by Eleanor Ray
Tim poured them all a glass of wine, and they sat around the coffee table. Amy went into the kitchen and spooned rice into small bowls, which she upturned and removed to make little rice domes. She spooned curry onto each plate, adding prawns to Chantel’s and Jack’s. She sprinkled everything with the fresh coriander, and added a sliver of lime to each plate. It didn’t exactly look like the picture, but it certainly seemed edible.
“Dinner is served,” she said rather proudly, presenting the dishes to her guests. “Sorry about eating at the coffee table,” she said, over her shoulder as she went back to the kitchen to fetch the other plates. “We’re saving up for a dining table.”
“You must come round to ours next time,” said Jack. “We’ve got a six-seater.”
“Very impressive,” Tim told Jack, his mouth full of curry. “Amy, this is delicious.”
“You should teach Chantel how to make this,” said Jack, happily breaking the head from a prawn. “It’s very nice.”
“All I can make is cheese on toast,” said Chantel, picking at the curry and ignoring the rice. “And since we’ve given up bread, that’s not so useful.”
“You should borrow one of my recipe books,” said Amy. “I’ve got a few now.”
“Nice plates too,” added Chantel.
“Gosh, we’re old.” Amy laughed. “Sitting around dinner talking about plates.”
“We’ll have to pop some pills later,” said Tim. “Prove we’ve still got it. No offense,” he said to Jack.
“I know you’re joking,” replied Jack. He broke the head off another prawn. “Because if you weren’t, I’d have to arrest you.” There was a moment’s silence; then Chantel laughed, the sound cutting through the room. The others joined in.
“Nicely cut carrots, don’t you think, everyone?” said Tim.
“Did you do those?” asked Chantel.
“You can tell?” he said.
“Musician fingers,” replied Chantel. She smiled at Tim. “Are you missing the band?”
“Turns out media sales is my calling,” said Tim. “In fact, shall we tell her, Chantel?”
“Absolutely.” Chantel and Tim grinned at each other.
“What’s the secret?” asked Amy. “Tim, you were being weird earlier.”
“You tell her,” said Chantel. “You paid for most of it.”
“You chipped in,” said Tim.
“Just tell us,” said Jack. “I hate secrets.”
“We’ve booked you onto that art program, Amy,” said Tim. “The one you’ve always wanted to do, in Florence.”
“What?”
“It’s all paid for,” said Chantel. “And we’ve cleared the leave with Mr. Trapper.” She let out a small squeal. “Are you happy?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Amy, stunned.
“It’s time you worked on your art again, Amy,” said Tim. “You’re so talented.”
“I haven’t painted in ages,” said Amy. “What if I’m not good enough?”
“Of course you are,” said Tim. He grinned at her. “This is just the kick-start you need. And now that I’m making decent money, perhaps you can cut your hours at Trapper.” He looked around. “Shall we open another bottle to celebrate?”
“Yes!” said Chantel.
“Better not,” said Jack. “We’re up early, training again. Aren’t we, Chantel?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “None for me.”
“You’re looking very svelte,” said Amy. “Isn’t she, Tim?”
“No offense, Chantel, but I hadn’t noticed.” Tim leaned over to Amy and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Eyes only for each other,” said Jack, with a glance towards Chantel. “Adorable.”
Chapter Twelve
Amy sat in her bedroom, holding the box. It was as if she’d got the heart of her hoards in her hands, bloody and pumping. It was where it had all started.
Taking a deep breath, Amy opened the box.
Inside was her sketchbook. She’d taken to carrying it around with her when she worked at Trapper, Lemon, and Hughes and watercolors were not an option. She couldn’t use it for the vibrant colors that she loved, but drawing at all had been better than nothing. She flicked through and found a line drawing of Mr. Trapper’s second baby, its mouth wide open in an angry scream. Amy could almost hear the sound now, and remembered the afternoon when Mrs. Trapper had brought the baby in and handed her round to the cooing girls in the office, before the baby had decided enough was enough and started shrieking. The next sketch was of a rosebush in winter, its stems pruned so they just protruded from the ground. Then a picture of a robin, perched on a birdbath. Amy turned the page.
The drawings stopped and notes took over. That was when they’d disappeared. Scrawled ideas of where they could be. Hopeful at first. She remembered. Tim hadn’t come home that night, and the next day she’d discovered Chantel was missing too. She looked at what she’d written: “Tim said he was meeting Simon.” She remembered being angry; she was recently back from Italy and hadn’t wanted him to go.
When he didn’t come home that night, she was even more upset, thinking he’d broken his promises and gone on a bender. But when he was still missing the next morning, she’d started to worry. Tim didn’t answer his phone. She’d called Simon, but he hadn’t seen Tim for weeks and denied they’d had plans the night before. She’d tried Chantel, but couldn’t reach her. Of course. And then she’d scribbled notes from her phone calls to everyone she could think of whom Tim might have been in contact with. No one knew a thing, but a few people hazarded guesses, which all included drugs and alcohol. She’d tried Chantel again, but still no answer. She’d rung their house phone, and Jack told her she hadn’t been home either, but he wasn’t worried. They’d had a row and he was sure she’d be back soon. Then she’d rung Chantel’s mother, who had heard nothing from her. She called Jack again, worried for her friend. He’d told her not to be paranoid, she’d show up soon.
Except she never did.
Amy frowned at the notebook. Something didn’t feel right. She left it open on that page and looked at the other documents in the box. Tim and Amy’s shared calendar: it used to be pinned to the fridge and was illustrated with pictures of guitars from around the world. She’d bought it for Tim that Christmas. The day he disappeared was marked by Tim. Out, it just said. That was the understatement of the century. The next day was circled in red. The start of his new life, thought Amy, trying not to let bitterness spread throughout her body.
She shuffled through newspaper clippings. At the beginning, she’d scoured the papers for relevant articles, and here they were, neatly trimmed with her kitchen scissors. She’d been saving them, hoping to discover more about what had happened. Of course, she hadn’t. Once Jack accepted that Chantel was not coming home, he’d decided that she and Tim had run away together. With no leads to go on and no sign of foul play, the investigating officers seemed inclined to agree with him.
Amy found an interview with Jack in the local paper:
“Chantel and Tim had always been close,” said Hooper. “But neither Amy nor I were suspicious by nature. Chantel and I had a disagreement and Chantel stormed out, saying she was going to stay with a friend. I thought nothing of it at first. It wasn’t till days later when she didn’t come back that I realized this was more than a tiff. She’d betrayed me with her best friend’s boyfriend.”
Stay with a friend, thought Amy. That should have been her; she was the only real friend Chantel had. But Jack knew Chantel wasn’t with Amy. He knew she wasn’t with her mother either—Amy had told him that. Why hadn’t he been worried those few days earlier? Could that have made a difference? Amy got up, finding her legs had cramped where she’d been sitting on them. Gingerly she shook them out, carefully clambered over her things, and went downstairs. Jack’s business card was sitting next to a pile of mugs, a little splattered with the sausage juice from the slow cooker. She dialed his number and left a message asking him to call her. She said
she just wanted to check on a few details of when Chantel disappeared and when he raised the alarm. It didn’t quite make sense to her.
Amy went back upstairs afterwards, back to the box. There must be more to it, she thought. Something that would give her the lead she needed.
* * *
AMY SAT AT her desk at work the next day feeling exhausted. She hadn’t been able to face clearing the mess off her bed, and had slept on the sofa again. Not that she’d slept much at all, and when she had it was a fitful sleep filled with dreams of a robin trapped inside a guitar, flapping its little wings desperately in an attempt to escape. She sipped her tea from an anonymous office mug and tried not to think about it.
Another message popped up on her screen from Liam. It was the seventh this morning. Chirpy enough at first, they were getting a whiny, anxious quality, and the time between messages was dwindling.
Ignoring me? She deleted it.
You can’t be that busy. Amy pressed Delete again.
Everything okay? Amy considered replying to this one with a simple no. Then she thought of his arm, snaking around her waist. Married. She couldn’t bear to write back to him, but she needed the messages to stop.
“Carthika,” she said, “is there a way to block someone from sending you instant messages?”
“Course,” said Carthika. She leaned over, just as another message popped up. Amy deleted it as quickly as she could. “Getting too full-on?” she asked with a grin.
“It’s nothing that concerns you,” said Amy.
“Sorry,” said Carthika. “I didn’t mean to pry.” Her eyes, however, were still on Amy’s screen. Another message came up.
“Please make it stop,” said Amy.
“Are you sure?” asked Carthika. She looked genuinely disappointed. “We all thought—”
Amy held up a hand to silence her. “We all?” she said, incredulous. How many people knew about the date? Amy felt anger and embarrassment rising up inside her, finding their outlet as a red flush on her face. It wasn’t enough that a married man had pursued her, he had also told her entire team. She wondered what they’d heard.
“Don’t look so upset,” said Carthika. “Everyone wants you to be happy.”
“I will be happy if I never see that man again,” said Amy.
“Well, you won’t get any more instant messages,” said Carthika, pressing a button. She placed a hand on Amy’s arm and whispered in her ear, “Just because he wasn’t right for you doesn’t mean that you won’t find someone else. Don’t give up.”
Amy was just about to tell her to mind her own business and get back to work when she found Carthika’s arms wrapped around her body, and she was drawn into a deep and warm hug that smelled of jasmine blossom. Amy lingered there a moment, breathing deeply. “Thank you,” she found herself saying instead.
“Don’t mention it,” said Carthika, eventually releasing the embrace. “What are friends for?”
* * *
AMY STARED AT the clock on the office wall. It was charmless: a simple white face with black numbers and a hand that seemed to circle ridiculously slowly. Amy longed for the beautiful timepieces she kept at home, certain that even the ones that had long ceased to tick would move more quickly than this stubborn device. Finally the clock could resist the inevitable laws of space and time no more, and it struck 5 p.m.
Amy leapt up and grabbed her bag. With a half smile at Carthika and a nod that she hoped conveyed gratitude for her kindness, Amy hurried to the elevator. She wanted to be out of this office, away from Liam and back with her things. She felt as if there were more the contents of her box had to tell her, if only she could spend long enough listening.
A hand sneaked between the elevators doors as they closed and they opened again, revealing Liam. His face looked puffier than usual. “What a day,” he said, getting inside.
Amy didn’t reply. The elevator reached the ground floor. He waved to the receptionist and fell into step alongside Amy, who was walking as fast as she could towards the station.
“I expect you didn’t see my messages,” he said. “I sent a few.”
“I saw them,” said Amy, her voice icy.
“Good,” said Liam, sounding uncertain as to whether that was good or not. He was a little shorter than Amy and practically running to keep up. “Can you slow down a bit?”
“I have a train to catch,” replied Amy.
“I’ll walk you to the station,” said Liam.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“It’s no trouble,” puffed Liam.
Amy swung into the station, hoping to lose Liam in the crowds, but he stuck with her. She was pleased to see she was just in time for the five-oh-seven. She hurried towards her platform, Liam scuttling behind her like a determined dog.
“This is my train,” said Amy, getting on board. “Good-bye.”
Liam stood on the platform. “About the messages,” he said.
Amy decided she had to be more direct. “I’d prefer it if you left me alone in the office,” she said. To her surprise, he grinned at her.
“That’s a relief,” he said. He winked. “I thought you’d gone off me. Keep business and pleasure separate. Nice thinking.”
To her further surprise, he hopped on the train. “How about we go for a drink now instead?” asked Liam. “We’re not in the office.”
“No,” said Amy, stepping back. “Definitely not.”
“Are you okay, love?” asked a man leaning against a pole near the train door. He stood up straight, and Amy saw that he towered over Liam. “This guy bothering you?”
Little beads of perspiration appeared on Liam’s forehead, as if he were a mug covered in condensation.
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Amy, feeling a spark of pity for Liam. “This man was just leaving.”
Her protector grunted and turned away. The train doors shut before Amy could insist that Liam get off. Liam wiped the sweat beads across his face, leaving a wet trail.
“Looks like I’m coming to your house,” he quipped.
“Absolutely not,” said Amy. “You can get off at the next stop.” She walked down the carriage and sat in the only available seat in a group of four. She glanced at the other passengers in her bank: a dark-haired woman reading an Italian newspaper, a young man playing some kind of game on his phone, and a teenage girl listening to music and staring out of the window.
“I was only joking,” he said, following her and standing awkwardly in the aisle. “Listen, I just want to spend some time with you. That’s all. No pressure.”
“There will be no more dates,” said Amy, her voice firm. She noticed the woman reading the paper glance up at her.
The train jolted, and Liam grabbed the top of her seat to avoid falling over. “But we had fun,” he said. “Amy,” he added, “I really like you.”
“Liam,” said Amy, “you are married.” In exasperation, she’d spoken louder than she intended. The phone man was staring at them now, and the woman with the newspaper stopped pretending to read. Amy saw the girl with the earphones slip one out of her ear.
“Oh,” said Liam. “You found out about that.” The newspaper woman tutted.
“Yes, I found out,” said Amy. “Because you told everyone in the office about our date, and Mr. Trapper, of all people, called me into his office to tell me about your wife. I have never been so humiliated in my life.” She paused. “And I’ve had some pretty awful things happen to me,” she added.
“Actually,” he said. “I’m separated. I have been for over a year.”
Amy looked at him. He seemed truthful.
“I know you probably think I’m some sort of smooth Casanova,” he continued. The music girl made a funny snorting sound that she managed to turn into a cough. “But I’m not. You’re the first person I’ve dated since my wife.”
Amy took a breath. “I’m sorry about your marriage,” she said. “But I…” Amy glanced around the train. Everyone was watching them. “Maybe we should
talk about this another time,” she finished, her voice gentle.
“That’s a no, isn’t it?” said Liam.
Amy nodded.
Liam looked crestfallen for a moment. Then he seemed to remember that he had an audience. “Plenty more fish in the sea,” he said, his voice overly bright and a little too loud. He winked at the girl next to Amy. She turned away and put her earphones back in.
As if on cue, the train pulled into a station. “I’ll get out here,” said Liam. “Bye, Amy.”
The passengers settled back into their phones, papers, and music as if they’d witnessed nothing.
* * *
AMY RELAXED INTO her sofa, the shoebox and a glass of wine in front of her. In vino veritas flickered into her mind, from somewhere in the recesses of her brain. In shoebox veritas, she thought. That was more likely. But she couldn’t work out where in that box the truth was hiding.
The doorbell rang. Amy heaved herself up and went to open it. Richard was standing in the doorway. She felt awkward in front of him. It was the first time she’d seen him since she’d pushed him out of her house.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” replied Amy. “Why?”
“I saw a car I didn’t recognize parked in front of your house,” replied Richard. “What with the trouble with the pots, I just wanted to check.…” He trailed off.
“There’s no car there now,” said Amy, glancing past him.
“Yes,” agreed Richard. He hesitated. “I wanted to see you,” he confessed. “Can I come in?”
“Not really,” said Amy. She didn’t want to see his face react to her treasures again. She didn’t like how it made her feel.
“Fair enough,” he said, his face resigned. “Listen, I really am sorry. I just wanted to help, and you let me in before and I know that was a big deal for you, and I feel like I blew it. We all have our…” he gestured around. “Baggage,” he finished, feebly.
