by Eleanor Ray
Richard came over to Amy. “Are you sure?” he asked. “A moment ago you were faint.”
“I just need to reach that first branch,” she said.
“No problem,” said Richard. “I can lift you that far. You’re light as a feather.”
Nina tutted. “I don’t really think this is necessary—” she began.
“Save Smudge!” exclaimed Rachel.
“And the mouse,” said Charles.
Richard grabbed Amy by the legs and heaved her up. She reached and caught the lowest branch, then used Richard’s hands as a foothold. She swung herself up.
At the sight of her approaching, Smudge climbed up higher. But Amy was determined, clambering up until the branches could barely hold her weight and wobbled precariously. Amy reached out to the cat, and saw that there was something tiny, clutched tightly in his jaws. Just as she thought he was going to let her take hold of him, he leapt to a lower branch and then down to the ground, more worried by her than the height. He landed elegantly enough, until Rachel threw herself onto him, knocking him over. Charles let go of his brother, and Amy watched from the tree as boy, cat, woman, and mouse grappled with each other. This must be what the world looked like to Scarlett, she thought, rather enjoying the bird’s-eye view as the action played out underneath.
“Got it,” said Charles. “It’s alive.” Daniel immediately stopped wailing and ran over.
“Careful it doesn’t bite you,” said Richard.
“It’s in shock,” replied Charles. “And it is a baby.”
“Let’s take it inside and find a box,” said Richard.
“Don’t you take that animal into our house!” said Nina. “It’s filthy.”
“We’ll get it to the vet,” said Richard.
“What will that cost?” said Nina. “It’s a pest!”
“Pet!” declared Daniel, the tears gone as quickly as they had come. “New pet!”
“We’ll see what the vet says,” said Richard, disappearing into the house and reappearing moments later with a shoebox.
“It’s me or the mouse,” declared Nina.
“The mouse,” said Charles quickly.
“MICKEY!” shouted Daniel.
“We don’t know if it is going to make it,” said Richard.
“It’s a pest,” insisted Nina. “We should put it down.”
“Nina!” exclaimed Richard. “A little compassion, please?” Nina disappeared inside the house, slamming the door with a dramatic bang. Richard ignored her and looked up at Amy. “Are you okay up there?”
“Fine,” she replied. She carefully backed her way to the lowest branch and then hung there for a moment, rather like a monkey, before letting go and dropping to the pavement. “You get to the vet.”
Going to his car, Richard handed Charles the box as he strapped Daniel into the car seat. A moment later they were gone, and Amy found herself standing on the road looking at Rachel, who was still fussing over Smudge.
“I love him like a baby,” said Rachel, more to Smudge than to Amy. “When we couldn’t… he was what we got instead. I love him so much.” She buried her face in Smudge’s fur. The cat was purring now.
“I’m sorry,” said Amy.
“We’re still trying,” said Rachel. “It’s amazing what they can do these days.” She looked up. “But it’s not been easy.” Amy bit her lip. Rachel rubbed Smudge’s ear, and his purr ratcheted up like the hum of an engine. “Thank you, Amy,” said Rachel. “I know I’ve been a bit up and down with you. Mainly down. But thank you for saving my cat.”
“He’s tough,” said Amy. “I don’t think you need to worry about Smudge.”
“He can’t help it, you know,” said Rachel. “He doesn’t mean to hurt things or upset children. But hunting is in his nature.”
“Of course,” said Amy. “None of us can help who we are.”
* * *
AMY SAT IN her hallway on a messy pile of post. She didn’t like post—it certainly wasn’t treasure. But somehow with all the newspapers and pots and bottles, it seemed to linger in her house too. Her mind went back to the letter from Chantel. It had been hidden by all her possessions. Perhaps, if she hadn’t kept quite so much, she’d have found the one thing that really mattered.
She didn’t want what it said to be true, but Amy realized the letter could have brought her closure. Closure, a long time ago. Even when things went wrong between Amy and Tim, they’d always come back together. He’d understood her better than anyone she’d ever known. At least, she’d thought he had. She remembered wanting to find Tim so much that at times it felt like even a body would be a relief. Before she’d finally allowed herself to believe she’d been wrong about him, perhaps from the start. She’d been betrayed.
And now all she was left with was a fraction of the story, a confusing ring, a picture of a sun setting over some trees.
And a mouse problem.
It was the bottles’ fault. The bottles and the pots and the newspapers and the birds and the ashtrays. They’d hidden the truth from her.
Maybe Leah was right. Maybe she should have a clear-out.
She pictured the mouse, tiny and vulnerable in Smudge’s jaws. It was a mouse, but could it have been a rat, as Nina had suggested? There were children here now. Maybe her house was a public nuisance.
The bottles on the hallway floor first, decided Amy, getting to her feet while she felt the urge. They were empty wine bottles. They were nothing special. They had been drunk from, they had served their purpose. The kind thing to do would be to get rid of them. Put them in the recycling so they could have a chance at a second life.
Broken down and remade. Reborn. Just because they didn’t stay in their current form didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be happy.
Happy. Amy almost laughed at herself. They were bottles—inanimate objects. She was a sensible person. She worked in financial advice, for God’s sake. So what if they reminded her of him? He didn’t want to be reminded of her. He’d left, abandoned his whole life to be with someone else. Her best friend.
Where to start? Amy grabbed the nearest bottle, then a few more. As many as she could fit in her arms. She staggered to the door and pushed it open, almost flattening Richard, who was standing on the other side next to a deliveryman holding a huge bouquet of red roses.
“I was just coming round to see how the hero was,” said Richard. “But it seems you’re popular.”
Amy looked at the flowers. “You must have the wrong address,” she told the courier, trying not to drop any of the bottles. Richard sprang forwards and took several of them from her.
The courier lifted up the visor on his helmet and frowned at the label. “Are you Amy Ashton?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Amy.
“Sign here,” he said, thrusting out some kind of tablet. Amy scrawled on it with her finger, finding it oddly difficult to fathom writing without a pen.
“Those are rather spectacular,” said Richard. “Who are they from?” The courier gave Richard a sympathetic look, then closed his visor and made his exit.
Amy didn’t answer. Flowers. Could they be…? Red roses weren’t exactly his style, but still… She tore open the envelope.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Richard, without leaving.
Amy read the writing. “Oh,” she said, feeling disappointment flood her. “Just Liam.”
“Who is Liam?”
“No one,” said Amy. She forced herself to smile—otherwise she thought she might cry. “How’s the mouse?”
“It will be fine,” said Richard. “And the best bit is that the vet said it was just the right age to tame. So we’re going to keep it.” He lifted the bottles in his hands. “What’s the deal with these?”
“Can I use your recycling bin?” she asked. “I never used mine… and then I needed the space for the pots, so…”
“Of course,” said Richard. He looked at Amy, one eyebrow raised. “That looks as if it was quite a party. Invite me next time.”
/> “It took me years to drink these,” said Amy with dignity. “I didn’t binge like some kind of teenager.”
“I’m sorry,” said Richard. “I was joking. It’s not funny.” He glanced at Amy’s open doorway. “Those newspapers could be recycled too.”
“Not the newspapers,” said Amy. “They contain information,” she explained.
“From how long ago?” queried Richard.
The newspapers were all the local papers, and some dated back eleven years. At first Amy had scanned for information, in case some keen journalist had found out something the police had not. Then, as she’d lost hope, she found she didn’t have the energy to scour the pages. But she couldn’t simply get rid of them. There could be a clue.
But still. Some stuff must go. “You can take the bottles you’re holding,” she told Richard, feeling decisive. “Just the ones you’re holding. Will there be room for old post too?”
“Of course,” said Richard. “Whatever you need.” He smiled at her. “You know, you’re brave in more ways than one, Amy Ashton.”
Amy frowned at him. “Take those bottles before I change my mind,” she said, confident that she still had plenty more left. He took the bottles, and Amy closed the door behind him.
Amy looked around, and chose the bottom step as the best sorting location. She grabbed the mail that still sat on the doormat and the letters that had spilled from her pile, like the bubbles overflowing from freshly poured Prosecco. She’d start there.
She put anything that had a marketing message on the cover straight into a pile for recycling. Printed envelopes got a cursory open and check, before being condemned to the same fate. She saw that Leah was right, there were a few letters here from the council, getting increasingly aggressive in tone. She put them in the recycling too.
Progress was quick, and soon Amy’s recycling pile reached her knees, the papers gently caressing her legs. She thought about what would happen to the paper next. What would it be turned into? A book, perhaps, she decided. She looked at the envelopes. Several books, probably. That would be a nice second life for junk mail. She got up to go to the loo and had to wade through paper to move. She’d put the first load out now, she decided. Gathering it up in her arms in a giant hug, Amy opened the door and made her way to the recycling wheelie bin that sat outside Richard’s house. She struggled to lift the lid, pulling a face at the smell that came out, of moldy baked beans and not completely clean cartons of yogurt. She tried not to look at the bottles, then dumped the papers inside. She went back into the house.
The hallway felt different already. Spacious. The floor was clear, at least by the doormat. Amy took a deep breath. It was lovely.
She almost felt like opening her door to show the world, then recoiled at the thought.
Was it lovely? Amy looked at the dirty floor. She’d forgotten how ugly the lino was. Maybe the bottles were better after all. She felt a draft. At least the post had provided some insulation.
It was Wednesday. The rubbish wouldn’t be collected again till Monday. She had until then to change her mind. Nothing was gone forever.
Amy heard her phone beep and grabbed it from her pocket.
Spike.
And he wanted to meet.
June 2004
“It’s like Little House on the Prairie.” Chantel was practically skipping up the garden path.
“It’s a tiny two-bed house in a grotty suburb,” replied Tim, “with bad lino and horrible green carpets.”
“It’s a clean start,” said Amy. “I think that’s what Chantel meant.”
“No drugs in the house,” said Chantel, smiling. “No crazy parties and no rum at three a.m. Tea and biscuits and the occasional sophisticated glass of wine.”
“I’ve always been a sophisticated wine sort of guy,” said Tim, giving Amy a little kiss. “You remember the night we met?”
“Always,” said Amy, leaning in to return the kiss. “Screw tops and roundabouts,” she whispered to him.
“I’ll do the honors,” said Chantel, ignoring them. She put the key in the lock. “New life, here we come.”
“Wait,” said Amy. “Let’s get a photo.” She balanced her camera on the wall, set the timer, and the three of them stood and posed, grinning like maniacs. She and Tim were clutching backpacks full of their possessions; Chantel had two large wheelie suitcases. “Say cheese,” said Amy.
“Cheesy,” said Chantel. She opened the door and breathed in. She turned to Amy. “Thank you for this,” she said, giving her friend a hug. “Sometimes I just feel like I want to shed my skin and start all over again. And now I can.”
Amy hugged her back. “Fresh start,” she said. “I can’t wait.” She was excited. True, the higher rent meant she was stuck full-time at Trapper, Lemon, and Hughes for the foreseeable future, but she could still spend evenings and weekends painting.
“It’s a pity there’s no garage,” said Tim.
“You don’t have a car,” said Chantel.
“For rehearsals,” explained Tim. “We’ll have to do it in the living room.”
“We won’t be popular with the new neighbors,” Chantel said. “That couple next door already look pretty sour.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hill? I met them when I came to take the mattress delivery. They seem very nice—I bet they’ll love Tim’s music,” said Amy loyally.
“It’s a more mellow sound these days,” agreed Tim.
Chantel opened up one of her suitcases and removed a small kettle and three chipped mugs. “Tea?” she said. “We should christen the new house.”
“You’re the perfect flatmate,” Amy declared. “I never would have thought to bring a kettle.”
“We’ll have to shop for all the other bits and pieces we need tomorrow,” said Chantel. “I left everything else at Spike’s place. Pretty tragic, isn’t it? All we’ve got to show for ourselves is in these suitcases. And those hideous backpacks.”
“I’ve got my music,” said Tim defensively. “And Amy has all the gorgeous art in her studio. You have…” He paused. “Does a criminal record count?”
“It’s just a caution,” said Chantel. “And you’re an arsehole.”
“Ignore him,” said Amy. “He’s very protective of those backpacks.”
Chantel laughed. “I’ve dealt with worse,” she said. “Right. I’m going out to buy milk and biscuits. And I’ll get more keys cut.”
Chantel left, and Amy and Tim stood looking at each other. “I forgot to carry you over the threshold,” he said regretfully. “Shall we go out and in again, now she’s gone?”
“I think we need to be married for that,” said Amy.
“A traditionalist?” said Tim. “There are a lot of things we do that you’re meant to be married for.”
For a second, Amy thought he was going to propose. It would be perfect: a new start in the new house. Planning a wedding. She’d design the invitations. Tim’s band would play at the reception.
If Tim saw that thought cross her mind, he didn’t let on. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s christen the place properly.” He tried to pick Amy up in a fireman’s lift, and she let out a surprised scream. “Maybe not,” he said, setting her down and kissing her instead. “Let’s check out the bedroom.”
* * *
AMY LAY NEXT to Tim. They hadn’t bought a proper bed yet, just a mattress on the floor. They hadn’t even taken the plastic wrapper off, and she could feel it sticking to her bare legs.
“I do want to, you know,” said Tim all of a sudden. Amy glanced at him; she’d thought he was asleep.
“Want to what?” said Amy. Although she thought she knew, she wanted him to say the words.
“You know what I mean,” said Tim. He clearly didn’t want the words spoken. “But I want to be sorted first. So I can take care of you.”
“It’s not the fifties,” said Amy. “I earn more than you do at my day job, plus I’ve had that gallery interested in my paintings.” As soon as the words escaped her lips, she regre
tted them. Here he was, telling her he wanted to get married, and she was boasting about her own success.
“That’s cool,” said Tim, unperturbed. “But I’m a mess. You know that. I need to get the band sorted, or maybe I need to call time on it. Study law, like my dad said I should. Go back to him for a loan, tail between my legs.”
“But music is your passion,” said Amy, keen to make up for her earlier lack of empathy. “And you’re so talented.” Although even she had to admit, he’d earned almost no money from the band for the last few years. She’d wondered herself if it was time for him to look for alternative careers. He was smart; he shouldn’t be stacking supermarket shelves forever.
“I love how supportive you are,” said Tim, and Amy felt guilty again for her thoughts. He leaned over and kissed her, the plastic crinkling loudly underneath him. “And I just wanted you to know that one day, I’ll do it.”
“And one day I’ll say yes,” said Amy, wishing that was what she’d said at first.
They were interrupted by a loud bang on the bedroom door. “You guys decent?” called out Chantel.
“Just a minute,” said Tim. They both hurriedly put their clothes back on as Chantel came through the door carrying a tray, clearly stolen from a pub, that held three cups of tea, a packet of shortbread, and a shiny pile of keys with enormous fluffy key rings. “Yuck,” she said, staring at Tim’s bare chest as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. “There is such a thing as a gym, you know.”
“There is such a thing as privacy too,” grumbled Tim, taking his tea from the tray.
Chantel popped the rest of it down on the floor and sat on the mattress. “Springy,” she commented. “Nice.”
“That’s a lot of keys,” said Amy, helping herself to a biscuit. “And quite a collection of key rings.”
“A copy of the front door keys for you, one for me, and two for Tim, because he’ll lose his,” she said. Tim pulled a face at her. “And two copies of the back door key. We can keep one in the kitchen and you can keep the spare, Amy, because you’re the most responsible. Great key rings, eh? My treat. Yours is the pink one,” Chantel said to Tim, throwing his set in his direction. He caught it, spilling his tea in the process. “Yours is gray, Amy, to match your eyes. I’ve got brown.”
