‘Amber, is that you? Can I have a word?’
I roll my eyes, secure in the knowledge that nobody can see me. I don’t need this right now, but I rearrange my face and head over to the little office in the corner, my hands screwed up into defensive fists inside my pockets.
I perform a half-hearted knock on the slightly ajar door, before pushing it fully open. There she is, dressed in black, as always. Hunched over the desk, her face scrunched up and too close to the screen so that she can read what’s on it. The rumour mill is still in full flow on Twitter, churning out further speculation of her impending departure. I wonder if she’s reading the new #MadelineFrost comments, there are plenty of them.
‘Just a moment, I’m right in the middle of a thought.’ She always does this. Hers is the only time she values and she wants me to know it. She types something that I cannot see.
‘I’m glad you’re here early,’ she says. ‘I was hoping we could have a little chat before the others arrive.’
I try not to react, willing every facial muscle I have to stay exactly where it is. She lifts her glasses off her face and lets them dangle from the pink beaded cord that hangs around her sturdy neck. I imagine tightening it and then shake the image from my mind.
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ says Madeline, indicating the purple, leather pouf she brought back from Morocco a few months ago.
‘I’m OK, thank you,’ I reply.
‘Sit down,’ she says, two neat rows of veneers reinforcing the request. I make my face smile back and do what I’m told. This is what the producers have to do every morning, come into this poky little room and sit on the pouf, waiting for Madeline to grill them about each story on that day’s show. I squat down and try to balance myself – it’s too low and not at all comfortable. As always, it’s all about control and it’s already clear I have none.
‘Did you know about the meeting Matthew was having with the guests yesterday?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, holding her stare. She nods, then looks me up and down as though appraising my choice of outfit. It’s another new dress but she’s clearly not impressed. ‘I want you to do me a favour,’ she says eventually. ‘If you hear anything that you think I might want to know, I want you to tell me.’ I’m starting to think she has forgotten that she’s trying to have me fired, or perhaps she thinks I don’t know.
‘Of course,’ I say. I wouldn’t tell her if there was a poisonous snake wrapped around her neck.
‘We have to stick together, Amber. If they get rid of me, they’ll bring in a whole new cast, they always do. They’ll replace you too, don’t think that they won’t. Remember that, and next time you hear something you’ll come and tell me, won’t you?’ With that, she puts her glasses back up onto her nose and starts tapping away on the keyboard once more, to signal that the meeting is over.
I struggle to stand from the pouf, then leave her office and close the door behind me.
‘Are you OK?’ whispers Jo, who has just arrived.
I sit back down at my desk. ‘Yes, fine,’ I say, knowing Madeline will be watching through the window in her door.
‘You don’t look fine,’ says Jo.
‘I don’t know where Paul is. He didn’t come home last night.’ As soon as I say the words, I regret them.
‘Is it Claire again?’ she asks. The words slap me in the face and my fear turns to anger, but there is a look of genuine concern spread across Jo’s features. It isn’t her fault that she knows so much about my past, I’m the one who told her.
I don’t know the answer, so I give the one I want to be true: ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Maybe we should go get a coffee?’
‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’ I look away, turn on my PC and stare at the screen.
‘Suit yourself,’ she says and leaves without another word.
When she’s gone, I open up my emails. My inbox is overcrowded with obligation and invitations. It’s mostly junk, discounts for things I neither want nor need, but there is one message that catches my eye. My mouse hovers over the familiar name and my eyes fix themselves on the one word in the subject line, as though it is difficult to translate:
Hello.
I start to pick the skin off my lip with my fingernails. I should delete the email, I know that’s what I should do. I casually glance around the office. I’m still alone. I pick another bit of skin off my upper lip and put it on my desk. It’s stained purple from last night’s wine. I remember taking the business card out of my purse when I couldn’t sleep last night, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. I remember typing his name into an email on my phone, dithering over the subject line, composing the casual note, worrying it might look odd to send it so late at night, sending it anyway. My cheeks flush with shame, unable to remember now exactly what I said.
I open the email and read it, then I read it again, more slowly this time, carefully interpreting each individual word.
For old times’ sake.
I try on the words as I’m reading, to see if they fit. I can still picture their author if I close my eyes.
Happy memories.
They weren’t all happy.
A drink to catch up?
I pull another piece of skin off my lip and examine the tiny strip of myself as it dries and hardens on my fingertip. I put it in the small pile with the others.
Catch up. Catch. Caught.
Paul is missing. My marriage is hanging by a thread. What am I doing? The thought is stillborn.
‘Hello, earth to Amber?’ says Jo, waving her hands in front of my face. I close down the email window, brush the tiny pile of skin off my desk and feel my cheeks redden.
‘Have you been playing Space Invaders?’ I blurt out.
‘What? No. Why?’ She smiles.
‘Because you’re invading my space.’
Her smile vanishes.
‘Sorry. I heard someone say that once, thought it was funny. I didn’t mean to snap at you, I was in a complete world of my own.’
‘I noticed. Try not to worry, I’m sure he’s fine.’
‘Who?’ I ask, wondering if she saw the email from Edward.
‘Paul? Your husband?’ she says, frowning.
‘Right. Yes, sorry. I’m a bit all over the place today.’
Madeline’s voice booms from her office, silencing us as she summons her PA. She looms over her in the doorway and hands over her credit card and a list of instructions. She wants some dry cleaning picked up, tells her the PIN and everything else she needs to know. The way she speaks to people makes me so angry.
I think about Edward’s email as we talk through the morning briefings. I think about it in the studio, during interviews and throughout the phone-in. I barely hear anything anyone says all morning. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Paul hasn’t touched me for months and I haven’t done anything wrong. We’re just being friendly, that’s all. It’s just a memory of another time and place. Memories can’t hurt anyone, unless they are shared.
Before
Saturday, 7th December 1991
Dear Diary,