The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

by Eleanor Ray

  * * *

  AMY DREAMED OF her grandmother’s garden. Honeysuckle and roses and fresh lemonade. But when she woke up, the flat stank of rum and cigarettes and weed. Amy coughed as she entered the living room, partly from the fumes and partly to wake up Chantel and Tim, both fast asleep on the sofa, gently snoring. It didn’t work. One cigarette had turned into another party—albeit just for two. She’d known it would.

  Amy went into the kitchen to make herself a coffee, but the meager collection of mugs had all been used for drinks the night before. Amy longed for a world where she could fill her kitchen cupboard with mugs. Beautiful mugs in all the colors of a sunset. But for now, she made her way back to the living room and grabbed the closest one. It smelled worse than just rum and Coke, and Amy peered inside. The butts of cigarettes and joints floated in the drink like tampons in a toilet.

  Amy put it back down and decided to buy a coffee on the way to the studio instead. She shared the studio with a collective of other artists, and this was her one chance of the week to get some painting done. But she wasn’t feeling inspired.

  Tim was stirring but Chantel was still fast asleep. “It’s nice having her stay over, isn’t it?” said Tim, his eyes opening. “Livens the place up. Any coffee going?”

  “There’s no coffee because you two have turned all the mugs into ashtrays,” said Amy.

  “Really?” said Tim. “I thought we just used the orange one.” He leaned forwards and grabbed a blue mug. “Oh, and this one too. Sorry.”

  “We can’t carry on living like this,” said Amy.

  Tim rubbed his head. “I’ll sort it,” he said.

  Chantel opened her eyes. “I can hear nagging,” she said. “It had better be after ten a.m.”

  “It’s seven thirty,” said Amy.

  Both Tim and Chantel groaned. “No wonder I feel like shit,” said Chantel. “I’m calling in sick.”

  “Ditto,” said Tim. “Shelves can stack themselves.”

  “I’ve got the studio for two hours this morning because that’s all I can afford,” said Amy. “Then I’m going to the office. It would be really nice if this place wasn’t disgusting when I get back.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Chantel. She closed her eyes. Tim was already snoring. Amy slammed the door on her way out, hoping the sound reverberated inside both their heads.

  * * *

  AMY DIDN’T DO her best work at the studio. The colors felt subdued, the textures muted. She rarely painted anything she was pleased with these days. She sometimes wondered if it was partly her job at Trapper, Lemon, and Hughes that was to blame; it was meant to be just for a month, after all. That was a year ago now, but it had gone from filling university holidays to filling her life. She should curate a gallery perhaps, or work in an art supplies shop. Maybe she could even teach. Amy took a moment to imagine herself teaching life drawing to an enthusiastic and talented class. Then she’d go to her studio, full of ideas, and be able to paint the masterpiece that she hoped was still lurking within her.

  But she needed to pay the rent. Tim still refused to get a better job than the supermarket, insisting that it was just an interim thing till his band made it. To him, getting a proper job meant accepting that the band didn’t have a future.

  Amy stewed like overbrewed tea all day, still feeling hard done by when she got home that evening. Tim came into the hallway and gave her a kiss.

  “Come into the living room,” said Chantel. “We’ve got something to show you.” Amy obeyed, and gasped.

  The room wasn’t spotless: that would be impossible. But it was cleaner than she’d seen it before. Tim’s guitars were neatly stacked in a corner, and a mug filled with honeysuckle sat on the coffee table.

  But what really stood out were Amy’s paintings. The one she’d given Tim years ago had always lived on the wall in his bedroom, but until now most of the others had been shoved unceremoniously in a cupboard. Now her three favorites adorned the walls. Each depicted the sky at a different moment. Sunrise, with little pieces of cracked eggshell worked into the paint. Midday, the rich yellow sun adorned with flecks of golden bottle tops that Amy had picked up from the pavement and ground down to powder. Twilight, the purple sky punctuated with dried buddleia that floated like clouds in front of the nascent moon.

  “We thought it was time to display them,” said Chantel with a grin. “Here, just until you get an exhibition.”

  “Which you will,” said Tim. “I know you will.”

  “We had a spare mug after we washed them all up, so we put the honeysuckle in it,” said Chantel. “Looks nice, eh? Arty.”

  “It looks amazing,” replied Amy, looking at her two favorite people. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Bright and early again, Amy,” said Mr. Trapper as he ran the coffee machine. “That’s what I like to see. Catching the worm.”

  Amy nodded, but she barely even saw him. She went to the stationery cupboard and took out a brown envelope with Please Do Not Bend printed on it. She slipped out the photograph and the remnants of the letter from a slender cookbook she’d been using to keep them safe, and made to transfer them to the envelope. She paused.

  She could hardly make out any of the writing. Rain had seeped in, snails had left their glittery footprints, and Rachel’s mice had nibbled much of the rest. The letter must have been inside that pot for years—the pot that used to live by her front door, holding umbrellas. The letter could easily have slipped inside, just like the ring had. Then when her hallway had become too crowded, she’d taken out the umbrellas and moved the pot outside. Others had been piled on top, protecting the letter from the worst of the elements.

  And now here it was. Her name at the top. Typically, the first line was perfectly preserved, but said so little.

  I don’t know where to begin. I’m so sorry. I had to be selfish.

  That handwriting. Gently slanted, oddly neat for a person often so careless. It made Amy remember countless notes passed to her in class. Uncontrollable fits of giggles. Hugs and shared clothes and laughter and Malibu rum. She hadn’t had a friendship like it again.

  After the first line, it was just the odd word that was legible. But it was enough for Amy to complete the heartbreaking jigsaw:

  jealous

  love

  afraid

  run

  sorry

  Amy shoved the paper into the envelope. Perhaps it was a good thing the letter was in that state. It was a confession she didn’t want to read.

  Just when hope was rising. Hope in the shape of a beautiful aquamarine ring. Hope that they hadn’t betrayed her. And this letter came to tell her to believe what she so fervently wanted not to be true. It was as if it had happened all over again. As if they were rubbing her face in it still, years later.

  She looked at the office shredder and wondered if that was why she’d slipped the letter into her handbag that morning. But shredding it would make it no less true.

  Amy turned her attention to the photograph. Why had Chantel included it? Amy supposed the letter might explain, but she couldn’t imagine what the explanation would be. We grew up together, then I ran away with your boyfriend. Here’s a pretty picture of a bit of woodland in the sunset to make up for it.

  She needed to find out where this place was. It was the only solid clue she had, with the letter illegible. If she found out where the photo was taken, surely that would bring her one step closer to the truth.

  “Fancy meeting you by the stationery cupboard.” Amy looked up and saw Liam grinning at her. “Thought any more about my offer?”

  “Is Carthika not giving you the feedback you need?” replied Amy, slipping the photograph into the envelope.

  “Touché,” replied Liam. Amy smelled extra-strong mints on his breath. “You know what I mean.” He winked at her, in case she needed an extra clue.

  Amy took a step backwards. “I don’t socialize with people from the office.”

  “Perhaps you could make an exce
ption?” asked Liam.

  “Sorry,” said Amy.

  “Offer still stands,” he said, undeterred, “if you change your mind.”

  Amy went back to her desk without replying and sat down, the envelope in front of her. She took out the letter again, and read the words that she could: … love… run… sorry…

  Everyone had thought it at the time. Jack had been convinced. The police said they couldn’t say for certain, but she knew they thought he was right. She’d been betrayed.

  And not just betrayed. Tim and Chantel had left everything to be together. Without her. And she’d not been on a date since.

  A message popped up. Changed your mind yet?

  Amy typed the words quickly, before she had a chance to think about it:

  Okay. Let’s have that drink.

  * * *

  THE SPARE ROOM in her house hadn’t always been spare. Renting the house, the three of them, had been Chantel’s idea. She’d viewed properties until she found a little two-bedroom place they could afford to rent. Amy and Tim were happy to oblige: their previous flat share had reached the end of its shelf life. It wasn’t till years later, when their landlord wanted to sell, that Amy had bought the house. She felt like she had no choice: she couldn’t bear the thought of having to move all her precious belongings. And she needed to stay in that house. If they came back, she wanted them to be able to find her.

  Amy had kept Chantel’s room as it was for several months after they’d gone, hoping Chantel would come back with a reasonable explanation and want her things again. Then Amy kept her shoebox of memories in the room, then larger boxes, until eventually it was uninhabitable. She stood in the doorway now and surveyed what was in front of her.

  She’d barely made a dent in it the last time she’d tried to clear out, and she’d acquired a black eye in the process. Amy paused. It was as if Chantel didn’t want her in there.

  Chantel didn’t have a choice, decided Amy, thinking of the letter. Amy wanted that shoebox with her diaries. Perhaps there was a clue there, something she’d missed all those years ago. A clue about what they were planning.

  Amy clenched her teeth until she heard them grinding together and grabbed a large cardboard box. She wasn’t going to sort through it and she wasn’t going to throw anything away. All she needed was a pathway. Where was the shoebox? She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture it. Was it in the wardrobe? Under the bed? Only one way to find out.

  She took a mirror and carefully leaned it against the box behind her. She’d block off her hallway again at this rate, but she had to find it. She hauled out another box. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a tiny dark shadow darting across the room. Her imagination, she decided. Certainly not a mouse.

  She could see the corner of the wardrobe now. She stopped putting boxes in the hallway and just began to pile stuff behind her. Finally she had one of the wardrobe doors clear. She opened it.

  The wardrobe was full, every inch of the space used for storage. Amy remembered now, she’d hidden treasures in there at first, before she gave up and let belongings take over everywhere. Amy took out the possessions stored there carefully; it was like rediscovering old friends. She placed her finds on top of the boxes behind her. There were lots of shoeboxes in the cupboard. But not the special one. It had originally housed a pair of Adidas trainers that Tim had treated himself to. These boxes were all Chantel’s.

  As were the clothes. Amy looked at them, hanging there like ghosts. The sparkly top Chantel had worn to Tim’s disastrous gig when he’d ended up in tears in the loo. Now that she looked at it, she noticed how low-cut it was.

  And there was the vest top Chantel had worn to the festival. Glittery. And there was the tight red sweater Chantel had worn when she joined Amy and her grandmother at Christmas one year.

  Amy rummaged through the clothes, wondering when it had begun. How long had they been deceiving her for?

  Her hand stopped at a silky blue dress. That was hers. She’d not lent it to Chantel, she was certain of it. Chantel would have come into her room, their room, and taken it.

  Suddenly Amy found herself pulling off her black T-shirt and her jeans. The dress was over her head. It was the color of the midsummer sky, full-length with short sleeves and a neckline that made Amy feel naked.

  Amy pulled the band from her ponytail and leaned over, running her fingers through her dark hair. She flicked her head back and felt a momentary head rush. She turned around.

  A dozen mirrors reflected her image.

  This was how she used to look. Older now, much sadder, but for the first time in years she recognized herself.

  Amy twirled around, the shoebox forgotten. She decided that she would force herself to clear a path to her own wardrobe. She used to enjoy wearing beautiful colors. The yellow of spring daffodils, purples reminiscent of the evening sky, the blue of a hazy morning. She’d painted with those same colors, plus the terra-cotta oranges of Florence and the green of freshly mowed grass. She had never liked black, perhaps that’s why she’d started wearing it when they had gone. Joy had seemed wrong.

  Amy clambered back over the boxes and went downstairs to experiment with Joanna’s makeup. A healthy amount of foundation and blusher, and she looked even more like the girl she used to know. She was pleased she’d kept all these mirrors now: every time she turned around she was surprised by the pleasant-looking person who glanced back at her. She gave herself a tentative smile, testing how it felt to try to look happy again.

  * * *

  THE DOORBELL RANG, and for once Amy didn’t mind its jaunty tone. She opened the door and saw Charles standing there. “You look different,” he told her.

  “I found some old clothes,” she said.

  “Your face looks different too,” he said suspiciously.

  “What is it?” asked Amy.

  He smiled at her. “You said I could ring your doorbell when I wanted to see you.” Amy didn’t reply. “So here I am,” said Charles. “I thought we could play in my room, so we don’t break any more of your things.”

  “I’m actually quite busy—” began Amy.

  “There’s always time for a break,” replied Charles brightly. “We have to be careful in my room too. No breaking things when we play.”

  “I’m a bit old for—”

  “You’re younger than my dad, I bet, and he plays with me sometimes. Nina never plays. She’s too boring.”

  Amy thought about the mess upstairs. She should really clean up all the boxes she’d moved. But to where? She still hadn’t found the shoebox she wanted, so she didn’t want to put everything back in that room, but where else? She bit her lip and considered getting rid of some of her things. But which ones? The thought of it made her feel uneasy. Maybe it was a problem for later. “Okay,” she said. “Just for a little bit.”

  “Come on then,” said Charles, taking her hand. “We’ve not got all day.”

  Amy slipped on a pair of sandals and allowed herself to be dragged along into the house next door. She was beginning to get used to its emptiness now. Charles went up the stairs taking them two at a time. Amy lifted her long dress to keep it out of the way and did the same. “This is my room,” Charles told her proudly as he opened the door. “I have to share it with Daniel,” he confessed. “But the coolest toys in it are all mine.”

  Amy saw the little plastic car bed that she’d spotted when they’d first moved in. It had a blanket on top that depicted Mickey Mouse kicking a football. There was a bigger bed on the other side of the room with a blanket illustrated with every construction machine imaginable. “Take a seat,” said Charles, gesturing to the building-site bed. She perched on it tentatively. “It’s good for bouncing on,” he told her. Amy nodded and looked around. There were two little chests of drawers, a smattering of bright plastic toys, and a few dinosaurs exploring the carpet. It was pretty tidy.

  Charles dragged out a heavy red box from a corner and turned it over. Little yellow machines spill
ed out, covering the floor. “My collection,” he said.

  “It’s lovely,” said Amy, feeling a sense of kinship.

  He rummaged through another box and produced a heavy book. “This book has more than you’ll ever need to know about construction equipment, my dad says.” He turned to a well-used page. “Look.”

  Amy obeyed. “Keep reading,” instructed Charles, going to the cupboard. He came out with a box containing an excavator. “The JCB 220X LC,” he told her. “Remote-controlled.” He carefully opened the box and withdrew several pieces of tissue paper, then a small machine. He placed it on the floor. “My dad gave me this for my birthday,” he said. “It’s a to-scale replica of the ones they use on real construction sites like in this book.” He pointed. “Except in real life they don’t have remotes. People get inside to drive.”

  “It’s very nice,” said Amy.

  “Do you want to drive it?” asked Charles. “You have to be very careful.”

  “You show me how it’s done,” said Amy.

  “Good thinking,” replied Charles. He switched it on, and a high-pitched whirring sound began as it explored the room. “It’s best in the hallway,” said Charles. She followed him as he drove it out. “It can really pick stuff up. Look, I’ll show you.” He pushed open a door, and they went inside. Amy found herself in an adult’s bedroom. Charles grabbed a lipstick from a dressing table, which he threw to the floor. He frowned in concentration as the machine struggled to scoop it up. “Give it a minute,” he said. “Lipsticks are tricky.” He struggled some more, then tossed it a bottle of perfume with a poppy painted on. “That’s a better shape,” he said. They both watched as it picked up the perfume bottle and thrust it towards the bed. “Cool,” said Charles.

  “What’s cool?” Richard was standing in the doorway. Daniel stood with an arm around his leg. “Oh, hello, Amy.” He looked at her. “You look different.”