The policeman nodded. ‘He was found naked on the porch roof of a local house—’
‘Let me guess,’ I cut in, suddenly seeing everything clearly. Clothes. House. Greg. It could only mean one thing: ‘There was a woman inside whose husband had arrived home and she claims never to have clapped eyes on Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, before in her life.’
‘This has happened before?’ the policewoman asked.
I sighed and shook my head. ‘No, I just always expected it to. Not the breaking and entering. Greg couldn’t break into anything.’
‘Well, that’s for the court to decide,’ the policeman stated.
He’s done it again, I thought. He’s dragged me into another of his sordid exploits. Except now, it’s court. They’re talking about court.
‘Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, he’s a prat, but not a criminal.’ I launched myself into a plea. I couldn’t face court. Walking into a police station had been bad enough. Going into an interrogation room was hideous. Court would finish me off. ‘Please don’t charge him. Please. He won’t do it again, I promise. And, well, he wants to work in America and any kind of criminal record would put paid to that. I can swear on my life that he’s of good character. Please. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. And even though he’s a journalist, he’s always going on about what a good job the police do, especially in the current climate.’ That was pushing it a bit. OK, it was an outright lie, but court! ‘Please don’t let his stupidity ruin the rest of his life. Please.’
An hour later I was stood on the pavement outside the police station. Greg was beside me, wearing the clothes – a WYIFF sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms – I’d brought with me. ‘How long did the cab say it’d be?’ I asked him. He’d had to borrow my phone to call a cab because his mobile, wallet, keys, oh, and clothes were in the house of the woman who’d never seen him before in her life.
‘Not long . . . Oh, Amber, you look so tired,’ he said. ‘Did you fly back from Cannes this morning?’
‘Yup. Flew back, walked in the door, got call from a desperate wannabe criminal needing someone to vouch for him.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Hmm,’ I replied. Course he was sorry. He was always sorry. But not sorry enough to not do it again.
‘Thanks for coming, Amber,’ Greg said. ‘You didn’t have to . . . That policewoman told me how you pleaded my case. She said you were a good mate, not that I didn’t already know that. I only told you about wanting to work in America once and you remembered. That’s so special. Thank you.’
‘What are friends for,’ I replied.
‘Hey, at least one good thing came out of all of this,’ he commented.
‘What’s that, then?’ I asked, waiting to hear how he’d put a new philosophical spin on ‘a friend in need’.
Instead of offering me cod philosophy he wafted a piece of paper under my nose. ‘That policewoman gave me her mobile number. We’re going to go out.’
‘You what?’ I said, turning to him.
‘She was dead sexy, don’t you think? So, we’re going to get to know each other a little better. A lot better, in fact.’
‘You’re actually going to see her?’ I asked, knowing the answer. Knowing that no matter how apologetic he was three minutes ago, he was going to do this.
Greg nodded, smiling at the scrap of paper in his hand as though it was his passport to Shangri-La. ‘Too right.’
I too looked at the small white rectangle in his hand. Then I looked at Greg. Back to the paper. On the back of the paper the future was being shown in glorious Technicolor. There was me, back in that interrogation room, this time in handcuffs with said policewoman threatening to throw away the key because Greg had ill-treated her and it was my fault they’d let him loose on society again. I watched the image play out a few times, then snatched the paper from his hand before he could react, screwed it up between my palms, tossed it into the gutter. The paper glanced off the edge of the grate, then toppled in. Out of sight, out of reach.
‘That’s what I think of that idea,’ I said.
‘What the . . . Amber!’ Greg whimpered in open-mouthed shock, staring at the gutter. ‘What are you doing?!’
‘What am I doing?’ I said, my voice getting louder with each word. ‘What am I doing?! Did you even notice she was wearing a WEDDING ring!’
Greg paused, thought about it, shook his head.
‘NO,’ I shouted as I stormed off to the taxi, which had pulled up in front of us, ‘YOU WOULDN’T, WOULD YOU?’
And this was the man I’d slept with. A man to whom I was probably another entry on his ‘Must “Do” Before I’m Forty’ list. But I’d done it anyway.
That was the real issue. I knew what Greg was like and I’d done it anyway. It frightened me that I could be like that. That I could sleep with him in the first place, and when I did that I could leave his body covered in bites and scratches, and deep nail impressions. We’d only stopped because we ran out of condoms. He didn’t have any more, and I didn’t have any at all. I could have carried on all night if he hadn’t frantically searched through his clothes, then looked at me with anguish in his eyes as we realised that was it. No more sex. No more intense, filthy sex.
I’d rolled away from him as he’d climbed back into bed, closed my eyes, forced myself to sleep in case I decided to do it anyway and worry about the consequences later.
It was as if I’d worn a mask and done those things, as if I’d become Nectar, as Greg branded me (yes, Amber Nectar, he was quick like that, Greg) because I was usually too sensible for such behaviours. I was Good Amber. The steady one.
When we were growing up, it was always Eric, my brother, who got into trouble for not concentrating in class; for not doing his homework; for sneaking out of the house at night. Me? I worked hard, got good marks, went to my first party when I got to university.
In college, it was always Jen who was up in front of tutors for not doing coursework, for not turning up to class; Jen who needed to take the morning-after pill; who I’d bought more than one pregnancy test for. Me? I’d had one-night stands, but I was sensible about them. I had boyfriends, but I was sensible about them too. I went to class; I had safe sex; I’d never needed to wee on any type of stick.
I stopped outside The Conservatory, where I was meeting the others, my body resting against the iron railings. My feet were whining about the shoes: ‘Like walking on razor blades’ was the message they sent my brain in the international language of pain. I lifted one foot and rested it flat against the railings behind me to alleviate the torture.
The thing that scared me most about Friday was how much I’d enjoyed it. How much I’d wanted to do it again and again.
Something had been unleashed in me. Something wild, unpredictable, unknown. I was acting crazy, according to Martha. I’d spent £ stupid on a dress after actually going – alone – into one of those shops where they frisk you on the way in to check you’re not wearing anything that cost less than a tenner.
I switched feet, rested my left foot against the railings behind me to give it momentary relief.
I was different. How, I couldn’t put my finger on, or hold in my head long enough to examine. It went beyond antagonising Renée and decimating my bank account . . . It was . . . I launched myself off the railings, pushed a cold hand through my hair to flatten the locks the wind had whipped up.
I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to overanalyse things, I was going to enjoy myself.
chapter five
mr toffee man
Warmth, sweet-smelling smoke and sounds of a good time surrounded me, drew me in, as I opened the door of The Conservatory, a cellar bar in the middle of town. It had an area with large overstuffed dark leather seats and bookcases filled with real books that made it look like an old-fashioned conservatory.
I clocked my friends straight away, sitting in the conservatory area, each lounging in a leather armchair, with one empty chair for me. I took a
deep breath, reminded myself that nothing was allowed to spoil Jen’s birthday, and strode over.
‘ All right, the party can begin, Amber’s here,’ I said, wrenching a smile across my tight little face. My face seemed to have shrunk, having been rinsed so many times in guilt in the past few minutes. (Think of all the money people could save on face lifts – all they had to do was shag a tart and lie to their best mate about it.)
I went to Jen, who was wearing a silky blue dress with a scoop neck that changed blues with the light (£8.99 from a shop near Leeds Market – we were the bargain hunt queens, Jen and I), her wavy blonde hair was piled up on top of her head, a few tendrils framing her face. I pressed a kiss onto Jen’s warm cheek, enveloped her in a bear hug. Her delicate flower scent cut through the cigarette smoke and filled my senses. Inside, I smiled because that scent was so unmistakeably Jen. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ I said, handing her the bag of pressies. I’d got her thirty little things – a lipstick, an eyeshadow, a mobile phone cover, a blue purse, etc. – one for every year she’d graced the earth. ‘Have you had a nice day?’
My best friend was a primary school teacher and it was half-term, so she’d had the whole day off to enjoy becoming thirty. Jen glanced lovingly at Matt. ‘It’s been fantastic.’
‘Hope you’ve been treating my friend in the manner she rightly deserves,’ I said to Matt, who’d taken the day off to spend with her.
‘Naturally,’ he replied and reached for a smile. Reached for, but gave up when it only managed to pull at the corners of his mouth. When it came to me, smiling was rarely in Matt’s repertoire of expressions. The longer he knew me, the less he smiled at me because there was less he liked about me to smile at. This was obviously an ordeal for him considering we often saw each other two or three times a week. Had done since he and Jen had gotten together three years ago. We had old issues, Matt and I, so old it wasn’t necessary to ponder them now, not when I had far bigger things to worry about. Namely, the person sat to Matt’s left.
My heart beating in triple time, my tongue cowering on the roof of my mouth, I turned in Greg’s direction.
Our eyes collided, and a long look of thinly veiled terror passed between us. Speak, my brain commanded. Say hello.
I opened my mouth and, ‘Awright, Gweggy boy, ’ow’s tricks?’ came out. Oh, sweet Lord, I’m being Cockney Gell.
‘Great,’ Greg said, stiffly. ‘How you doing?’
‘Awright,’ I said, unable to shake my Cockney accent. I was from South London, not East London, this accent had no business installing itself in my mouth.
‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied.
Please could you try to act a bit more shifty? I thought at him. I think there’s one person in Leeds who hasn’t seen by your face that we had sex . . .Says the woman who’s being Cockney Gell.
I slipped off my coat and . . . nothing. Not even a flicker of interest from anyone. So much for all those numbers on the till receipt. Stop it, I chastised myself. This is Jen’s birthday, her thunder, and you’re trying to misappropriate it. I slid shamefully into the chair opposite Greg while Matt and Jen went to the bar. First round of drinks was always on them in here, that was the tradition because that’s how they met. In this bar, at the bar.
As soon as they were out of earshot Greg virtually flung himself across the wooden table. ‘You haven’t told Jen, then,’ he stated with some urgency.
‘Yes, Greg, it’s nice to see you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking, and my weekend was fantastic as well, thanks for asking,’ I replied. All right, so we’d . . . but did that give him any cause to be rude? To forget that we were, first and foremost, friends?
‘What?’ Greg replied, frowning at me.
Evidently it did. ‘No, I haven’t told Jen. Why, have you told Matt?’
Greg’s complexion coloured up. Not a lot, just enough. Enough for me to know he’d blabbed. He’d probably said he’d finally opened the nut that wouldn’t be cracked; sowed his seed in the field that wouldn’t be ploughed; and other euphemisms that’d embarrass even the dodgiest estate agent.
‘I didn’t exactly tell Matt . . . Look, we need to talk.’
I was about to say, ‘We so don’t,’ but my mouth, which was hotwired to my memories of Friday night, said, ‘OK, talk.’
‘Not now. Later. When we’re all leaving, I’ll say I’ll see you home and we can t— Oh, that’s easy. All you have to do is get a scart lead, hook it up to your hi-fi and TV. Simple. Surround sound.’
Whaatt?! I thought, as Matt plonked four pints on the table. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘But wait for the other half, she’s got the aperitifs.’
Jen returned from the bar with four tequila shots, four pieces of lime and a salt shaker on a black plastic tray. A movie line raced across my head as I stared at the tequila: Nobody gets out of here alive.
‘We’ve got a bit of an announcement,’ Jen said.
We’d moved on to Jumbo’s, a posh Chinese restaurant tucked away in Vicar Lane. It had round tables with peachcoloured tablecloths and at the centre of each table sat soya sauce in white jugs and slices of ginger in shallow white dishes. Beside each place setting, on peach-coloured napkins, rested porcelain chopsticks with blue Chinese writing on the base. Our starters of prawn toast, spring rolls and dim sum had arrived by this point.
I’d already stuffed two whole pieces of prawn toast into my mouth to stop myself speaking. To stop myself blurting out something that would tell them I’d had sex with Greg. That I’d been a bad girl. A slut. A veritable whore.
As Jen spoke I realised what else had been niggling at my mind. Matt. He’d been fiddling with his heavy cotton napkin and chopsticks since we’d sat down. He hadn’t unfolded the peach napkin – he’d been worrying one of the corners, or picking up a chopstick, tapping it lightly on the table like he was playing the drums. These weren’t the actions of a man who was happy with the announcement.
Matthew Shepherd had never struck me as the nervous type, but his angular features – visible cheekbones, thin lips and straight nose – were all more pinched than usual. Tense. Admittedly this was a big step. Leaving the comfort of the house he had shared in Hyde Park with Greg and another bloke, Rocky, since he was nineteen, to move in with his girlfriend in grown-up Allerton was terrifying. Knowing that your second childhood was coming to an end would scare you. It’d terrify me. But they’d been together three years, they were solid. Rock solid.
I watched Matt rub at the napkin corner, his green eyes not resting on anyone or anything for long. He was toffee. I’d known that the second I clapped eyes on him.
When we were little, my brother and I would play the Sweet Game. One of us would think of a person and the other one would say what kind of chocolate that person was. Like: ‘If Mum was a chocolate, what would she be?’
‘A Wagon Wheel, short and round.’
In the following twenty years, Eric, my brother, had grown up. I had grown into the game. As I discovered the illicit pleasures of confectionery, my chocolate assignments became more detailed. You could tell so much about a person by your initial encounter, your initial ‘taste’ of them. Talk to me for three minutes and I’ll be able to tell you what chocolate you’d be.
Which was why Matt was toffee. He was in no way chocolate and all the sensuous delights it brought. Inside him, at the very core of his being, was a lump of toffee. Something that had no depth. Under each layer was nothing but more toffee. Try as you might you’d find nothing but hard, unchanging, unadventurous toffee. All right, it was made with the best ingredients – hand-spun butter; thick, gloopy cream from an organically raised cow; top-quality, sun-grown sugarcane sugar – but it was still toffee. It was still unchanging. I liked toffee, I liked Matt, but there was only so much of it you could take.
I did like Matt, though. And, if I listened to myself, I would hear ‘methinks the lady doth protest too much’, but he was just so one-dimensional. Even now I’d never worked out why Matt and Greg had been friends for so l
ong. Greg was Mr Adventure, Matt was Mr Dull.
They’d been mates since Matt’s family had moved from Doncaster to Sheffield when they were nine. They’d then gone to all the same schools and applied to college in Leeds together. How they met, neither of them could tell.
‘Men don’t find meeting stories important,’ Matt had once said.
‘Unless you were knocking off his sister or his bird at the time. Then you generally remember the fight you had,’ Greg added.
I hadn’t known them long at that point. I still thought of Greg as a tosser who got away with far too much because of his beauty. And Matt, well, I thought, He’s toffee, but I’ll have to get on with him because Jen’s mad keen on him.
‘Come on, don’t keep us in suspenders, what’s the score?’ Greg said into the long pause that followed Jen’s statement.
Jen gazed at Matt and grinned. Matt winked at her then paled a fraction more, while fid, fid, fiddling with his chopstick.
‘We’re moving in together,’ Jen said, her face flushed with happiness, her blue eyes sparkling.
‘Fantastic!’ I whooped. ‘When did you decide? I want to know everything.’ I would, of course, be receiving Oscar nominations for that performance of ‘Woman Stunned By News’.
‘It’s my birthday present.’
‘Great present, Matt. Makes everything I bought seem pretty insignificant by comparison. Oh well, I’ll have to get you a creative moving-in pressie.’
‘We wanted a cappuccino-maker, I’ve seen a couple in Habitat,’ Matt said.
‘You can forget that! You’ll get some paper cups with “congratulations” on them and like them, m’laddie,’ I joked.
Something was missing. Someone’s voice, opinion, congratulations weren’t there. ‘What do you think, mate?’ Matt asked Greg.
We all turned to Greg. Greg’s hand had frozen between taking a piece of prawn toast off his plate and putting it into his mouth, his eyes were anchored on Matt.
‘Mate?’ Matt repeated.
The Chocolate Run Page 4
