by Eleanor Ray
“Sure,” said Amy, trying to sound nonchalant. Foggily she felt as if he were someone she’d admired at one time. Perhaps he’d been a couple of years above her in school. Or maybe he’d even been on telly.
“What’s that?” she exclaimed, the admiration dissipating as she caught sight of something orange and mushy hanging from his earlobe.
“Damn, is there more?” he said, his hand reaching for his ear. “I thought I’d got it all.”
“What on earth…?”
“I’ve blown my cool, haven’t I?” he said with a grimace. “Maybe this will help explain.” He rummaged through a plastic bag, the ubiquitous royal-blue kind that came from every corner shop. Amy heard a bottle clink against something; then he produced a shard of pumpkin and a small hammer. Amy took the pumpkin piece, turning it over in her hand. It was wet and sticky.
“I was trying to be authentic,” he said. “But instead I’m just pumpkin-flavored.”
“Smashing Pumpkins,” said Amy. “That’s who you’ve come as.”
He grinned back at her. “You’re the first person to get that. Turns out it was a terrible idea.”
Amy laughed. “Plastic spiders seem like genius now,” she said. He smiled back at her, and Amy noticed his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I know you from somewhere.”
He bit his lip. “I am famous round these parts.”
“Really?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “But my band did have our first-ever gig last week, even if it was in the back room of a pub.” He sounded proud and a little embarrassed all at once.
“Of course,” said Amy, the pieces falling into place like a reassembled pumpkin. “You played at the Firkin!”
His mouth fell open. “You saw us?” he asked. “Maybe I’m more famous than I think.”
Amy laughed again. “You did have to tell me before I recognized you.” She paused. “You were pretty good though.”
“You’re my first groupie!” he declared. “You can be my Yoko.”
Amy felt herself coloring a little. The band had been good. Really good. She’d loved them.
“I don’t suppose you have a corkscrew?” he asked. He lifted a bottle of wine from his bag. “I think we should celebrate.”
“Sorry,” said Amy, wishing desperately that she did have a corkscrew. Suddenly her plastic bottle of Malibu and Coke seemed terribly uncool. She gave it a gentle flick with her heel, and it rolled under the sofa out of sight. She glanced around the room. A few boys were gulping from beer cans, and a bottle of overproof rum was doing the rounds. “I don’t think anyone else here is drinking wine,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll check the kitchen.”
“I’m too sophisticated for my own good,” he said.
Amy laughed. “That would be more convincing if you didn’t have butternut squash in your ear.”
“Pumpkin,” he corrected. “Give me some credit.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Listen,” he said. “If we can’t find a corkscrew here, how about we take a walk and try to hunt one down? I could do with the fresh air.”
Quietly Amy opened a drawer and pushed away the corkscrew she’d just found. She closed it again.
“Nothing here,” she said, knowing she was a terrible liar. “We’ll have to.”
“Great.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“I’ll just let Chantel know.…” She looked around the party and saw Chantel kissing Dean Chapman again, who she insisted was not her boyfriend but who she always snogged when she’d had a couple of drinks. “Oh,” said Amy. “She’s busy.”
“I’ll get my coat,” he said. “My name’s Tim, by the way.”
“I’m Amy,” she told him. “Amy Ashton.”
* * *
IT FELT COLD but fresh outside after the smoky haze of the party, and Amy breathed in deeply. “It’s good to be outdoors,” said Tim, as if reading her mind. “But you must be cold.” He took off his jacket, a heavy leather affair, and draped it round her shoulders. Amy had seen guys do that in the movies, but it had never happened to her in her seventeen years. The boys at school were not that gentlemanly, and she suddenly felt as if she were in a proper love story. With a rock star. She shivered a little.
“If you’re still too cold, we can head back inside?” he said.
“No,” she said quickly, pulling the coat closer round her. “I’m fine.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“I hope there’s no pumpkin on that,” he said.
“Me too,” she agreed. “Spiders hate pumpkins.”
“Really?”
“I’ve no idea,” she confessed. They both laughed, and walked on. This bit of Amy’s hometown was new, sprung up in response to the railway extension that suddenly made it possible to live here and commute to work in London. The houses were almost identical for miles, and it was easy to get lost or think you were walking in circles.
“So are you a full-time rock star?” teased Amy.
“Sort of,” said Tim. “I finished my A levels last year and my dad wanted to pack me off to university to study law, but I’m taking a break instead to try to make a go of the band.”
“A rebel,” said Amy, calculating that he must be two years older than her, itself rather exciting. “Very rock and roll.”
“Yes,” said Tim. He paused. “So you liked the band,” he prompted.
“It was awesome,” said Amy honestly. “I loved that song about missed sunsets.”
“ ‘Already Dark’?” exclaimed Tim. “I wrote that.” Amy noticed his back was a little straighter. She was tall, but he towered above her. He must be well over six feet. And handsome and funny and talented and his leather jacket smelled like her favorite chair at her grandmother’s house.
“It was very sad,” said Amy. “And very beautiful.” Amy felt Tim’s fingers interlace her own at her words. Her heart felt as if it had grown larger, swollen by the warm hand embracing her palm.
“It’s about my mother,” he said. He bit his lip. “She died when I was ten.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Amy, feeling awkward. She wanted to say something that would help, that would provide comfort. But she had nothing. She squeezed his hand instead.
Tim squeezed back. “I haven’t told anyone else that’s what the song’s about.”
He turned to her and Amy found herself staring into eyes the color of chestnuts.
“I feel like I can trust you,” he said. “Already.” Tim released her hand and wrapped his arms around her back.
“You can,” said Amy. She felt the bottle he was holding brush against her as she closed her eyes and leaned in.
“Zombie alert!” shouted someone. Tim quickly released the embrace as a drunken crowd of Halloween revelers stumbled by, pulling scary faces at the two of them and laughing.
They watched them go, then walked on themselves, the moment gone. His hand found hers again. “I think there’s a corner shop up here,” said Amy. “They probably sell corkscrews.”
“We don’t really need one,” said Tim. “I’m afraid I got you alone on false pretenses.”
“Oh,” said Amy. He must have seen her hide the corkscrew in the kitchen. She let go of his hand, feeling embarrassed.
“It’s nothing sinister,” he added quickly. “Although, lying to get a pretty girl on her own in the cold, dark night surrounded by zombies… maybe it does sound a little on the creepy side.”
“Lying?” queried Amy, although inside she was busy being delighted about the “pretty” comment.
He sheepishly held up the bottle. “Screw top.”
Amy laughed. “There was a bottle opener in the kitchen,” she confessed.
“I know.” He smiled. “Is that a little park?” he asked. “It looks nice.”
“That’s a bit of grass in the middle of a roundabout,” said Amy.
“Care to join me for a swig of cheap red wine from my screw-top bottle in the middle of a roundabout?” he offered with a small bow, proffering his hand.
Amy took the hand and smiled again. “That’s the sort of offer I don’t get every day,” she said. “At least not from a rock star with pumpkin in his ears.”
“And wine,” he replied, twisting open the bottle as they sat on the rough grass. “Don’t forget the bottle of wine.” He handed the bottle to Amy. It felt cold in her hand, but the wine warmed her throat. She passed the bottle back to him and watched as he drank. The bottle caught the moonlight and glowed a deep, beautiful green.
Chapter Two
Amy nestled the pieces of the mug between two embroidered silk cushions on the sofa and spent a long time searching for her glue. It was frustrating; she must have at least twenty tubes of the stuff, accumulated over the years, but now, with the mug sitting, scared, incomplete, she couldn’t find any of them. She rummaged through her kitchen drawers. Didn’t the glue want to fulfill its sticky destiny? She pushed a collection of spare paper napkins to one side and stopped.
There was a photograph. Of the three of them together: Amy, Chantel, and Tim. Taken outside this house, on the day they’d moved in, more than fifteen years ago. Amy was carrying a single oversize rucksack that contained all her worldly possessions. She was smiling. But back then, of course, she couldn’t have known what those two would do to her.
The doorbell rang.
Amy put the photograph back in the drawer and covered it with the napkins again. Unless whoever it was had a delivery of glue, Amy could do without a visitor. But hiding hadn’t done her much good so far. Checking she had her keys, Amy made her way carefully through the hallway, opened the door just wide enough for her to squeeze outside, then swung it closed behind her.
A man stood in front of her. He looked strangely familiar to Amy, but she couldn’t work out why. He had a gentle attempt at a beard and wore a ratty old T-shirt in a shade of brown that matched his coffee-colored eyes. He smiled at her and held out his hand. Amy was surprised that she could still make out dimples through his beard. She hesitated, then took his hand. After clutching the cool mug, his hand felt hot to the touch.
“I’m Richard,” the man told her. “From next door. I think you met my partner and sons earlier?”
Amy looked past him into her front garden. Both boys were stroking Smudge, who was lying between two of her potted plants with his ears pushed back. He was giving the children a suspicious look as they showered him with unexpected affection. Of course—that’s where she recognized the man from, she realized. He was a bigger, bearded version of his elder son.
“The mug isn’t fixed yet,” said Amy quickly. “So I’m afraid you can’t have it back now.”
“What?” asked Richard, looking confused.
“I can’t track down my glue,” elaborated Amy. “And once I do, it will need some time to set.”
“I’m sorry,” said Richard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What mug?”
“Oh,” she said. “Nothing.” They stood in silence for a moment.
“Lovely front garden you have,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many pots.”
“They are very fragile,” warned Amy. She felt herself flush at the compliment nonetheless. There was another moment of silence. Richard turned to check on his children, then looked back at Amy.
“My sons have taken quite a liking to your cat,” he said eventually. “I heard she took a bullet for them?” He smiled again, like a co-conspirator. “Thank you.”
“It’s a he,” replied Amy. “Smudge. And he’s not mine. He belongs to Rachel next door. Your wife met her earlier.”
“My girlfriend,” corrected Richard.
“I can’t keep a cat,” continued Amy. “Because I have birds.” The harm that animal could do if he ever got inside. Smudge looked at her, then lazily stretched out and closed his eyes, enjoying the children’s caresses. But there was no fooling Amy. She knew the carnage he could cause.
“The boys would love to see the birds sometime,” said Richard. Then he turned and called to his two sons, “Wouldn’t you, boys?” Charles clambered to his feet, pulling his smaller brother up too, and they started walking towards the door. Smudge opened his eyes and began licking his foot. He seemed annoyed at his massage ending.
“No!” said Amy, stepping backwards and banging into her own door. Three sets of surprised brown eyes looked back at her, and she realized she’d shouted. Suddenly Amy wanted nothing more than to be inside her house again—but she’d have to step closer to her neighbors, turn around, and fiddle with her key. Instead she pinned herself to her door and tried to breathe.
“No worries,” said Richard breezily, stepping backwards to give Amy more room. He put a hand on Charles’s head. “Small birds are easily startled. I wouldn’t want the boys to scare them. We’ll be off.” He smiled at her. “Thanks again. Pop over for a drink sometime, you’re always welcome.”
Amy breathed a sigh of relief as they left through her gate, then turned around and let herself back into the house.
* * *
AMY HAD BEEN nervous about getting her train home on Monday after what happened last time, but a glance around the carriage reassured her that no one was even looking in her direction. She’d bought a new tube of glue on Sunday, and now the mug was setting underneath a small pile of open cookbooks on a box in her living room. She’d managed to refrain from checking on it that morning. The extra hours would make all the difference; she knew from experience that impatience would only make the recovery process longer.
Her commute seemed to fly by, as it often did when she was distracted, and she hopped off the train and walked home. She heard voices coming from the new neighbors’ house as she walked past. Raised voices. She hurried her pace, hoping that their shouting wouldn’t be a regular thing. It was bad enough listening to Rachel’s arguments, let alone being assaulted by domestic anger from both sides.
Moving was a stressful time, she decided generously. They’d soon settle down.
Smudge wasn’t lurking by her potted plants in the front as he usually did, so Amy popped her key straight in the lock and entered her house. She’d restacked the newspapers at the weekend, and her hallway felt positively empty as she edged past the bottles. It had been a muggy July day, the kind that often ended in thunder, but the ground floor of her house had remained cool as a cave. She paused. It was as she feared; she could still hear the shouting. It was muffled and she couldn’t make out the words (thank goodness), but it wasn’t exactly a relaxing backdrop to her evening either. She found herself hoping that they wouldn’t have the loud makeup sex that Rachel and her husband indulged in. That would be more than she could bear.
It couldn’t have been very nice for Scarlett, listening to the sounds of arguments all day. Amy rested her hand briefly on the robin’s back, then peeled her own blazer off and draped it over a box with the others. Remembering her patient, she went to the box it was sitting on to investigate. Very gently she lifted off the books, one by one, then unfurled the bubble wrap she’d used as a bandage. “Excellent,” she said, lifting the mug. It had a thin and wobbly line running down it, like dry cracked earth, but it was structurally sound once again. She picked up the mug and put it against her face. She felt an exchange of energies: warmth from her cheek heating the mug, and the cold china cooling her in return. The line where she’d mended the break made a little indentation in her own face. A mirrored wrinkle. Amy felt a moment of completeness. She imagined drinking from it, the glorious exchange of fluid. It was time. She went to the kitchen to make tea, taking the mug with her.
It was a shame she had to give it back, she decided. It would be a great new addition to her collection. Even stacked as high as she could reach, her mugs took up most of her countertops, but they were such beautiful colors she didn’t mind at all. It was like having a lovely but fragile rainbow in her kitchen. And it wasn’t as if it was worth cooking anything complicated anyway. At least not just for her.
She glanced out the window, listening to the bubbly hiss of t
he kettle.
Then she froze.
She blinked, then looked again.
Although she rarely went out there, Amy loved to admire her back garden through her kitchen window. It was very different from the front, which was well ordered and full of her beautifully potted plants. The back was a private little nature reserve: untidy but ruggedly beautiful. Not through neglect, she told herself, but through generosity to wildlife. She stored her empty terra-cotta pots out there, stacked on top of one another like the turrets of a tower. Some of her pots were large—big enough to house a modest olive tree—and others were more petite, just right for herbs such as sage or lavender. A few of the larger ones were on their sides, making small caves that Amy imagined the squirrels would enjoy. While each pot had been waiting for its perfect plant, the opportunistic ivy had taken hold, concealing some in a rich green disguise. Even Amy had to admit she’d amassed rather an impressive collection over the years.
Nettles had sprung up, and she’d let them thrive. She was sure she’d read somewhere that they were good for caterpillars, and she did love seeing butterflies fluttering around her space.
But her favorites were the brambles. They’d overtaken about a third of the garden, creating a small, prickly forest. Now they were covered in modest white blossoms, but by the end of summer they’d bring forth an abundant crop of blackberries. Amy always resisted the urge to pick them, instead allowing the birds to feast. There was nothing more joyful than watching a family of blackbirds gorging on juicy berries, their yellow beaks stained purple.
But it wasn’t a family of blackbirds in her garden. It was two small boys and one large black cat.
Smudge was sniffing around one of her towers and studiously ignoring Daniel, who was stroking his back, emitting the occasional shriek of delight at the softness of his black fur. Charles, the older child, was busy inserting himself inside a blackberry bush. Already all she could see was the backs of his legs: the rest of him had been swallowed by the bush. He’d probably knock off some of the flowers, thought Amy, and they would never become berries. Plus he’d rip his clothes, not to mention the scratches that would befall his skin.
