by Eleanor Ray
“That’s okay,” said Amy. It felt nice to be apologized to. “I found the box I was looking for.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Richard, with genuine enthusiasm. They stood in silence for a moment. “I’m pleased for you.” He smiled at her. “What’s next?”
“I haven’t worked it out yet,” she said.
“You will, Amy,” he said. “I have faith in you.”
“I don’t know how you can,” said Amy. “You’ve seen my house. It took me weeks to find a box.”
“I know your secrets now, Amy,” said Richard. He reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “And I’m still here.”
* * *
AMY SAT ON her sofa again, but this time she was neither looking at the box nor her wine. Her eyes were closed, and she was thinking of Richard. She could still feel a small patch of warmth on her arm where his hand had been.
The doorbell rang again, and for once Amy found she rather enjoyed the sound. Daniel had interrupted their moment on the doorstep with an urgent request for apple juice, but Richard said he would return later. Amy smoothed her hair and glanced in one of the mirrors, liking the excitement she saw reflected back. She went to the door and swung it wide open.
But it wasn’t Richard standing there.
“Hello, Amy,” said a voice Amy had once known as well as her own.
Amy whispered a reply.
“Chantel.”
April 2008
“I still can’t believe you guys have done this for me,” said Amy, opening up her suitcase.
“I can’t believe it’s come round so quickly,” said Tim. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“Italy is not far,” she said. “And it’s only six weeks.”
“I’ll be watching the clock the whole time.” Tim picked up the little alarm clock they kept by their bed and waved it in her face for emphasis.
“Please don’t,” said Amy. “Enjoy yourself. I will.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” replied Tim. “All those handsome Italian men. ‘Ciao, bella, oh, your brush is so sexy. Paint my muscly body and cover me in spaghetti.’ ”
“That sounds disgusting,” said Amy with a laugh. “And you know I don’t like handsome arty Italians. I like pale media-sales trainees who play guitar.”
“And don’t you forget it,” replied Tim. He leaned forwards and kissed her. “Aren’t you taking your backpack?”
“No, I bought this suitcase specially,” said Amy, rather proud of it. Going on an arts program abroad and owning a suitcase. She felt extremely sophisticated.
“Well, I’m bringing the backpack when I visit,” said Tim. “If I can get the bloody time off work. If I miss my stupid targets, I’m out.”
“You won’t,” said Amy. “And I understand if you can’t come.” She didn’t say it, but she was rather looking forwards to being by herself. She’d been with Tim her whole adult life. Living on her own for six weeks felt like an adventure.
“Is Chantel going to visit?” asked Tim.
“Jack can’t get the time off either,” said Amy.
“She can’t come on her own?”
“Apparently not.”
“He doesn’t trust her around those spaghetti men either,” said Tim. “And I don’t blame him. You know how much Chantel likes her carbs.”
“Not anymore,” said Amy. The last time she’d met her friend, Chantel had ordered a salad again and barely touched it.
“It’s good of Trapper to hold your job for you.”
Amy looked up at Tim. She’d been carefully folding a purple dress. “Yes,” she said. “A little sabbatical. He called it his way of supporting the arts.” Amy was hoping that the program would go well and she would make some useful contacts. It was still her dream to quit that boring job in the little advice firm and make it as an artist. Perhaps now that Tim had a proper job, it would finally become reality.
“Then I suppose it’s just me and the clock,” said Tim. “Ticking away time until you come back.”
* * *
THE STUDIO WAS beautiful. Large with high, ornate ceilings and exposed wooden floorboards splattered with the paint of artists past. In front of her was the life model, Antonio, confidently naked, reclined on a chaise longue like a lithe Roman emperor. Around her, her fellow students studied him with serious faces. Amy had done life drawing before, many times, but today especially she wished Chantel was with her. She longed for someone to make a joke. No one here was likely to oblige, and Amy knew that if she did it would be frowned upon and she’d be the subject of intense whispered criticism over large plates of pasta that evening.
And wine. Her stomach lurched at the thought. She’d lost her ability to drink since she’d been away, feeling the wine curdle inside her.
Her appetite had gone too. She’d nibbled on dry bread at most meals and moved her pasta sadly around her plate. Even the rich garlicky smell made her want to retch. It was homesickness, Amy decided. She hadn’t thought that she could miss someone enough to put her off her penne, but she did. She wished desperately that Tim would hit his targets early and fly out to surprise her.
She glanced out of the window. The view was perfect. She could see the cupola of the cathedral in the distance, a round cone that reminded her of the hat she’d seen the bishops wearing in the paintings that hung in the Uffizi Gallery.
She’d dreamed of being in Florence many times on those long days spent filing suitability reports and investment recommendations at Trapper, Lemon, and Hughes. But now she was here, she just couldn’t enjoy it. Not without Tim.
She’d call him tonight, she decided, from the pay phone outside the boutiquey little apartment she shared with two po-faced students. She wouldn’t tell him she was off her food without him, he’d never let her hear the end of it. But she would tell him she missed him. That the clock was ticking for her as well.
* * *
AMY STARED AT the plastic stick. She was a couple of days late, that was all, and she’d bought the test just to set her mind at rest. She was so confident that she was not pregnant that she’d also bought tampons from the same small and fiercely priced little farmacia outside the studio. And here she was. Looking at the two little blue lines that she didn’t need her limited Italian to interpret.
Pregnant.
Amy felt different already. A little life, growing inside her. A baby. Her baby. Tim’s baby.
It wasn’t planned, but Amy realized she wanted nothing more. They’d finally clear out Chantel’s old room. Amy would paint little birds flying on the walls that the baby could gaze at from its crib. It would be a winter baby. She tried not to think about names already, but Robin popped into her head. She’d always loved those birds, friendly and festive and so delicate and beautiful.
She’d keep her job at Trapper for the moment—they were bound to have a maternity policy of sorts. Then she’d paint while the baby napped. Tim would soon start earning a decent commission. They’d get married. They’d be a family. Chantel would be godmother.
Amy longed to call Tim right now from the mobile in front of her, but international charges were extortionate and they needed to save their money. She sent him a text instead, asking him if he could speak. He replied with an instant yes, and Amy put the test in her pocket and carefully made her way down the dusty marble staircase to use the pay phone.
She hesitated before she dialed. She was happy; would he be? Yes, she thought. Of course he would. So happy.
Amy wished she could see his face when she told him. She heard his voice. “Hello?”
“Hello,” she replied, then hesitated. There was only a week left of her trip. She’d wait and tell him when she got back. It would be worth it. “I’ve got something to tell you,” she blurted out, then stopped herself. “But I don’t want to do it over the phone.”
“I have something to tell you too,” replied Tim. His voice sounded odd.
“What?”
“You first,” he said.
; “No,” replied Amy. “I’m going to wait and tell you in person.”
“Me too,” said Tim.
“I miss you,” said Amy.
“The clock hasn’t stopped ticking,” said Tim cryptically. “I don’t think it ever will.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Is Tim with you?” asked Amy.
“Can I come in?”
Chantel was so familiar and yet a stranger. Her face was filled with nervous concern and she was picking at the edge of her thumbnail.
“No,” said Amy.
“Please,” said Chantel.
“Where’s Tim?” asked Amy. “Are you two…” She trailed off. She found she couldn’t say the words.
“Amy, we need to talk.”
“We needed to talk eleven years ago,” said Amy, finding the volume of her voice rising beyond her control. “But we didn’t. You just left. Both of you.” She leaned back against her doorframe. She felt pain in her head, then discovered that her fingers were pulling at her own hair.
“I don’t want to shout about this in the street,” said Chantel, her voice quiet as she glanced around nervously. Amy found Chantel’s reluctance to make a public scene jarring. That wasn’t the Chantel she used to know.
Used to love.
But that Chantel had gone. She’d gone forever when she betrayed Amy.
Amy shut the door and bolted it. Then she leaned against her hallway wall and closed her eyes.
“Please,” said Chantel, her voice muffled through the door. “I need to talk to you.”
Amy took a deep breath. She reached to the ring, still hanging from a chain around her neck. She needed the truth.
Amy stepped forwards and opened the door. Just a crack this time.
“Thank you,” said Chantel. The women stood in silence, watching each other through the sliver of space that Amy had allowed. Chantel was dressed simply but neatly in jeans and a pretty lilac shirt, and she held herself straight. Straighter than she used to. Amy found herself staring at the white buttons on Chantel’s shirt. Nothing else seemed real.
Amy peeled her gaze from the buttons and looked into Chantel’s eyes. “What you did—” she began. Anger enveloped the rest of her sentence.
“Let me explain.”
Amy’s fingers hovered on her door. Part of her wanted to close it again. To sit with Scarlett and her mirrors and her mugs and never have to hear the words spoken.
“I want to tell you what happened,” said Chantel. “Please, Amy.”
Amy hesitated. Her things would still be there for her, no matter what Chantel had done. She put her hand to the ring again and squeezed it tightly. This was her opportunity to hear the truth. Afterwards she could shut the door again. Forever, if she wanted to.
“Five minutes,” she said, opening the door and stepping back.
“Thank you,” said Chantel.
Amy led Chantel to the living room and gestured for her to sit on the sofa. Amy ignored Chantel’s concerned face at the state of the room and remained standing, her arms firmly crossed.
“Why now?” asked Amy, feeling betrayed by the tears that were starting to sting her eyes at the sight of Chantel in her house again. “Why do you suddenly want to see me now?”
“Aunt Laura called me,” said Chantel. “She said that you wanted to speak to Mum, that my letter had been lost.” Chantel looked up at Amy. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “When you didn’t reply to the letter, I thought it meant you didn’t want to see me. That you blamed me for what happened.” She looked down again. “God knows I blamed myself.”
Amy found she didn’t want to hear Chantel say the words. She didn’t want to hear the confession. She picked up a green plastic lighter from where it lay on one of her boxes and squeezed it between her fingers. “Toyah wasn’t in Dubai, was she?” she said.
“Dubai was a cover story,” confessed Chantel. “Mum’s been with me. She wanted to be near her grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren?” The word felt like a knife in Amy’s gut. Tim and Chantel had children.
It was too much.
Amy flung the lighter at Chantel. Chantel ducked, but there was no need: the lighter hit the wall far to Chantel’s right.
“What the hell, Amy?” exclaimed Chantel, looking at a deep chip on the wall from the lighter. “Good thing you’ve always had terrible aim.”
Amy ran to fetch the lighter. The plastic was cracked. “It’s broken,” she gasped.
“It’s just a lighter,” said Chantel, looking at the open box. “You seem to have plenty. Do you even smoke?”
“You don’t understand,” said Amy. “After what you did—”
“You don’t know what happened,” said Chantel. “Sit down. Let me tell you. Then if you want to, you can throw all the lighters in the box at me.”
Amy found herself sinking onto the sofa. She held the lighter in her hands, gently now. The crack caught the light and she ran her finger along it.
“Your mum knew where you were,” said Amy, without looking up from her hand. “And Laura.”
“Aunt Laura didn’t know,” replied Chantel. “She just knew what she had to say if anyone called.” Chantel paused. “I’m so sorry,” she continued. “God knows what you must have thought, us both disappearing.”
“So what did happen?” asked Amy.
“I saw the papers,” said Chantel. “So I knew what the police thought, what Jack was saying. I couldn’t bear you to think that was what we did. We’d never have done that to you. Never. Not me. Not Tim. That’s why, eventually, I wrote to you.”
“But you left together,” said Amy.
“We disappeared at the same time,” replied Chantel, her voice careful. “It’s not the same thing.”
“You haven’t been with him?”
“No.”
Amy looked at her friend. Chantel looked back, meeting her gaze. She was telling the truth, Amy was sure of it. She hadn’t betrayed her. Neither had Tim. A weight lifted. Not from her shoulders.
From her heart.
Amy barely had a moment to feel relief. Worry flooded her.
“Then where is he?” asked Amy. “Where’s Tim?”
Chantel broke her gaze and looked to the floor. Then she turned back to Amy. Still no words.
“Is he okay?” Amy pushed.
“No,” replied Chantel finally. “He’s not okay.”
Amy didn’t want to hear the words, but she needed to.
“He’s not…?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Chantel. “Tim is dead.”
Chantel reached to take her hand, but Amy was gone. She rushed to the kitchen and vomited into the sink, the lighter still tightly clenched in her hand. Chantel must have followed her, because she felt her stroking her hair. “Get out,” said Amy, her head still over the sink. Chantel obeyed.
Amy lifted her head and stared out of the window. Smudge was in the garden assiduously cleaning his tail. He looked up from his work and stared at Amy for a moment, his gaze critical. Then he went back to his task. Amy opened her hand and looked at the lighter again, then she squeezed it tight.
Dead.
Amy ran the kitchen tap, then grabbed a mug, filled it with water, and took a sip. It was the yellow one, the color of butter, that she’d rescued from the neighbors only a few short weeks ago.
Amy took a deep breath and allowed the air to fill her body. Breathing while he couldn’t. He hadn’t betrayed her. But she would never see him again.
She had to know why. To know how.
Amy put the mug down and turned back to the living room. Chantel sat on the sofa, looking worried. “I’m so sorry,” said Chantel.
“How?” asked Amy, feeling like the question took all the breath in her body.
“It’s a long story,” said Chantel.
Amy could feel grief creeping into the edges of her mind like a migraine, about to take over again. “Tell me now.”
“Okay,” said Chantel. “Here goes.” She paused. “I don’t k
now if I can do this,” she said. “I’ve wanted to for so long, but now I’m here—” She stopped. “I don’t suppose there’s any more of that wine?” she asked, looking at Amy’s wine glass still sitting there.
“You’ve been gone, without a word, for eleven years,” said Amy. “And only now you come back to tell me that Tim is dead? No, Chantel. You can’t have a glass of wine.”
Chantel looked down. “Okay,” she said. “That’s fair.” She paused. “Where to start?” Chantel took a deep breath. “You know I was rubbish at picking men.” She laughed nervously. “A cliché really, the bad boy. Spike and his ridiculous white-man dreadlocks. Drug dealing. You remember when he set me up and you had to come and get me from the police station?”
Amy nodded. Her head felt disconnected from the rest of her body.
“Jack seemed different. He was respectable, going places. He even had a sensible haircut, for Christ’s sake.” Chantel began fiddling with a loose thread on Amy’s silk cushion. “Well, it turns out he wasn’t so different from the others after all. He wasn’t as nice as I thought.” She glanced up at Amy. Amy saw the pain in her friend’s face.
“You should have told me,” said Amy, alarm for Chantel forcing her grief to one side. “I could have helped.”
“It wasn’t so bad at first,” said Chantel. “He didn’t like how I dressed, and then he thought I should go to the gym more. I was a bit flabby.”
“You weren’t,” said Amy.
“I thought it was a good thing,” said Chantel. “Spike had helped me get drugs, and here was Jack helping me get in shape. I thought some of his clean living and drive might rub off on me. I was such a screw-up.”
Amy opened her mouth to deny that, but Chantel held up her hand to stop her.
“Then one day I skipped a gym session. I’d been out with some of the girls from work and was a bit hungover, and I just wanted to watch telly. He was furious, called me a fat loser. Then he hit me.”
Amy gasped.
“I tried to leave him,” continued Chantel. “I broke up with him. Remember? I didn’t tell you why, I was embarrassed. But then he was so apologetic afterwards and God knows I’ve made mistakes too. So I forgave him.”
