by Eleanor Ray
“You’re, of course, welcome to have… um… relations with colleagues,” he began again. Amy felt as though she were getting a horrifying birds-and-bees chat from her father. She felt color rising in her cheeks. Mr. Trapper was already crimson, and sweat continued to run down his face. “But I thought you should know something.”
“I’m not having relations—” she said.
“Good,” said Mr. Trapper, clearly wanting the conversation over. “Because I have Liam Salter’s CV here. There’s something on here. It’s a bit ‘old-school’ to include this sort of detail.” Mr. Trapper made exaggerated quotation marks to communicate that he himself was not “old-school” at all. Then he paused again and looked down as he said the words. “Liam Salter is married.”
* * *
IT HAD TAKEN Amy a while to find, but here it was, rescued from the depths of her kitchen cupboard.
A small vacuum cleaner named Henry.
She didn’t often bother vacuuming; there didn’t seem to be much point when there was so little floor space available. But Amy was allowing a visitor into her home, and she didn’t want to let the side down. And her hallway was already a great deal emptier than it had been.
She started there, dusting off the remaining bottles with an old but freshly cleaned sock. Dried honeysuckle flowers fell from their stems as she went, drifting gently to the floor. Amy fought the urge to collect them together and save them. No. She would simply vacuum them up and get some fresh flowers.
But not red roses.
The very thought of it made her seethe. It wasn’t as if she had even liked Liam. But to know that he was trying to betray his wife. With her. After everything.
It was too much.
More dried flowers fell to the lino, and Amy realized she’d been dusting the bottles way too vigorously. She had to be more careful or something would break. Amy switched on the vacuum and watched the flowers disappear. The lino was still stained, and had always been ugly, but at least it was clear of debris.
Amy went into the living room. She couldn’t vacuum in here, it would be too dangerous for the birds. She straightened a box that was askew instead. Scarlett looked at her, and Amy gave the bird a gentle wipe with the sock. “Good as new,” she told her. “Better, in fact.” Amy smiled at Scarlett, but the bird looked nervous.
Perhaps allowing Richard into her home was a bad idea. She had a lot of belongings and a lot of responsibility. What if something were to be broken? Richard wasn’t his sons, but he was a man. And men couldn’t be trusted. Not with her things. And in fact, not at all.
She’d cancel. Amy went back to the hallway and pulled the vacuum cleaner along behind her to the kitchen, where with no little effort she was able to squeeze it back into the cupboard. It had been a foolish idea to try to clean, and she was lucky the only casualty was the withered honeysuckle. Amy made her way to the front door, looking regretfully at the empty stems poking out from her bottles. She opened the door to go to tell Richard she’d changed her mind.
“I was just about to press your bell,” said Richard, smiling at her. “Let’s go memory-box hunting.”
“I’m sorry,” said Amy. “Something has come up.”
“I know it’s hard,” said Richard, “letting people in. But I can help.”
“No,” insisted Amy. “It’s…” She paused, searching the recesses of her mind for an excuse. None came.
“I won’t come in if you don’t want me to,” said Richard. “But a fresh pair of eyes could really help you find this box you’re looking for.” He smiled at her. “Let me help.”
Amy took a deep breath. She did want to find that box, and she’d had no luck alone. After all, she’d even vacuumed.
“Okay,” she said, opening the door and stepping to one side before she could change her mind. “Come in.”
* * *
“IT’S NOT THAT bad,” said Richard. His eyes, pupils dilated and slightly glazed, said otherwise as he peered up the staircase. This wasn’t even the worst of it.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” said Amy. She was still feeling angry at Liam, and was trying not to take it out on Richard.
“No, I’m here. Let’s do it.” Richard looked again at her staircase. “How do you get up there?”
“I have a technique,” said Amy. “Here, let me show you.” She plotted her special route up the stairs, making liberal use of the banisters when she had to skip a step.
Richard hesitated for a moment, then followed. “It’s like that climbing frame in the park,” he said. “Charles would like it.”
“The boys can’t come in,” said Amy quickly. “They might break something.” She paused at the top of the stairs, then watched Richard ascending. “Miss that step,” she said, seeing him doubting his route. “And swing your leg over that box. That’s right.”
“No wonder you were so quick up that tree,” said Richard, struggling. “Plenty of practice. Okay, I’m here.”
“The spare room is this way.” They edged past boxes, avoiding the mirrors that leaned on them. “Ouch,” said Richard, banging his head on a protruding cookbook and almost knocking over a tower of mugs. “What was that?” he exclaimed, as something crunched underfoot.
“Be careful of the cigarette lighters,” said Amy. “And the key rings.”
“I thought it was a cockroach,” said Richard. “And I didn’t know you smoked?”
“I don’t,” said Amy.
Richard was silent as she opened the door to the spare room. She’d carved a path to the wardrobe, which she slid through and waved at him to follow. He stood still.
“In there?” he queried. “It looks pretty treacherous.”
“Just be careful,” said Amy. “Don’t knock into anything and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” said Richard. He stepped forwards, placing his feet tentatively as if trying to avoid hot coals. “If you say so.”
“Here,” said Amy. “I’ve made a clearing just here. I think it must be in one of the boxes in the wardrobe, or near it. It’s where…” She paused. “Where I kept stuff at the beginning.”
“Okay,” said Richard again, his back bending in an exaggerated fashion.
“There’s no need to stoop,” said Amy, feeling judgment in the way he carried his shoulders. “You’re not in a cave.”
“So what’s in the boxes?” asked Richard, standing a little straighter but still looking as if he expected an avalanche.
“I’m not getting rid of stuff,” said Amy.
“That’s not what I said,” replied Richard. Amy watched him examine the pile next to him. Boxes, interspersed with stacks of mirrors that she didn’t have room to display. A few cookery books slotted in between like cement. One poked out farther than the others, and Amy had adorned it with a rather fetching kingfisher, proudly clutching a small fish in its beak. Probably a minnow or a sardine. “Is that one of the birds you were talking about?” he asked. “When we first met?”
“Of course,” said Amy. “I mainly keep them in the living room, but some have fluttered up here.”
“I thought you meant real birds,” replied Richard, staring at the kingfisher.
“Are you helping or not?” said Amy. “Here, I’ll pass you things, and you can put them out of the way.”
“Where out of the way?” he asked.
“My bed is clear,” she said. “It’s the next door along.” She handed him a stack of books and opened up a box. He inched his way out.
The box mainly contained ashtrays. Amy smiled at one near the top. It featured an elephant lying on its back, holding the tray over its tummy and peering up. The next one was so different: cut crystal that even when dusty and in the dark room caught the light and reflected it back as rainbows. Gorgeous.
But no shoebox. She passed the box to Richard, warning him to take care with it. He glanced inside, then hoisted it under his arm. Amy tensed as she heard the ashtrays clink against one another, elephant on crystal. She moved on to the next box, and resisted the u
rge to check the time on each clock. They’d all stopped ticking as they ran out of battery, and she liked to see at what moment each had chosen to pause indefinitely. One, a classic carriage clock set into a mahogany frame, came back to life and ticked at her, but she realized it was just a twitch from being moved.
No shoebox. Amy continued, starting to enjoy herself. Richard stood watching as she went through the boxes, waiting to carry each to the next room. He no longer made conversation or commented on her belongings. It was nice to rediscover things she’d forgotten, like picking up a conversation with a friend she hadn’t seen in years.
The thought sobered her and the smile she’d barely noticed developing fell from her face. “We’re running out of room on the bed,” said Richard. “Is there anywhere else…?”
“The bathroom,” said Amy. “I’ve kept the shower free. Make sure it’s completely dry though. We don’t want anything getting ruined.”
“Indeed,” said Richard. Amy chose to ignore the sarcasm in his tone. He was helping, after all.
“Maybe you would like a tea break?” she offered.
“Let’s keep going,” said Richard. “I don’t fancy going up and down those stairs more often than I need to.”
Amy assented, happy to get back to her boxes.
“Argh!” shouted Richard all of a sudden. “What the hell was that?”
Amy looked up. “Did you tread on something? Be careful.”
“It moved,” he said, pointing. Amy looked. She couldn’t see anything. “I think it was a mouse—”
“It could have been a key ring,” interrupted Amy quickly. “I have a few fluffy ones.”
“That was no key ring,” said Richard. He sighed. “Amy, how do you live like this?” he continued, the words escaping him fast, as if they’d been building since he entered her house. “It’s no way to be.”
“It’s fine,” said Amy.
“It’s far from fine,” he replied. “I have to admit, I thought that Rachel was exaggerating. Gossip, you know what people are like.”
“Rachel has never been inside my house,” said Amy with dignity.
“There’s not really room for her,” said Richard. “There’s barely room for you.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Amy. “And it’s none of your business.”
“Listen, I get it,” said Richard. “You’ve been through a lot. You need your things. But to have so many, all in your house? You can barely get up the stairs!”
“I manage fine,” replied Amy.
“Can’t you hire a storage room?” he asked.
“I need to keep everything here,” said Amy. “Where it’s safe.”
“But it’s not safe,” said Richard. “It’s not safe for your things. Or for you. Amy, there is so much more to you than all this. But your belongings are suffocating you.”
Amy stopped what she was doing. She pulled herself up to her full height and turned to him. “You can leave now,” she replied.
“Don’t be like that.”
“I can’t have you getting injured by a clock or a newspaper,” she said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that didn’t suit her. “Or bitten by a key ring.”
“We can get you help,” said Richard. “Counseling? I found it so—”
“Leave now,” said Amy. She needed to be alone with her things, away from his concern. And his judgment. Instead Richard made to step towards her.
Before Amy realized what was happening, Richard was stumbling backwards. She’d pushed him. Quickly Amy put her hands behind her back, as if hiding a weapon.
Richard leaned hazardously against a mirror, which wobbled for a moment before both regained their balance.
“I’m out,” he said, turning to leave.
“I’m sorry,” muttered Amy, but she didn’t ask him to stay. It was probably for the best.
Richard strode out of the room, banging his head on the protruding cookbook again. He swore under his breath. Amy heard irregular footsteps as he stumbled down the stairs, then the reassuring thud of the front door shutting.
She sank to the floor, leaning her back against the cold mirror. It had been a terrible mistake, letting someone in. No one else understood. A lighter sat on the floor, and Amy picked it up and flicked it on, watching the flame light up the air and feeling the heat on her fingers.
She flicked it off again. Fire was dangerous for her things. Instead, she leaned over and grabbed the nearest box, keen to see what beautiful treasures lay inside. Dried honeysuckle lined the box, and Amy shifted it carefully to one side.
Then she froze.
The memory box. Scattered with flowers like a coffin about to be buried.
She’d found it.
September 2007
“I’m not sure it’s going to look like the picture,” said Amy doubtfully, as she stirred the base for the supposedly green Thai curry from one of her new recipe books. “It’s the wrong color.”
“Isn’t it meant to be a murky beige?” asked Tim. “All the best food is.” Amy put down the spoon and reopened the page in the book. They both looked at the picture.
“I’m sure yours will taste good,” said Tim.
“The photo in this cookbook is like a piece of art,” said Amy. “Those muted greens, the pink of the prawns, the red of the chilis. I could cut it out and use it as a collage, maybe with some swaths of yellow running across the top.”
Tim smiled at her. “I’d love to see you painting again,” he said. “Actually…”
“What?” asked Amy.
“Nothing,” said Tim. “I promised we’d wait.”
“Wait for what?”
Tim didn’t answer. He picked up a whole king prawn instead and held it delicately between his fingers. “I don’t like the way this little guy is looking at me,” he declared. “I told it I’m pescatarian and it counts as fish so I can eat it, but I’m not sure I can. Its eyes are so sad.”
“You don’t have to eat it,” said Amy. “But don’t we need to snap its head off before we cook it?” She looked back to the recipe book. “No,” she said, relieved. “Apparently we can cook it like this and then people do that at the table.” She shuddered. “Maybe we’ll say we didn’t have enough and just give them all to Chantel and Jack.”
“Jack looks like someone who’d have no qualms about snapping the head off a prawn,” said Tim.
“I’m glad they are coming over tonight,” said Amy. “I’ve barely seen Chantel since they’ve been back together. Have you?”
“Why would I?” said Tim.
“I just wondered,” replied Amy. “You have, you know, things in common.”
“We haven’t been on a secret drug-fueled bender, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he replied.
“Of course not,” said Amy.
“I’ve been clean for ages,” added Tim.
“I know. It’s just, I worry about her.”
“Why?”
“Because I never see her anymore. Here,” said Amy, passing Tim a carrot. “You can chop these instead. Julienne, apparently. From the picture I think that means like little matchsticks.”
“That’s some fine carrot cutting,” said Tim, also leaning over the picture. “Good thing I have the skillful fingers of a guitar player.”
Amy leaned over and gave him a kiss, then grabbed a large and angry-looking red chili. “Do you think she’s okay? She seemed so sure when she broke up with Jack last time.”
“She’s like a cat,” said Tim. “You have to break up with her nine times before it sticks. Look at Spike.”
“Jack is better than Spike,” replied Amy with a laugh. “I hope it does work out with them. She’s definitely kissed her share of frogs.”
“Jack is a bit of a catch,” said Tim. “And he looks like He-Man.”
“Maybe you should date him,” said Amy, tossing her chilies into the frying pan and listening to them sizzle.
“Not my type,” replied Tim. He leaned over her and gave her another kiss. “I like beauti
ful arty girls with spicy fingers who make me smoke outside even when it’s snowing.”
“I’ll squeeze the lime juice in and see what happens,” said Amy boldly, after giving Tim a kiss in return. “Did you buy fresh coriander?”
“I bought everything on the list,” said Tim.
“This is nice,” replied Amy, chopping the coriander. “Having a dinner party. We even have the right number of plates, and clean cutlery. It’s like being a grown-up at last.”
Tim put down his knife, and Amy noticed that the carrots were more like stubby little fingers than elegant matchsticks. So much for his musician hands. She didn’t say anything.
Amy’s phone buzzed. “It’s Chantel,” she said. “They are running late.”
“What shall we do with the extra time?” Tim’s hand slid suggestively around Amy’s waist.
“Maybe you could have another go at the carrots?” she said. “Matchsticks, please, not fingers.”
“I’m not sure about being a grown-up,” he grumbled, picking up the knife again. “But your wish is my command.”
* * *
AMY WAS JUST about to relent and let Tim eat the Thai curry when the doorbell finally rang. “I hate that ring tone,” she said.
“It’s Beethoven,” replied Tim with a laugh. “A classic. And just the sound we needed. I’m starving.”
Amy went to open the door. “Hello,” said Chantel. “Sorry we’re late.” Her voice had a metallic quality to it, hard and mechanical.
“No worries,” said Amy, going to hug her friend. Chantel winced a little at the embrace. “Are you okay?” asked Amy.
“Big session at the gym earlier,” said Chantel. “I’m a bit worn-out and achy.” She smiled at Amy. “But we’re here now.”
“This one took forever to get ready,” said Jack, his voice bright and cheerful as he stepped in and gave Amy a warm hug. “Hope dinner’s all right.”
“Of course,” said Amy. “We eat late anyway.” She looked at Chantel, who was gazing at the empty wall. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“You too,” replied Chantel.
“I’m always telling her she should come around more often,” said Jack. “But what with work and the gym, she’s barely got any time.”
