I can’t tell if she’s fishing for gossip or if her concern is genuine. I don’t know her well enough yet. I didn’t think my relationship with Amber had visibly changed – I thought it was only me. How awful that it shows.
She scrabbles around in her bag and I have a feeling she’s playing for time and I’m right because when she does speak she chooses her words with care. ‘It’s just … she flirts with Simon. She had him eating out of the palm of her hand at the party.’
‘Ah.’ I try not to laugh as I glance at her portly, ruddy-faced husband. ‘Amber flirts with all the men. Simon was probably flattered. He’s a bloke and she’s very attractive. You have nothing to worry about. She’s the same with Tom. It’s harmless.’
A text pings into my phone. ‘Talk of the devil.’
Have you got time for a coffee? Ax
I stare at the message and start to type:
Sorry, I’m out all day. Vx
Why didn’t I say we were down in Bognor, or that we had the Forsyths with us? It feels weird not to have made that clear. Instinct, I suppose. But instinct is often my Achilles’ heel.
‘I love this house,’ Jenny says when we’re back inside at Mum’s, our cheeks pink and burning from the wind, the children changed into dry clothes.
Mum makes them hot chocolate with marshmallows and coffee for us. She coos over the babies, opening the sea chest full of toys and encouraging the boys to strew them all over the dining-room floor. Spike and Josh fall into the pile, burbling ecstatically. In the kitchen I lay the table while Mum makes soup. Jenny sips her coffee and asks her all about the B & B and how it works and whether she still enjoys it.
‘Yes and no. I sometimes think I should move on, do something different. I’ve been here for seventeen years and the town doesn’t get any better. I was thinking I might like a change.’
‘You never mentioned that to me,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine you not being here.’
‘I know. But I am only forty-six and I’m beginning to feel like it’s time for a change; I could start over, reinvent myself.’
‘What made you come here?’ Jenny asks.
‘Oh, circumstances beyond my control.’ Mum’s smile closes the subject.
‘I’m going to get the papers,’ Amber shouts up at Robert.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, that’s all right. You finish what you’re doing. Sophie’s happy with The Princess Bride. I’ll only be twenty minutes.’
She flings on her black jacket, wraps a baby-pink scarf round her neck and runs downstairs. She glares at the door to the ground-floor flat. They’ve been away since Friday. From time to time the lads get tired of slumming it and go back to Mummy and Daddy in the countryside, no doubt taking their festering washing with them. She picks up their post and sorts through it, drops anything boring back on the floor and keeps a couple of important-looking envelopes. She rips them up and drops the pieces into her bag.
It’s one thing to take the Forsyths out for the day, but to try and keep it from her when the lie could be, and was, so easily detected, is downright cruel. Amber knows all about it because Robert bumped into Simon on Tennyson Street when he went for the Sunday papers and Simon told him they were going. Amber had struggled to maintain her cool, not to lose it in front of Sophie but she’s angry and hurt. She gave Vicky a chance to come clean but she blew it. She’s a coward.
Amber lets herself into Vicky’s house, switches off the alarm, closes the door quietly behind her, puts her bag down on the floor and slips off her boots. The Seagraves and the Collinses have been keyholders for each other for years. She’s used to going in and out when they’re away, checking things for them, twitching curtains, picking the mail up off the floor and making it look as though the house is occupied. It’s no big deal.
There’s a basket of blue hyacinths on the kitchen table and their scent mingles with that of toast and coffee, but the place feels different without the family in it; hollow and lacking in warmth. She finds that even with the mood she’s currently in she can make a dispassionate assessment of its current value. She reckons on twice what they paid for it, if not more.
But that’s not what she’s here for. She runs up to the children’s floor, goes into their bathroom, turns on the basin tap and pushes in the plug. Done. It could have been either of the children, though Amber guesses the blame will most likely fall on Polly because Polly does do some odd things and is allowed to get away with far too much. The scribbled-on walls are testament to that.
Before she leaves she goes into Tom’s study. His desk is cluttered but tidy. He’s not a slovenly person but he does like his stuff. There’s a navy-blue fleece hanging over the back of the chair and she picks it up and presses her nose into it. It smells of washing powder, not of him, so she puts it back and turns her attention to the shelves. A quick perusal of their bank statements proves that they do have money. She remembers Tom’s grandfather dying last year. He had said he’d been left a useful chunk of cash. Not a fortune, granted, but enough for her needs.
She replaces the file and goes upstairs for a quick peek into the bathroom where water is already pooling on to the floor around the pedestal. She’s made allowances, she’s been forgiving, but now as far as she’s concerned she’s no longer under any obligation. Whatever loyalty she still feels for Vicky Seagrave is rapidly dissipating. She needs to know that actions produce consequences.
As an afterthought she edges round the puddle and pushes the white plastic stepping stool in front of the basin.
Then she leaves.
16
THE CHILDREN ARE out for the count when we get home just after six, Polly’s head lolling on Josh’s lap, rusk crumbs sticking to her cheeks and hair. Josh’s water bottle has tipped, the water dripping from the rubber teat into his trousers. Emily is sound asleep. My hair is a mess, whipped up by the wind and sticky with salt, but I feel the right sort of tired. We’ve had a lovely time and I have the satisfaction of knowing that Jenny and Simon enjoyed themselves too. Amber’s text is bothering me, but I can’t do anything about it tonight. Tomorrow I’ll drop it into conversation and try not to look as though I deliberately tried to hide anything from her. It was a bad move and I regret it.
Tom turns into Coleridge Street with a sigh but his relief turns to dismay at the sight of a squad car parked a few yards from our house. The policewoman sitting in the driver’s seat looks up as we turn on to our forecourt. Grayling is with her.
‘What do you think they want?’ Tom says.
‘God knows.’ My heart is pounding.
Grayling gets out and comes to lend a hand as we struggle with sleepy children, coats and bags. Polly looks amazed. Emily stares but is thankfully too drowsy to initiate an interrogation. I put the bags down at my feet and transfer a slumped and damp Josh into the crook of my left arm, but my nerves make me clumsy and I drop the keys.