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

  But she looked so perfect, so right.

  ‘Haven’t you even got in the shower yet?’ Kenny, a towel fastened round his waist, was vigorously spraying his underarms with deodorant.

  ‘Some of us have important business to take care of. It’s called making money,’ said Henry. ‘Give me two minutes.’