I returned to the ballroom, heading back through the smoke and almost-visible pheromones as bodies writhed to ‘Careless Whisper’, heading towards what had become our pillar. I stayed close to the pillars that ringed the dance floor so I wouldn’t be caught up in the mass of people who’d got lucky and intimate. Once upon a time I would’ve vilified these people, but now I could understand. I was that yucky couple. I was one of those people who wanted to snog and grind to George Michael with someone I found—
‘Amber was the one you were talking about that day at my flat?’ Jen was saying, above the music.
‘Yup,’ Greg replied.
‘So you like her?’ Jen asked.
‘We’re moving in together, what do you think?’
‘I think you fucked me and you’ve moved on to my friend because I told you it was a mistake.’
The earth lurched on its axis, taking me with it. ‘I think you fucked me.’
I stood stock still but I heard it again: ‘I think you fucked me.’
And again. ‘I think you fucked me.’ Those words popped in my ears, under my skin, exploding like fireworks in my blood.
‘I think you fucked me.’ It started to kick in my chest. Kick in my stomach. Kick in my guts.
‘No, Jenna, I told you it was a mistake. And we agreed never to bring it up again.’
Acid-like, champagne gushed up my throat and hit the back of my mouth.
I sensed movement to my side. My eyes swivelled towards it. Matt. He was stood near me. Matt. So smart in his black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie. He was holding four champagne glasses. And then he wasn’t. They slipped from his fingers, twisting and falling as they headed in slow motion for the floor. They exploded, showering both our feet in champagne.
The music stopped for a fraction of a second, a fraction of silence that magnified the smashing of champagne flutes. Greg and Jen turned to the source of the sound, as did half the room, I’d imagine.
Greg and Jen. The image of them naked, covered in sweat, moving together bolted across my mind. Him moving inside her. Whispering her name, telling her he loved her.
Greg and Jen.
Jen and Greg.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to prevent champagne spewing out, spun on my fancy heels. Had to get out of there. I wanted to run. Wanted to sprint out of there but the dress bound my legs together and I could only do that stupid wiggly-bottomed walk.
I heard him calling my name. Above the music, I heard him. Heard him like he was far away and I was slightly deaf. Or should that be dumb?
I hitched up the dress to my knees. I could move faster. My legs propelling me out of the ballroom, into the corridor and towards the lift as the doors were sliding together. I threw myself through the gap and the doors clunked open again.
Greg wrenched open one of the heavy oak doors from the ballroom, came running towards the lifts. The doors had begun to slide shut but not quick enough – at the speed he was running, he’d make it. He’d make it, jump into the lift, start talking to me, start trying to explain. Trying to explain the inexplicable.
Close! I willed the lift doors. Close! Close!
Greg reached the lifts with only a sliver of a gap between the lift doors. It was enough, though. Enough to see the look on his face. Imploring. Pleading.
Stop, his look said. Stop and let me explain.
chapter thirty
secrets and lies
I couldn’t get my keycard into the door slot.
I held it in my gloved hands, but they were shaking and it kept slipping. Wouldn’t fit into the rectangle and let me in. Calm, calm. I took a deep breath. Then another. Stilled my hand and tried again. CLICK, it went as it slid into place.
I turned the door handle and rushed in.
Should I change my shoes or throw up first?
This was a big decision. Should I change my shoes or try to purge that choking ball of bile that was lodged between my throat and chest?
I had to get rid of the bile. But my shoes. My shoes. I looked down at the black heels. They weren’t the sort of thing I wore. I was a trainers girl. I hated these shoes. Hideous. Stupid. Pointless. I kicked the right one off. It flew in a high arc and disappeared under the bed. Then I kicked off the left one. It too arced through the air but landed by the bathroom door. Stupid things. Don’t you know you’re only meant to be worn by the star of the show? Not people like me.
I hitched up my dress, got on my knees, grabbed my trainers from under the bed. They were battered, dirty, old. But mine. I loved them. Nobody could take them away from me. Wear them first. Use them first. I sat on the bed and pulled them on, laced them up. That’s better. That’s me.
Now, pack! Get the hell out of here! my brain screamed to me like it was watching me in a horror movie, sat on the edge of its seat screaming, ‘Run, you stupid bint. Run in the opposite direction!’ as the rest of me went to investigate a loud howling noise on the roof with only a fake Manolo Blahnik sandal thing for protection. With only my trainers for protection. Pack, then get the hell out of Dodge!
I sat on the edge of the huge bed, staring at the door. Unable to move, just waiting. Waiting for the monster to show up.
The door burst open and the monster appeared in the doorway.
I stared at the monster. The monster stared at me.
Who the hell are you? I thought. He wasn’t my hero.
He couldn’t be. Heroes didn’t do this kind of thing. Heroes didn’t leave blatant clues as to why they were the villain of the piece. Every time I thought about it, more clues came up. Hints and clues that told me about this:
1. Why he’d reacted so badly to Jen and Matt moving in together.
2. His thinking they were moving too fast even though they’d been together three years.
3. His walking out when they were snogging on the day Matt moved in.
4. Staring right at Jen as he described his perfect woman – and I thought it was me. Ha!
5. His avoiding Matt and Jen – he couldn’t face seeing the woman he loved with someone else.
6. His jealousy at me putting Jen first. Not because he wanted all of me, but because he wanted something of hers to love him better.
7. Him wanting to tell her after six weeks so as to make her jealous.
They was all there – all those clues – and I’d missed every last one of them. After a lifetime’s worth of Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie and other murder mysteries, after all those years of me sat there going, ‘It was him’, ‘It was her’ (I’d even guessed it was the wife halfway through Presumed Innocent), I’d missed every clue. I knew nothing about nothing.
Sure, Greg was fond of me now. He liked me, he’d probably even talked himself into thinking he could love me. He’d always treat with kindness and affection the woman who rescued him but he wanted Jen. She was the star of his life. I was the understudy. Not even the co-star; I was the understudy, the one he’d called upon when the star wasn’t available. I loved him. He wanted Jen.
‘I thought you’d be gone, but I’m glad you’re not,’ the monster said.
I didn’t say anything, just stared at him.
‘What did you hear?’ he asked, his suit-covered chest heaving from, I presume, running up here.
BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! at the door made me jump. I looked to the door, but Greg ignored it, carried on talking.
‘What did you hear?’ he asked again.
The braying continued, getting louder, more insistent. They’d be hammering through the door soon. Not even Greg could talk over the noise, so he spun on his heels, marched to it, turned the handle. Again, the door burst open, and suddenly the room was filled with raised voices, all shouting to be heard over the other. There was pushing and shoving, too. Matt, pushing and shoving Greg. But he wasn’t pushing as much as he was shouting, possibly because Greg could kick his butt with both hands tied behind his back, standing on one leg, with a bad cold – indignant and angry Matt may be, but he wasn’t that stupid.
&n
bsp; Slowly, I could make out what they were saying. Matt was calling Greg every bastard under the sun and, as it turned out, there were a lot of them. Greg was saying sorry and calm down at the same time, Jen was screaming that they should both stop it.
I sat on the bed, feeling removed from the whole thing, as though I was watching this on a screen. Watching a lot of films will do that.
Greg took several steps back into the middle of the room, and, ‘Let’s all calm down,’ he said. His voice was so calm and commanding that it had the most amazing effect: Matt instantly stopped looking like he was going to batter Greg and stalked off to the other side of the room and threw himself into one of the armchairs. Jen went to the window and jumped up to sit on the wide window sill. Greg stood his ground, arms folded across his chest. He was staring at me. I was staring into the mid-distance. I was so stressed I was on the verge of telling a ‘knock, knock’ joke.
I never knew Greg could do that with his voice. But then, I never knew he could roger Jen, so there you go: he was a rich box of chocolates, new varieties of which I was discovering every day.
Matt sat glowering at Greg. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then opened it again. He did the fish thing a few times, then eventually, ‘So, all the time you were trying to put me off Jen it was because you were knocking her off ?’ came out.
‘You were trying to put him off me?’ Jen said, aghast. ‘You bastard.’
‘I wasn’t knocking off Jen,’ Greg said, looking at me for some reason. ‘Amber, I promise you, I wasn’t. It only happened the once.’
Once is enough, I meant to say, but my vocal cords were paralysed.
‘ONCE IS BLOODY ENOUGH!’ Matt screamed. ‘YOU ABSOLUTE WANKER!’
There’s no need for that kind of language, I went to say, but again, nothing came out. Besides, if he was an absolute wanker, we wouldn’t be having this drama, would we? It was because he was an absolute shagger that we were here.
‘YOU’VE BEEN AFTER JEN ALL THIS TIME. YOU WANTED HER FOR YOURSELF SO YOU TRIED TO PUT ME OFF HER.’
Greg rounded on Matt. He was suddenly so angry his whole body trembled with unspoken rage. Rather than shouting, though, he controlled his words. ‘You know that’s not true.’ He glared at Matt. ‘You know what I meant.’
I was glad Matt knew. Glad that Greg knew. And glad that Jen probably knew too. Because I didn’t have a bloody clue what was going on. I was still back at the ‘You fucked me and moved on to my friend’ stage, if I was honest.
‘And what did you mean, exactly?’ Jen asked indignantly.
Rather than answer Jen, Greg focused his Minstrel eyes on Matt’s harassed, aggravated face until they met with Matt’s emerald eyes. Greg was wrestling with whether to let it out of the bag or to leave it, to accept being tarred as an ‘absolute wanker’.
A look of understanding passed between them. Even in my state I saw it. It was something big.
Matt’s rage faltered, then evaporated. Completely disappeared into the ether. One minute he was murderous, then he said evenly: ‘Let’s talk about this later, when we’ve all calmed down.’
‘You’re right,’ Jen concurred, ‘let’s all calm down.’
What the HELL is this? What’s going on? Why the sudden conspiracy? How come nobody’s angry any more?
‘No, let’s get everything out in the open.’ Me. I said it. My voice had returned.
‘Let’s wait ’til we’ve calmed down,’ Jen insisted.
‘So you know what’s going on between Matt and Greg then?’ I asked.
‘What’s going on between them?’ she replied.
‘You didn’t see that look they gave each other? They’re hiding something else. Something bigger.’
Jen laughed a hollow laugh. ‘No, they just don’t want to lose their friendship over a couple of girls. I think we should take some time out, calm down, then talk about this.’
‘You can calm down,’ I said. ‘I am calm. I am the personification of calmness. It’s oozing out of every pore. See this face? Calm. And if I don’t find out what’s going on right now, you’re all going to see exactly how calm I am up close and personal.’
‘Nothing,’ Matt said.
I turned to Greg. ‘Greg?’
He said nothing. He didn’t know who to side with. His best friend of twenty-two years, or his girlfriend of seven months. Had it been any other time, I would’ve taken a sick pleasure in him now knowing how hard it was to choose between two people you love. ‘Remember that time you had a go about me putting Jen first? Well, this is how it feels,’ I would’ve said.
As the situation stood, I wasn’t taking any pleasure in Greg’s dilemma. In fact, I was about to up the ante: ‘Greg, if we’re going to salvage anything from this then tell me what’s going on.’
‘DON’T YOU DARE!’ Matt exploded. ‘YOU OWE ME. YOU SCREWED MY GIRLFRIEND AND YOU OWE ME.’
Greg’s line of sight went from me to Matt to me. He realised there was only one way out of this. ‘Tell them,’ Greg said. Make Matt confess.
‘YOU CAN FUCK OFF!’
‘Tell them.’
‘NO.’
‘If you don’t, I will.’
‘WHAT IS IT?’ Me again. I’d found my voice and was shouting.
Matt took a deep breath, stared down at his shiny black shoes. Then, in a small, small voice, he said: ‘I’ve got a wife in France.’
chapter thirty-one
truth
I fancied myself as being so tortured and so in need of a good think that I’d spend the night, hands in pockets, head down, wandering the dark streets of this sprawling metropolis, like the hero does in a movie when, for no clear reason, it’s suddenly dark, rainy and even the most deserted village suddenly becomes a city and is rammed with people. All of this is done to a whiny sax soundtrack. Within ten minutes of leaving the room, I was sitting in the hotel’s gardens. But I did sit there with my hands in my pockets, staring at the ground and if I strained hard enough I could hear that sax.
Everything that had gone on in the past few hours kept jumping into my head. All of it. Not one part which I could make sense of. Everything. Every time I tried to remember something, to hold it up to scrutiny, to dissect and understand and digest it, the rest of it would leap in too. All tumbled and knotted, like a demented ball of vermicelli. I needed time to untangle it.
OK, Amber, focus. Focus, focus, focus.
Matt.
I hadn’t read anyone so wrong in, like, ever. I’d thought he was a lump of toffee: rich and smooth and, ultimately, unchanging. However, he was a two-faced, double-dealing, double-lifed, married man. His way of behaving, his boring exterior, hid a seething core of duplicity. His tightness, the way he paled every time he was called upon to put his hand in his pocket, came from having two lives to support.
Matt did a degree in French, which meant he spent a year living in Paris. During that year, he met Françoise; their fling helped with his French no end. (Matt didn’t say this, I added it because it was probably true.) When he returned to England after his year, he and Françoise kept in touch. And when he graduated, he returned to Paris and got a job. After too much wine one night, he proposed. Two months later they got married. Only Greg knew. He was the best man, of course, and Matt being commitmentphobic – as Greg had tried to tell me once upon a time – had panicked. He swore Greg to secrecy: nobody in England must ever find out, especially not Matt’s parents. He’d gotten round the parents issue by saying his parents, especially his dad, were very racist and had a particular hatred of the French. His poor parents, whose only crime as far as I could see was to spawn this creature called their son, were therefore a banned subject with Françoise. Matt had constructed two lives and rather effectively ran them concurrently. He had two mobile phones, one that Jen thought was for work, so when he got calls and started talking in French, she didn’t get suspicious. He’d told Françoise that he was house-sitting for a friend so he wasn’t contactable at Rocky’s place any more. When he was in F
rance, he’d call Jen from work.
‘After a year of being happy together, I was offered a transfer to Leeds for six months. They were starting a company over here and needed English people. Me living in Leeds for all those years made me the ideal choice. By that point the honeymoon was over for me and Françoise, we’d not been getting on for months, so six months apart seemed the ideal solution. I came back to Leeds, got my old room back with Greg and Rocky, and whenever I saw Françoise again things were perfect. Time apart was what we needed.
‘When the six months were extended to a year, we decided to go for it. I had to go back quite a lot to Paris – this was before the days of video conferencing and emails, so my relationship with Françoise was safe.’ Matt ran a hand through the spikes of his blond hair, his green eyes fixed on the carpet.
‘Then they offered me a permanent position in Leeds. It was a dream come true, but Françoise didn’t want to leave France. Her whole life was there. We spent so much time arguing about it. I’d lived there with her, why couldn’t she come be with me? I might even have introduced her to my parents. I didn’t want to miss this opportunity, so we got used to living apart. Then I met Jen.’
Oh yes, I thought, here it comes. The nonsense that will excuse his behaviour. ‘She was different from other girls.’ Yup, that’s right, Matt, you neglected to mention that you’d shagged around when you were in Leeds, didn’t you? It was implied, now you’ve confirmed it.
‘I started to fall for Jen and at the same time, Françoise was talking about me coming back to Paris full-time, us having a baby . . . I panicked again. Stopped going to Paris as much, just spoke to her at work. I told her I wanted to concentrate on my career. If she wanted to be with me then she’d have to come here. I often said I didn’t want to talk to her unless she’d at least try living here. She said no, so I spent more time here. But I couldn’t finish with Françoise or Jen . . . I kept things as they were, ignoring the fact that Françoise wanted a baby, saying she had to come over here if she wanted us to try for a child, which I knew she’d never do. When Jen asked me to move in, I said yes without really thinking. That’s why that thing,’ he nodded towards Greg, ‘freaked out when me and Jen announced it. He always liked Françoise. But that’s probably because he shagged her too, ain’t it, mate?’
The Chocolate Run Page 29
