I finished plundering my mental wardrobe, purging it of all things Jen, until I had nothing left of her. It’d all been put out for the bin men. Screw her. Screw her and her pretty life.
Jen finished her monologue of pain and confusion, of being a pretty blonde in an ugly world. ‘So, you see, there is no me and Greg.’
‘You really have no feelings for him?’ I asked.
‘Only friendship. I only want Matt. I know, I shouldn’t, but I love him. I wish I hadn’t done that to him.’
Never mind what she did to me. At no point had she said sorry to me. Or that she wished she hadn’t done that to me. Because she’d always known that she could do whatever she wanted to me and I’d be there. She knew that my terror at being abandoned would mean I’d put up with anything from her.
‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, if you give him time.’
Jen’s face lit up. ‘You think?’ she asked eagerly.
‘I’m sure he will. Look, you’d better go, your after-school classes will be starting soon. I’ll call you later.’
‘Yeah. Neither of us has got anyone else to be with right now. We might as well be together.’
‘I guess so.’
I took one last look at Jen. Her short blonde hair, her gaunt face, her wretchedly thin body. Then I walked away. It was over with Jenna Leigh Hartman. Our friendship had run its course. For us, this was the end.
chapter thirty-five
the end, part two
I wish I’d forced Greg to go home after the café.
I’d tried to take him home, but when the taxi driver pulled up outside his house he’d clung to my hand, his eyes desperate and scared, like a man clinging onto a branch as he dangled over a cliff edge, so in the end I’d taken him back to mine. Got him settled on the sofa before I started the epic journey across town to see Jen.
Jen. My heart trembled every time I thought about her. I’d actually stopped on the way to the bus stop to throw up. A couple of people gave me odd looks, schoolchildren leaving the school had gone ‘Euurggh’ and run away. (Pretty third-rate for kids – most of the ones I knew had a wider four-letter vocabulary than me.) But I couldn’t help it. The reality at the one thing I hadn’t wanted to happen, happening had made me physically sick. I’d had to rinse my mouth out with the bottle of water in my bag.
The TV was on as I pushed open my front door and the air was stained with something. I sniffed. Cleanliness. The air was stained with clean. I sniffed the air a couple more times. Lemon. Beeswax, too. Soap powder. Washing-up liquid. I glanced down, the red hallway carpet had been vacuumed. The picture frames on the corridor walls had been polished. I went into the living room, pristine too.
Sprawled on the sofa, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the TV was Gregory. He’d been sat in that exact same position when I left. Looking at him, I could almost believe that the cleaning fairies had visited my flat and whilst Greg watched telly they’d straightened up, done the dishes, vacuumed, polished surfaces, emptied bins, put a box of Greg’s stuff at his feet.
Internally, I shrank back; cowered in a quiet place inside when I saw that box.
It was a big red plastic box I’d used for moving. Big as it was, it was overflowing. His clothes, his books, CDs, shoes, videos, toothbrush, aftershave, vitamins, hair products. He really had been moving in with me on the sly. At least he wasn’t going to be moving out as sneakily. I shouldn’t really be surprised, should I? I’d already told him it was over, he’d acted like he knew. We were on the same page on that score. But I hadn’t considered that it being over meant he was out of my life.
‘Over’ = ‘going’.
I lowered myself onto the sofa.
‘How did it go?’ Greg asked. Couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the box.
‘I, erm, I don’t know,’ I said, pushing my hand into my hair.
‘Are you friends again?’
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, I couldn’t speak it. It was over. Over between me and Jen. The longest non-familial relationship I’d ever had. Finished.
‘I don’t know,’ I managed again.
‘Oh,’ Greg replied.
I stared at the big red box with my boyfriend’s things in it. ‘Why . . . I mean . . . how come . . . erm . . . you cleaned,’ I struggled.
‘It was partly my mess. I also packed up my stuff. You know, in case . . .’ He purposely let the sentence peter out. He didn’t want to say it, but wanted to talk about it. Wanted to know where he stood.
Nowhere. He stood nowhere. I thought he’d worked that out, I thought that he’d realised I was telling him it was over, even though I wasn’t sure I was. Why else would he pack?
‘So. . .About us. . .’
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. I don’t know about anything any more. If there was one, no, two things I’d learnt in the past few hours they were:
1. I’m not in a movie
2. I know nothing about nothing.
‘What does that mean?’
I rubbed my hand across my eyes. ‘It means, I don’t know.’
‘And I’m supposed to hang around until you do know?’ Greg’s voice was raised. Why was he shouting? Did he think it’d make me know faster?
‘You don’t know, so I’ve got to what? Wait? Wait until you do know? Is that it?’
I stared at the wall opposite. The wall was painted white and I tried to blank my mind like that.
‘I wait around until you decide otherwise? Listen, Amber, either we work this out now, or . . .’
I finally turned to him and he stopped talking. He took a deep breath as his eyes drilled into me. ‘If we split up now, then we split up for good. I mean it. No calls, no friendship, no meeting up, no thirty-something angst over getting back together. Nothing. Me and you, over.’
I could hardly look at him without wanting to retch. Dramatic, but the truth. He’d slept with Jen. That was awful news. Knowing that he’d orgasmed inside her . . . I wanted to retch. He’d done something so intimate with her and not me. Or any other woman apart from Kristy, because Greg was almost evangelical about safe sex. Except that one time when . . .
How could I be so bloody stupid? The thought smacked me in the face.
The HIV test. It was because of Jen. That’s what he meant about his life being over. Because if he was positive that would’ve meant Jen would’ve been positive and Matt would’ve been positive and Matt’s wife would’ve been. And their construct of lies would’ve come tumbling down. How could I be so bloody stupid? Around the same time two of my closest friends went through a sex-related crisis and I thought nothing of it. I didn’t at any point connect the dots. I couldn’t be more stupid if I became a brain donor.
‘So?’ Greg demanded. ‘What’s it to be?’
I couldn’t look at him. I hated him being near me. I returned my gaze to the wall opposite.
‘Fine! Fucking fine!’
He picked up his box, tried to tuck it up under his arm, but couldn’t because there was too much stuff; instead, he pushed his arm under it, picked up a black bag that had been resting behind the box. ‘I DON’T KNOW WHY I EXPECTED ANYTHING ELSE FROM A CONTROLLING BITCH LIKE YOU. I DON’T KNOW WHY I EXPECTED SOMEONE WHO ALWAYS WANTS EVERYTHING TO BE ON HER TERMS OR NOT AT ALL TO CHANGE. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?’
He bent down, ‘IT’S FINE!’ he screamed in my face, so close I could feel spittle on my skin; the warmth of his breath; his divine scent of vanilla and spices.
I pulled my knees up to my chest as I listened to Greg trying to escape. Slamming things, dropping stuff, swearing blue murder. Swearing Amber murder. I wrapped my arms around my legs, rested my forehead on my knees. And, suddenly, the leaving noise and its soundtrack of swearing ended. My flat was still. Calm. Empty.
He wasn’t coming back. It was over.
I curled up on the sofa, put my arms around myself, safe and warm and small.
I’m going to go to sleep, I
decided. And when I wake up everything’s going to be as it was. I won’t have slept with Greg. I’ll still love Jen. Everything will be as it was.
chapter thirty-six
starting over
You expect your life to change, of course you do.
But mine hadn’t. Not dramatically. Not like I expected. A month went by and I didn’t fall apart.
Greg had done a pretty thorough job of clearing out. There was no sign of him in my house. There were holes in my CD rack, on my bookshelf, in my wardrobe, on my bathroom surfaces – meaning every time I went to the bathroom, to the living room, to get dressed I was reminded anew how much he’d moved in with me. But, when he left, he totally left. Took everything with him. He’d cleaned the smell of him off every surface. Put the sheets in to wash, vacuumed. There were no love letters or photographs of us kissing because we weren’t that kind of couple.
Our letters were written on our skins when we had sex. Made love. Fucked. Whatever. Our photographs were mental, like the time he put on my bra and came wandering into the living room. The time I made him laugh when we were driving to Harrogate and his face had exploded into the biggest grin and he’d glanced sideways at me with such a look of affection I grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. The time he’d drawn a heart on top of a bacon sandwich in tomato ketchup and I told him off because the bread looked yucky and he’d said I was a stroppy bitch in the mornings, but I’d better bloody eat that sandwich. The time we had a picnic in my living room with beer and toasted chocolate sandwiches. The time I’d been out drinking and called him from the train station to say goodnight, and he’d driven to town to pick me up. There were loads of times. Loads of mental photographs.
Jen. Jen was different. I didn’t think about her. At all. Our daily phone calls had stopped months ago anyway. Our weekly meets had been cancelled. I had a wealth of memories with Jen, photographic and mental, but I didn’t access them. Didn’t think about Jen.
I was starting over, not breaking down. I hadn’t even cried. I was doing OK. Because it was OK. Honest.
I wasn’t even flinging myself into work because the month after the Festival was our quietest period. We had time to sleep, regroup, rethink. Gather ourselves together to prepare for next year. Renée, even though she was officially off work, still came in every day and would continue waddling in from Roundhay until she gave birth. Her husband worked from home and if she stayed there, she said, she’d kill him. Martha, who had decided to stay blonde – because, it had to be said, it did suit her – had secured her marriage proposal and was getting hitched in the spring so she spent a lot of time with wedding magazines or on wedding websites.
‘It’s like waiting for war to break out,’ Martha said three weeks or so after my separation from Greg and Jen.
‘I’m so glad you said it first,’ Renée said. ‘It’s exactly like that. I tell you, it’s not good for my baby, all this waiting.’
I continued to flick through a film book, searching for a write-up about a film for the Festival newsletter. I hardly paid attention to them any more. When they started rowing, I went to make tea. And stayed in the kitchenette making tea until they finished. I didn’t play referee; didn’t try to pour oil on their troubled waters. Part of me was embarrassed they’d seen what happened. Part of me didn’t want to get involved again. Despite what Eric said, I had settled, had gotten involved in things I couldn’t walk out on in thirty seconds flat, and I’d learnt my lesson.
‘Amber,’ Martha said.
I glanced up. The pair of them were staring at me.
‘We’re talking about you,’ Renée finished.
‘Why, what have I done?’ I asked.
‘We’re both on edge, waiting for you to break down,’ Renée explained.
‘It’s only natural,’ Martha added. ‘We won’t think any less of you.’
I gave them a ‘hard-luck’ smile. ‘I don’t do breaking down. It was no big deal. It’s over and I’ve dealt with it. You know, moved on.’
Both of them stared at me, not a look of belief between them.
I reached into my drawer, pulled out a white envelope. ‘I was going to wait ’til you got back from maternity leave,’ I said, ‘but now seems as good a time as any.’
Colour drained first from Renée’s face, then from Martha’s. Synchronised paling, impressive.
‘I’m . . .’ I glanced away, I couldn’t bear those expressions; that’s why I’d stuck here for so long. Why I’d put down roots. ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got a job, Associate Director of the Brighton and Hove Film Festival. I’ll leave a month after you get back from maternity leave. I could leave earlier, but I wouldn’t do that to you two.’
‘You’re going nowhere,’ Martha said.
‘Thank you, Martha, you took the words right out of my mouth.’
‘I’ve been here twelve years, I think it’s time . . .’
‘Amber, you’re going nowhere,’ Renée said. ‘Do you think we’ve spent years grooming you to be Festival Director to have someone else benefit from it? We’re not losing you to another festival.’
‘And, and, and,’ Martha said in a panic, ‘and you can’t.’
‘If you were going to be a film director or something, I would understand. But another FESTIVAL? No. I won’t allow it.’
‘And, and, and,’ Martha added, ‘you can’t leave me with her. It’s not fair. You stop me and her rowing. And she has a go at you instead of me.’
‘You’re going to be godmother to my child.’
‘You’re going to be one of my bridesmaids, I haven’t told you both that yet. But you’re both going to be bridesmaids,’ Martha added.
‘I’ve accepted the job now,’ I said.
Both Martha and Renée got up, came round to me. ‘You’re the constant in our lives,’ Martha said. ‘Our office doesn’t work without you.’ (Typical film person bastardising a film line for their own ends. And a Tom Cruise film at that.)
‘But we’re not in an office,’ Renée said. ‘We’re like a family. You complete us.’ (Now Renée was at it. If either of them uttered another convoluted line from Jerry Maguire I’d lose it.)
‘Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I need to leave,’ I said. ‘Maybe I need to do a job, not be in another family.’
‘Don’t make us suffer because of Greg,’ Martha pleaded.
‘It’s got nothing to do with him,’ I said. I wasn’t just saying that, it really had got nothing to do with him. And, all right, it had everything to do with him. And Jen. And me. And Martha. And Renée. And needing to start over. I had to get away. From everything that led to this. If I started again, maybe I could wipe the slate clean. Forget everything.
‘Cry, cut your hair, spend a lot of money, screw that director who’s always calling you, but don’t leave,’ Renée said, as though ‘leave’ was a euphemism for ‘slit your wrists’.
‘You’re going to Cannes next year,’ Martha said. ‘Because if you don’t, that bitch will make me go. And I ain’t going. In fact, if you leave, I’m leaving. I ain’t dealing with her alone. No way. No bloody way. Life’s too short.’
‘I’m not coming back after my maternity leave if you go. I’m not dealing with Martha. Remember that week you had off ? It was hell. She was such a cow. Wouldn’t answer the phone. Wouldn’t go out on chocolate runs. I’ll have a new baby. I was only going to come back as Associate Festival Director anyway. Work part-time. You were going to keep the title of Festival Director. But you know what? If you go, I am not coming back.’
‘You two are the worst people in the world to work with,’ I whispered, staring furiously at my desk top. I wasn’t meant to do this. Not here. Not now.
‘Us?’ they replied.
‘You’re always rowing. And you never take responsibility. And you don’t answer the phone.’ A little sob escaped from my mouth.
‘We know.’
‘If I’m going to stay, there’ll have to be changes.’
‘Anything.’
‘You have to make tea,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘And you have to stop leaving me to calm the film-makers down.’
‘OK.’
‘And no more rowing.’
Silence.
‘Sorry, Amber, not going to happen,’ Martha said.
‘There is a limit to what we’ll do to keep you,’ Renée said.
I collapsed onto my desk and started sobbing for real. I put my hands around my head, making a small private circle. My body heaved with sobs I didn’t know were in me.
It really wasn’t Greg. It was everything. It was Mum saying I couldn’t have anything long-term with Greg. It was Eric saying I was always running. It was not getting my nightly story. It was not talking to Jen. It was the Festival ending with me finding out Greg had slept with Jen – when I thought he’d liked my type to be the heroine, he’d obviously wanted the Gwyneth Paltrow, always-going-to-be-the-star type. It was spending the day of my thirty-first birthday alone because I chose to. It was being tempted to speak to Jen when she rang and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ into my answerphone. It was returning the flowers she’d sent me. It was Martha and Renée probably being the worst workmates in the world but being great because I couldn’t leave them. It was realising I’d spent three years pretending to like Matt when I’d always hated him, but I’d seen him sometimes three times a week and got on with him just to make Jen’s life easier. It was knowing that Eric was right, I was path-of-least-resistance woman because it was easier than saying how I felt. It was finding out that Sainsbury’s didn’t do aubergine dip any more. It was every thing. And it was no thing.
Martha and Renée went into crisis mode while I cried. When there’d been tears before it’d been me running for tissues and tea and kind words. I wasn’t sure they knew how to do it, but they did a great job. One produced tissues, one produced tea. Both found kind words.
The Chocolate Run Page 33
