by Eleanor Ray
“I can try,” said Amy. “But I’d better get going now.” She bent down to pick up her bag, keen not to spend longer here than she needed to until she was being paid her seven pounds an hour.
“I’ll introduce you to Margery,” said Mr. Trapper. “She can show you the ropes, that way you can hit the ground running on Monday.” He stood up, and Amy reluctantly followed him down a staircase to a drab-looking elderly woman sipping coffee and critically examining her fingernails. “Margery, this is Amy. Her gran sings with Mrs. Trapper in the church choir. Fine soprano.”
Margery looked up, seemingly unimpressed by the familial connection. “She’ll be helping you over the summer,” continued Mr. Trapper. “Photocopying, typing, deliveries, and the like.” He smiled benevolently, ignoring the fact that Margery was still scowling. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” he said, heading back to his office.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Amy, holding out her hand.
“We’re very busy here,” said Margery, taking another sip of coffee and ignoring the proffered hand. “You’ll hardly get a moment to yourself. Slave driver, that Mr. Trapper.”
“Really?” said Amy politely.
“Oh yes,” replied Margery. “Get yourself a coffee now, while you still can. Then you’ll need to load the photocopier. It’s out of paper. I’m rushed off my feet.” She glanced at her shoe, then back at Amy, as if to prove her point.
“I don’t actually start till Monday,” said Amy apologetically. “I think Mr. Trapper just thought we could meet and, you know, you could tell me a bit about the job—”
“Monday it is,” said Margery, turning back to her computer. “Coffee’s gone cold,” she added, scowling again. “It’s a madhouse here.”
* * *
AMY TOOK THE mug of tea from Tim. They were sharing; it was Simon’s turn to do the washing up, and he was in his room sleeping off a hangover. The others, Tim included and by proxy Amy, were refusing to clean a single item in protest.
Amy didn’t mind. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, she took a sip and passed it back, enjoying the simple intimacy. The painting she’d given him hung on the opposite wall, making the room feel as if it were in a constant state of sunset. “It was awful,” she continued. “The room I’d be working in is in the basement so there’s not even any light. And the photocopiers make this weird whir and blow out hot air, and Mr. Trapper said to watch out if I put my hand in there to unblock a jam because the last girl burned herself.”
“Welcome to the world of work,” said Tim. He’d taken some shifts stacking supermarket shelves to supplement his income from the band. “It’s shit.” He raised the mug to her in a mock cheers. “At least you’ll be getting decent money.”
“It will be worth it,” said Amy. “It means I can stay in town over the summer.” She looked at him, hoping he’d take the hint. They’d been together almost four years now. Surely it was time. “And see more of you.”
“About that,” said Tim. He passed her the mug back, and Amy gripped it in anticipation. It felt smooth and hot, and Amy realized her palms were sweaty. “I was thinking, you’ll be here most nights anyway. I know it’s not the Ritz or anything, and there are always piles of washing-up around, but maybe if Simon knew there was a lady here, he’d get his finger out—”
“Yes,” squealed Amy. She squeezed the mug, then put it down and flung her arms around Tim, burying her face in his neck. “I’d love to move in with you. Thank you.” She released him and beamed up.
“I didn’t expect you to be quite so thrilled,” he said, smiling back at her. “You have seen our bathroom? Four guys sharing a place, it’s not exactly—”
“I don’t care,” said Amy, her summer taking shape again in her mind. A flat share in Camden. Every night with Tim. Waking up with him each morning and not worrying about whether she’d remembered to pack clean clothes. “It’s perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” said Tim. He leaned forwards and kissed her. “Let’s celebrate,” he said, gently nuzzling her ear. “I think I’m going to like sharing a room with you.”
* * *
THE AFTERNOON SUN spilled through the flimsy pink curtain, casting Tim’s sleeping face with a glow that reminded Amy of strawberry ice cream on a hot summer’s day. She couldn’t resist.
Amy grabbed the mug that sat on the bedside table and took it to the bathroom to add a little water. On the advice of her art professor, she didn’t just carry a sketchbook with her anymore. She had a small watercolor set, a few brushes, and a pad with thick, coarse paper just waiting to be painted on. She knew now that color was at the heart of her art, and pencils, though convenient, would never do that justice.
Amy settled herself on the carpet, ignoring the biscuit crumbs and tobacco shag that kept her company, and, dipping a wide brush into the mug of water, she started to paint. Not Tim’s features, but the color of his skin as the sun poured through the curtain. The color of his dark hair, shining almost blue in the light. He snored, and she took a finer brush, using it to create tiny flecks of movement above him.
It wasn’t perfect, but it gave her the memory she needed. She’d use it as a base for something in oils next time she was in the studio. But she’d need texture. Amy stood up, stretched, and a pouch of tobacco caught her eye. She pocketed it: she’d mix tiny flecks of tobacco with the paint. Perfect.
She looked back to Tim. His eyes were open and he was watching her. “If you wanted to start smoking, you could just ask for a rollie,” he said, rubbing his eyes and stretching luxuriantly. “You don’t need to wait till I’m asleep to snaffle it.”
“Sorry,” said Amy, removing it from her pocket and perching on the edge of the bed. “I was going to use it for an art project—”
“Take it,” said Tim with a laugh, sitting up. “I’ve got plenty. I knew it would be something like that. I was only joking.” He noticed the sketchbook. “Let me see.”
“It’s just preparation,” said Amy, feeling embarrassed as she always did revealing a picture that wasn’t finished. She moved it out of his reach and glanced at her watch: it was 2 p.m., so Mr. Trapper would likely be back from lunch. She jumped up to get her phone. She should let him know as soon as she could that she wouldn’t need that job after all. He could find some other poor unfortunate to spend her summer burning herself on photocopiers.
“Where are you going?” asked Tim.
“I’m going to tell Mr. Trapper where to stick his job,” she said. “Politely, of course.”
“What? Why?”
Amy looked at Tim in confusion. “If I don’t have to find a place for the summer, I won’t need to work the whole time.” She smiled. “Maybe I’ll do a little bar work and still be able to do that trip to Florence.…”
“Oh,” said Tim. “Yes, of course.” He smiled at her, then glanced at his watch. “Right. I have to get going. I’ve got a double shift at the supermarket, then we’ve got that gig tonight. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Amy.
“Great,” Tim replied. “I’m on an early tomorrow though, so I can’t stay up late. Enjoy telling Mr. Trapper where to go.”
“Yes,” said Amy. She watched Tim pulling on his trousers. She realized he had bags under his eyes and his skin, always rather fair, had an unhealthy gray pallor when he was out of the sunlight. Perhaps it wasn’t just cigarettes and alcohol. Perhaps it was exhaustion. “You are working hard,” she said, “with the band and the supermarket.”
“It will be worth it,” said Tim. “When we get signed. There’s a scout coming next week, did I tell you? Then all our money problems will be over.”
“Money problems?” repeated Amy.
“Shitty jobs and crummy flats,” said Tim. “It won’t be for much longer.” He smiled at her. “It’s given me an idea for a new song, actually. I just need to work out the harmonies. Perhaps I’ll have time to play around with it after the shifts tomorrow. Who needs sleep anyway?”
“I’m taking that job,” declared Amy suddenly.
“What? It sounds horrible.”
“I want to help,” she said. “I’ll take that job and we’ll share the money. You can cut down your shifts and spend more time on your music.”
“No, Amy,” said Tim. “What about Florence?”
“Florence can wait,” said Amy. She closed her eyes a moment, thinking of the colors she’d miss. The pink, green, and white marble outer panels of the cathedral basilica, the orange of its dome. The vibrant reds of the pasta sauces, even the murky greens of the Arno. She opened her eyes again. None of that compared to Tim, looking at her with concern as he took a sip from the mug.
The mug she’d used for her brushes.
“Stop!” cried Amy. “Don’t drink that!”
He spat the water back into the mug. “And I thought Simon was disgusting,” he said, pulling a face. “Has my tongue changed color?” He stuck it out for Amy to inspect.
Amy started to laugh—a giggle that grew out of control, until she was laughing hysterically. Suddenly Tim was laughing too, and she found his arms encircling her and his face buried into her neck. “What have I let myself in for, living with you?” he muttered as he kissed her.
She felt the cold china of the mug press against her cheek and Tim’s hot breath by her lips. “I needed somewhere to rinse my brushes,” she managed to say between laughs and kisses.
“Once I’ve got a recording contract, you won’t have to pay a penny,” said Tim. He leaned back, and his face was serious again. “I’ll even buy you some proper brush-washing pots, whatever they are called. And if they give me an advance, you might even be on your way to Florence before the summer is up.”
Amy watched as Tim reached over, grabbed his tin, and started to roll a joint. “What are you doing?”
“I’m a kept man,” joked Tim. “I’m having a smoke and then I’m calling in sick and later I’m going to write you a love song like you’ve never heard.” He grinned at her and lit up, using the empty mug as an ashtray. “I’ll make it up to you, Amy Ashton,” he said merrily. “Just you wait.”
Chapter Six
The police station hadn’t changed much in eleven years, on the outside at least. It had been brand-new at the time, the pride of the borough. Amy remembered the smell of freshly dried paint and newly laid carpets. Back then, some of the windows still had a layer of plastic to be peeled off, as if the police were putting it off until the last minute to keep the glass from scratches, the way Amy liked to do with the screen of a new phone. The trees outside, once scrawny little sticks with barely a leaf, had flourished into fine specimens, reminding Amy that time had passed.
A lot of time.
Amy took a breath and entered the revolving door, getting out as quickly as she could on the other side. She remembered disliking the doors then too: they sucked you in and spat you out like the currents of the ocean.
She’d phoned ahead and discovered that Chantel’s ex-boyfriend Jack still worked there. Amy still couldn’t believe that Chantel had ever been in a relationship with a policeman—such a contrast to Spike. And now Jack was no ordinary policeman: he was Detective Chief Inspector Hooper.
Jack hadn’t been on the case back then; it would have been a conflict of interest. It was his girlfriend, after all, who had disappeared. But he had always seemed to know what was going on. And at least Amy could rely on him to remember what had happened. The special constable on reception guided her through a corridor with heavy fire doors every few meters, which he diligently held open for her. He led her through a busy open-plan office to a large glass door. He knocked, a friendly “enter” was given in reply, and Amy found herself through the door.
Jack stood up to greet her, reaching out a tanned hand. He’d aged well. He’d been strong and muscly eleven years ago, but had always struck Amy as hungry. The last decade had filled him out with a softer twenty pounds that he wore like an expensive jacket. He smiled at her, and Amy found herself feeling uncomfortable in his presence. “Amy Ashton,” he said, greeting her like an old friend. “It’s so good to see you.”
Amy nodded. “Congratulations on…” She gestured at the surroundings.
“Thank you,” he agreed. “I’ve been lucky. Take a seat. Tea? Coffee?”
Amy felt a hot drink was too much of an imposition for the suddenly important-seeming DCI Jack Hooper. But she could feel the insides of her mouth drying out, as if filled with cotton wool. “Water?” she requested.
Jack pressed a button on his phone and ordered a still water for Amy and a cappuccino for himself. “I don’t think we’d even had the coffee machines installed last time you were here,” he said conversationally.
“No,” said Amy. Sweet tepid tea sprang to her memory so vividly she could taste it. “You didn’t.”
“Things have changed,” he said with a smile. “And how are you?”
Amy was saved from answering by the arrival of the drinks. His coffee was served in a surprisingly elegant bone china mug that looked rather vulnerable in his large hands. Amy found herself worrying for it even as she sipped from her own rather ordinary glass. She took the opportunity to change the subject.
“I found something. In my garden,” she told him. She paused. “It may seem like nothing, but I thought it might have a bearing on what happened to Tim. And Chantel.”
“Eleven years ago?” Jack looked surprised.
“I’m still in the same house,” explained Amy. “Where we all lived together.”
“Go on,” he said.
Amy pulled the ring from her handbag. She’d grown tired of constantly sliding it on and off the chain or in and out of her pocket, but had felt it didn’t look much like evidence when she wore it on her finger. At Charles’s suggestion, she’d placed it inside a sandwich bag. He’d assured her that was how the police liked to look at clues. “Fingerprints and DNA,” he’d said, unperturbed when she told him she’d not only handled it constantly but also polished it. She handed the bag to Jack.
“It’s a ring,” she explained. He peered inside the bag and nodded agreement. “Tim bought it,” continued Amy. “Before he disappeared. That’s been confirmed by the owner of the shop. I think he was going to give it to me. To propose.”
Jack nodded again. “Very possibly.” He gave her a sympathetic smile and handed the bag back. “It’s good that you have this,” he said, his voice gentle. “You need memories. Thank you for showing it to me.”
Amy frowned at him. “But this is significant, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“I know you always thought that because they disappeared at the same time that they’d left together. On purpose.”
“We don’t know what happened. That is one of several explanations, and it did seem the likeliest to me. You agreed, eventually. Remember?”
“But why would he leave with her if he wanted to marry me?”
Jack took another sip of his coffee. “We both got our hearts broken back then,” he said, his professionalism fading to softness. “I was devastated when Chantel left me. They must have just wanted to be together, and we were collateral damage.”
“That’s what you always said,” said Amy. “But the ring—it suggests otherwise. Tim was the only person who knew I liked this ring. We’d looked at it together in the old antique shop near where I used to live. When we saw it, Tim even said that it was right for an engagement. And then, all of a sudden, it appears in my garden.” Amy thought of what Charles had said. “It’s a clue.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack, shaking his head. “But discovering this item is not going to help us find Tim. Not even if we’d found it back then, and certainly not now.”
“It changes things,” insisted Amy. “It means he didn’t just run away with Chantel. Something might have happened to him. To both of them.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” said Jack. “Not as far as the police are concerned. It’s a lovely keepsake for you—”
&
nbsp; “No,” said Amy, “that is not what it is. It is proof he didn’t want to leave me.”
“People change their minds all the time,” said Jack, his voice a little less soft now. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t find him a decade ago. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Neither of them will be. A piece of jewelry doesn’t change that.” He looked at Amy, who had put the bag between them on the table. “Even Chantel’s mother has accepted that they are gone now.”
“Toyah?” It had been years since Amy had spoken that name.
“She’s moved to Dubai. A fresh start. That’s probably what you need too.”
“Dubai?” queried Amy. It didn’t sound right. Not for Chantel’s mum. “With her sister?” she asked, a little incredulous. “And her brother-in-law?”
“Toyah came to give me her number before she left, in case there were any developments in the case. Would you like it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
Amy hesitated. Once she’d accepted that Tim and Chantel had left together, she’d cut herself off from Toyah, feeling she was tarnished by her daughter’s betrayal. But if there were another explanation? Amy nodded and scribbled down the number that Jack gave her.
“But in terms of the case,” continued Jack, “I don’t see what more we can do. Not after all this time. I’m sorry, Amy, I wish I could help.”
Amy picked up the bag with the ring and put it in her handbag. “I understand,” she said. She did. If she wanted to find the truth, she wouldn’t have the help of Jack or the police. She’d be on her own.
Amy found herself staring at his hands, mainly to avoid eye contact. She noticed a thick gold band on his own finger. She glanced around the office, seeing framed photos documenting a pretty wife, two children, and several exotic holidays. He’d moved on with his life. Of course he had.
It was just her, longing for a past that perhaps had been a lie anyway.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, standing up. “You must be busy.”
