‘Time to go,’ Luke said.
She floundered and fell and the shock was much greater than before. It was more of an affront to her dignity. He took her elbow and set her back on her feet. She clumped back to the boot room, angry with herself, unlaced her skates and carried them over to the counter. Luke stood beside her as the assistant retrieved their shoes, still and straight, his hand on her shoulder. Her feet felt heavy as they wandered out into the summer evening. Luke was silent, his tread purposeful and ominous. She looked around for a means of escape but she wouldn’t run or scream. Not now. It was too late for that.
The whole time they’d been there he hadn’t commented once on her silence. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps he would just give her supper and let her go to bed, not insist she keep him company.
35
Thursday, 22 April 2010
AMBER SLAMS THE cutlery drawer shut with malice. The units are shabby and she loathes the flat with a vengeance now.
She hasn’t heard from Tom, hasn’t seen him since they got back from Spain. Usually the two families get together at least once a week, but there’s been nothing. He’s in shock, she reasons. But still, she needs some kind of sign, an acknowledgement of what happened between them. They spent the last day in Spain barely exchanging a word that didn’t have to do with the children, their travel arrangements, or work. Granted, Maggie had been transparently obvious in her efforts to make sure Amber and Tom never found themselves alone, but still, if he’d wanted to, he could have found a way to communicate with her. Men are such cowards.
She runs her fingers along the kitchen counter. Cheap melamine. Browning Street is going to have granite; black granite – the kind with sparkles. She can see the kitchen in her mind’s eye; light-filled with hand-painted units and a limestone floor. She wants a big Welsh dresser and maybe an Aga. A conservatory the width of the house will bring the garden inside. Last time she was there she discovered an apple tree struggling for oxygen under a huge cloak of ivy. She’ll rescue it. Sophie will love picking her own apples.
Everyone deserves a consolation prize.
She can still smell his skin. If she closes her eyes she can make herself shiver with the recollection of his mouth on hers. She reimagines the moment when Tom stopped fighting his baser instincts and kissed her, and shudders with pleasure.
Vicky’s coy confession was a blow. It must have been a combination of alcohol and habit; that and perhaps pity on his part, desperation on hers. Tom is committed to the divorce – otherwise, why would their house be on the market? Unsurprisingly, they haven’t gone with Johnson Lane. Sarah is pissed off, of course, but it can’t be helped.
She makes herself a sandwich from the sliced white that Robert disapproves of, helping herself to generous wedges of Camembert and the homemade apple chutney she bought at a school summer fete, then takes it to the sitting room and idly flicks through an interiors magazine while she munches, lingering over the photographs. There’s a fabulous blue-green bathroom with black and white flooring and dirty-white shutters. Gorgeous.
She’ll miss Vicky. There was Gabriella at school, and one or two kids at Fairhaven that she got along with, but Vicky is the closest thing to a real friend she’s ever had. She turns the page. That slubby-grey chaise longue would look amazing in the master bedroom. It’s too late to be sentimental. Events have outstripped her conscience. It’s time to finish this. There are others, maybe not so congenial, but equally worthy. Not Millie maybe, but Jenny.
Her phone vibrates and she glances at the caller display. For a second she’s too thrown to answer.
‘Tom,’ she breathes. ‘I knew you’d call.’
He misses a beat, loses track of what he wants to say, takes a moment too long to figure out how to pick up the thread.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘There’s something I need to ask you. And I want the truth, not some version of it that you and Vicky have cobbled together.’
She’s never known Tom take that tone. ‘What are you talking about?’
Has Vicky told him about the money? She can’t have. Even she wouldn’t be that stupid.
‘I want to know exactly what happened the morning Josh fractured his arm. And don’t mess me around, because I know both of you are in on this. The whole thing was a pack of lies.’
She thinks quickly, resentment rising. This is no way to speak to her, not after what they’ve done. ‘Not over the phone, OK. I’ll meet you for a coffee. If I set off now, I can be in Soho in an hour.’
He hesitates. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Sorry, Tom. You do deserve an explanation, but I am doing this face-to-face or not at all.’
‘Victoria Station would be better. I’ll meet you in Costa.’
This might not be a disaster, she thinks as she hurries out of the flat. Vicky has been rumbled and Amber won’t get the blame. Vicky deserves this. She and her mother have outstayed their welcome in Katya’s life. Amber, she reminds herself. In Amber’s life. She no longer feels fettered by loyalty and it’s such a relief. The air smells sweeter, her feet feel lighter, her shoulders relieved of the burden of trying to be what others want her to be: the good wife; the good mother; the good friend. Revenge tastes very sweet today.
Tom is there before her, which she takes as a good sign. He jumps up as soon as he sees her across the busy concourse. Her trek into central London was driven by adrenaline, anxiety and the delirium of hope, and at the sight of him she can’t stop herself smiling, even though he isn’t. Her whole body is aglow with excitement and love.
He touches her on the upper arm and there’s an awkward shuffle when he goes to kiss her cheek but she aims for his lips, hitting the corner. His breath smells of coffee.
‘What do you want to drink?’
‘Skinny latte. Thanks.’
She smiles at his back as he crosses the floor to the counter, thinking how assured he is, how comfortable in his body, then she pulls her mobile out of her bag and texts Jenny:
Am in town. May run late. Are you able to pick Sophie up and keep her? Won’t be long.
The reply comes back immediately:
No probs. Don’t hurry.
Jenny Forsyth is a star and will make a good friend in the event that Vicky refuses to speak to her ever again. Life goes on.
‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ Tom says as he sets down her drink.
She holds his eyes for a moment, trying to read him. Her mouth is dry and she’s scared. This isn’t how she imagined it playing out. Maybe he hasn’t come to terms with it yet. Maybe he’s trying to kid himself that it meant nothing.
She reminds herself to be patient. To insist would be a bad idea. She doesn’t want to scare him off.