‘I thought it would be easier just to come round,’ she says, and belatedly I realize that I never replied to her text the day before, the one suggesting coffee.
‘Sorry,’ I say, although I don’t know why I’m apologizing; surely, arriving to chase up a tardy reply in person is extreme. ‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ I add feebly.
‘No worries,’ Amber says graciously. ‘Do you fancy that coffee now, though?’
Thinking of the cup in the lounge behind me, I half nod. ‘Maybe a tea …’ As ever, there’s something about her manner that brooks no denial but, as I pull on my shoes, I acknowledge to myself that I’d follow pretty much anyone out of this house right now. Besides, it’s been a long time since someone sought out my company so intensely, and part of me can’t help but respond to it.
I catch a breath of her perfume as I stand up, and with a little start I realize that it’s one I used to wear myself a few years ago, or something very similar. I used to love its powerful scent of rose and spice, and the smell of it now makes me think of darkly lit bars and the kind of recklessness I have long since left behind. I threw it out after I came back from the Silver Birches, along with much else, but breathing in that scent now, I feel that pull again, those elusive reminders of myself in this woman that are hard to ignore.
I follow her across the street, noticing again how her front garden breaks the regimented repetition of the street. She has planted a sprawling wild rose at the edge of the lawn, and the ragged splashes of colour of its dark orange blooms are a stark contrast to the prettily planted rows of pansies and peonies that neatly line each of the neighbouring beds. The whitewashed walls of the house are scuffed in places with unidentifiable, patchy stains, like drifts of soot. On its own, it would look unremarkable but, in this company, it seems almost defiant.
We go into the house and she wanders through to the kitchen, where she’s already set the mugs out waiting. ‘Have a biscuit, if you want,’ she says lightly as she makes the tea. ‘I’ve eaten most of them, but I think there are still a few left.’
I glance at the packet of digestives lying on the arm of the kitchen chair and think of her curled up lazily on it, eating her way through the packet. There’s something unthinkably decadent about the image, and yet it’s exactly the sort of way I would have spent an idle morning, before Eddie. ‘I’m all right,’ I say, and then take one, anyway, on impulse.
‘So,’ she says, as she sets down my mug with a clatter and slides into the chair opposite mine, ‘are you OK? The other day, you seemed – well. Not OK. Not the way I’d expect someone on holiday with her husband to be.’
She’s watching me closely, unblinking. In her own way, I think, she’s just as much of a curtain-twitcher as the people in this road she speaks about with such derision, only the curtains she’s twitching are the edges of my own feelings, and she’s flicking and peeling at their corners in the hope that something will spill out.
‘It’s been a difficult few days,’ I say at last. ‘A difficult few years.’
‘For me, too,’ she says quickly, and I wonder if I’m wrong and whether her real purpose is to unload rather than to absorb, but she doesn’t elaborate and raises her eyebrows slightly, waiting for me to continue.
I’m struck again by the strangeness of this situation, and by how little I know this woman who is asking me to turn myself out for inspection. I’m not sure I trust her, but at the same time there’s something tempting about being with someone who behaves so unconventionally. It frees me up to do the same, and I’m tired of keeping these thoughts trapped in my head.
‘I love Francis,’ I tell her, ‘but our marriage is – complex.’ I hesitate.
‘All marriages are,’ she says mildly, ‘aren’t they?’
‘Some more than others.’ I find I want to explain. ‘He’s a recovering addict and he doesn’t really know himself how things will be from day to day. Sometimes, like this week, he’s incredibly upbeat and positive, proactive, making an effort. Other times, he’s very distant. Not quite there. At times like that, it’s easy to feel there’s nothing much holding us together.’ Now that I’ve started, there is a kind of wild pleasure in saying these things aloud. I don’t voice them with such frankness to anyone, not even my closest friends.
‘I can understand that,’ Amber says carefully. ‘It’s a hard thing to live with.’
‘Well, it’s not only his fault.’ I pause again, but I already know I’m going to continue. ‘A couple of years ago, I had an affair.’ I glance at her quickly, but her face betrays no emotion. ‘It lasted about six months,’ I say, ‘and even though I never left my husband for him, I really loved him. I haven’t spoken to him for a long, long time. We agreed that we wouldn’t be in touch ever again. It – it ended horribly. Not between us, not exactly, but …’
I take a breath. Up until this point, the words have poured out as easily and swiftly as blood-letting from a vein. Now, there’s a tightness in my throat and my hands are shaking with what feels like delayed shock. Saying these things out loud has made them real, but it hasn’t dispelled their power. If anything, they feel more dangerous, and the weight of all I haven’t said is looming darkly behind them, pressing at the door and waiting for release.
Amber nods, swirling tea in her cup as if she’s reading the leaves for the answer to my problems. ‘But he has been in touch,’ she comments. ‘You said that, the other day.’
‘Yes. I think so.’ I stare around the kitchen, suddenly lost. Pressing these thoughts back into their box is exhausting, leaving me drained and passive. I find myself looking at the piles of crockery on the dresser: dark blue china, rimmed with white.
‘I can see why it’s unsettling,’ I hear her say. With an effort, I drag myself back. ‘I imagine it’s very tempting to fall back into contact with someone who helped you through a difficult time. But if you don’t mind me saying so, Caroline, it doesn’t seem to be making you very happy. It sounds like you have enough to cope with, without him.’
Silently, I nod. I’m thinking of those first few weeks afterwards, when not having you on the end of the phone felt like agony. I needed you to talk to, to process what had happened, to make sense out of the senseless. It isn’t like that now. But they say that, often, amputees feel the presence of the missing limb, something at once ghostly and strangely real. There are still times when I feel you stirring invisibly next to me and, right now, that presence is stronger than it’s ever been.
‘I do understand what you’re saying about your marriage,’ Amber says. ‘Especially that feeling you mention of him not being quite there … I feel that with my boyfriend, all the time.’
I look up sharply. ‘Really?’
She hesitates, as if examining her own words for accuracy. ‘Yes. Of course, in my case, a lot of the time he isn’t there. He works in a satellite office a lot, and he’s usually away for a week or so at a time.’
‘That can’t be easy.’ Something clicks into place. Her words make sense of her aimlessness, the vague aura of expectancy and isolation I sensed buzzing around her from the first time we met. ‘You end up feeling like you’re just filling in time when you’re not together,’ I add, and unavoidably, I’m thinking of you again. The way I used to cling to you when we said goodbye, trying to imprint you on my body, and the way that the sensation always faded in minutes, impossible to hold on to.
‘Exactly,’ Amber says. ‘So when he is around, it puts …’
‘Puts pressure on?’ I prompt.
She half nods, sips her tea again. ‘Puts a spotlight on things, I was going to say. Everything’s – exaggerated. I find myself wanting to know exactly what he’s thinking and feeling all the time, and it just makes him …’ She brings her hands away from her mug in a sudden, violent movement, snapping them together. ‘Close up.’