I rubbed at my eyes, they were stinging. Burning, almost.
‘I know he wanted to move in with you because when Dad went to the bar, Greg asked me what I thought about him asking you to live with him. He wasn’t asking my opinion, he was asking my permission. Freaked me out, but like telling Dad his intentions towards you were honourable, he wanted us to accept him. He knew how important your family are and he was desperate to be accepted by us. But no, no, you’re right, he did all that because he wanted Jen.’ (We weren’t genetically connected, but my brother and I were identical twin-like when it came to labouring a point into submission. Anyone else would’ve said, ‘Don’t be silly, course he loved you.’)
I couldn’t see for all the prickling of tears in my eyes.
‘You were happy with Greg, weren’t you?’ Eric said gently. ‘I’ve never seen you so happy. So relaxed. You were happy with him, weren’t you?’
I shrugged.
‘Why don’t you try sorting it out with him? Find out why he did it.’
‘But he shouldn’t have done it,’ I said.
‘I know that, you know that. He knows that. Even the woman down the end of our road knows that, but he cannae change it. He cannae unsleep with Jen, but he can explain it.’
I wiped away a tear with the palm of my hand.
‘Greg’s done something stupid, but you can’t stop loving him just like that. You’re not that cold, you’re not th—’
Couldn’t hear any more. Blood was gushing into my brain, my head was swelling up, tears were slipstreaming down my face and I leant forwards over my knees, covering my face with my hands. Crying and crying and crying. Sobbing and sobbing my stupid, flaccid heart out. Because we weren’t a particularly huggy family, Eric sat beside me and let me cry.
‘Thank God for that,’ Eric said, handing me a large neat whisky and flopping beside me on the sofa.
‘Thank God?’ I replied. Was still trembling from my epic cry. Hadn’t cried like that in years. I’d done a bit of sobbing in my time – like when I realised it was over with Sean – but not complete breakdown as I had done on the hill.
‘Arrianne and I had bets on how long it would take you to cry. I had three days, Arri had two weeks.’
‘I’m glad you get such entertainment from my life.’
‘Me and Arri have been pissing ourselves since you got here because how upset you are is hysterical. And, in winter, we take to the streets and laugh at homeless people.’ He was a sarcastic get, my brother.
‘What I meant was, thank God you’ve finally cried. I was scared that you’d got so good at running away from intense situations that you’d get through this whole thing without shedding a tear.’
‘I don’t usually cry,’ I reminded Eric.
‘That’s nothing to be proud of. Crying when you’re hurt releases pain, be it emotional or physical. Arrianne had two weeks because she said you spent so much of your life slotting yourself into other people’s lives, that you didnae know how to let the world know you were hurting.
‘You weathered your parents’ marriage, you made Mum’s life easier by calling Dad “Dad2” almost straight away. You’ll do anything to avoid trouble, even if it means not telling people how hurt you are.’
‘Life’s too short to waste on pointless battles,’ I explained.
Eric smiled. ‘It’s not that short. Especially when there are some things that need to be fought for. Like your relationship with Greg.’
‘But he slept with her. If there was anyone in the whole world I didn’t want him to sleep with, it’s her. Her!’
Her! Perfect, gorgeous Jen, Miss Star of the Show, who I don’t measure up to. And who I’ll never measure up to. Who can charm anyone into doing anything. Charm anyone into sleeping with her. Even Sean used to look at those blonde locks and topaz eyes as though he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Everyone wanted her. Loved her. ‘I can see them, up here.’ I pressed my fingertips against my forehead. ‘I can see their bodies, their faces, hear the sounds they make. And I can’t stop it.
‘You shot down my theory about him using me to get to Jen, but you can’t tell me that he didn’t even once compare us. That he didn’t once think of her while he was with me.’ Didn’t often feel a stab of disappointment because he’d gazed down and discovered he wasn’t making love to Jen but fucking Amber.
‘No, I can’t. But he can. He can explain.’
‘There’s nothing to explain. He made love to his best mate’s girlfriend – my best friend – and then lied when I almost found out.’
Eric rolled his whisky glass between his hands and stared into it. He was either trying to boil the whisky with his sight or he was in deep thought. I wanted to put my throbbing head down on the sofa armrest and sleep.
Eric sighed suddenly, long and frustrated. ‘You’re so perfect I’m always amazed you haven’t got a halo,’ he said. ‘I used to call you the Sainted Amber Salpone.’
‘Why are you turning on me?’ I asked, sounding as fragile as I felt.
‘Because growing up with you was hell. You were so good, all the time, that it accentuated how bad I was. Except I wasn’t that bad.’
‘Climbing out of your bedroom window to go have sex with a twenty-nine-year-old woman when you’re sixteen isn’t bad?’
‘Not when put into perspective: I wasn’t mugging old ladies or taking drugs. I was no worse than anyone else my age, apart from you. At what became my weekly bollocking, Dad was always holding you up as a shining example of what a child should be like.’
‘So, what, fifteen years later you’re bitching about it?’
‘No . . . well, yes. But I’d have thought that you’d have realised by now that it’s all right to be bad sometimes. It’s all right to be angry. It’s natural. When Dad told me we were moving in with you and Mum, I went mad. I threw the biggest tantrum of all time, screamed and cried. It wasn’t that I didn’t love you both, I just wanted my life to stay the same. I gave Dad such a hard time about it for months – even after we’d moved in. But you . . . you welcomed us with open arms, fitted in around us without any thought for how it’d ruined your life. You started calling him Dad2 to make our lives easier and you never did a thing wrong.’
Eric didn’t know what happened when you weren’t good. When you didn’t go along with what others wanted.
‘That’s what I meant about you relaxing with Greg. It was the first time ever that you weren’t on edge, not trying to make things right. I’d never seen you so relaxed, not even when you were with that other bloke.’
‘Sean. His name is Sean,’ I hissed.
‘Yeah, him. When you were with Greg it was the first time you weren’t slotting yourself into everyone’s life. That’s why you were glowing. You’d finally chilled. It wasn’t just that he loved you or you loved him, you’d finally found safety. I thought, hoped, that now you’d done that, you might’ve stopped.’
‘Stopped . . . Stopped what?’ I asked tiredly. Listening to myself being deconstructed was exhausting. Every piece he picked apart and slung on the ground had to be dusted off and glued back onto my personality. I didn’t have the energy for it.
Eric replied: ‘You know what film you always remind me of?’
Stopped what? I asked silently as I shook my head.
‘Well, it’s not a film. More a line from a film, a line from Heat. Robert De Niro, I think it’s Robert De Niro, maybe it’s the Al Pacino character, no, no, it’s Robert De Niro . . .’ Eric stopped, I obviously radiated an unimpressed attitude. ‘Anyway it’s that line where Robert De Niro says something like: “Don’t have anything in your life that you can’t walk away from in thirty seconds flat if you spot the heat coming.”’
‘What are you saying?’ I replied.
‘I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m saying.’
‘I’m involved in lots of things that I can’t walk away from. I’ve, I’ve bought my flat! And I’ve got a permanent job. And . . .’ I ran out of steam. I didn’t seem
to have that many things I couldn’t walk out on in thirty seconds if I thought about it. But did anyone? ‘Anyway, if my memory serves me correctly, the one time he did get involved in something he couldn’t walk away from, he got killed. He should’ve taken his own advice.’
‘You’re doing it again. Except it’s don’t get involved in a conversation you can’t use a joke to wheedle your way out of in five seconds flat.’
‘Eric, I’ve got ties. I couldn’t walk away from my life in thirty days, let alone thirty seconds. I am capable of settling down.’
‘Why did you walk away from a relationship that made you so happy in five minutes, then? If it took five minutes, what with you being such an expert at running away.’
‘Me? I am not.’
‘Yes you are. That’s what I meant, Amber, about hoping, now that you’d found safety, that you’d maybe stop running. But no, first sign of trouble, you take to the road. And that’s what you’re always doing, running away from anything that gets even slightly intense.’
‘I’ve worked at the Festival for years and that’s intense,’ I replied.
‘Yeah, intense, but it stops you following your heart. You work at the Festival because it’s not what you really want.’
‘I love my job.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But you want to be a director. I always knew you wanted to be a director. When we were young you used to make me and anyone else you could get to act out scenes from Monkey and The Water Margin and The Pretenders. It was a pain in the arse playing with you because you were always giving us these ridiculous lines to say. It was the only time, too, that you were bossy. Nobody could argue with you when you were in television mode. You want to be a director but you won’t let yourself take the leap of faith that’s required because you might fail; you might not be perfect at it.’
The script I’d vaguely been working on wafted across my mind.
‘You’ve run away from everything important in your life because it’s easier than getting in there and feeling it.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I whispered.
‘Don’t give me that. In your flat, the flat where you’ve lived for, what, seven years, you’ve still got packed boxes. Every time I visit I wonder if they’ll be unpacked. But they’re still there. Waiting for you to decide it’s time to move on.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Everything. It shows that you’re a constant runaway, you never intend to settle, no matter how happy you are. You’ve done it again with Greg. You’ve run away from him for what? Sleeping with someone before you? Yes, it was Jen, and yes, he lied about it. But it was before you. You can’t dump a person for having sex before he went out with you. Especially when you haven’t even talked to him about it.
‘I can understand why you run away, though. First you saw your mum packing to run away, and then your dad essentially ran away. You cannae bear it when others leave you, so you get in there first. You get them before they get you. But what it usually turns into is you getting yourself before they get you. You hurting yourself by disappearing or walking away or not experiencing what can be truly wonderful about coming out the other side of a bad patch.’
I put my head on the arm of the sofa.
‘Amber, for once, don’t run away. Not physically, not emotionally. For once, see things through. Go into the pain, see how brilliant things can be when you make it to the other side.’
Eric made the ‘call me’ signal at me from the train platform.
I nodded as the train shuddered.
Then we waved at each other as the train whined to life and pulled off.
chapter thirty-three
the beginning of . . .
I opened the door to the SC office of the Sunday Yorkshire Chronicle, and for a fraction of a second thought their hard-faced receptionist, who knew me from the amount of times I’d visited Greg at work, had warned him I was there because he stood up, very slowly.
But he didn’t turn to the door, instead he said in a loud voice, ‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please!’
The twenty or so people in the office stopped: some put down phones, others halted in their typing, others still paused conversations to look at him.
‘I WANT EVERYONE TO STOP ASKING ME IF I’M OK,’ he bellowed. ‘THE WOMAN I LOVE HAS LEFT ME AND MY FRIENDS HATE ME. AND YES, I’M SURE MORE THAN A FEW PEOPLE IN HERE WOULD AGREE THAT I AM SCUM AND I DESERVE THIS. SO, LEAVE ME ALONE. I JUST WANT TO GET ON WITH MY WORK. THANK YOU.’
Greg looked so defeated as he flopped back onto his seat I almost turned on my heels and fled. I didn’t want to do this. But fleeing, according to Eric, was what I did best. And I had to stop that. I trailed over to Greg’s desk. His unshaven face looked up at me as I arrived at his desk.
‘I think we should talk,’ I said.
‘Naturally, you heard all that,’ Greg said, as he made swirls with the teaspoon in his cappuccino foam then licked the foam off the spoon and put it back into the foam to make more swirls. It hit me with a start to realise that it was a habit of mine. It was so irritating, it was a wonder anyone ever drank coffee with me. Actually, nobody did drink coffee with me more than once.
‘Yup, I heard it,’ I replied. ‘I assume you were talking about me.’
Greg’s face flashed surprise, then hurt, then his features settled on a half-smile. ‘I suppose I deserve that. And, yes, I was talking about you.’
‘Do you often lose it like that?’
‘No. But since I lost my friends and you left me, it’s hard keeping it together.’
‘Still not made it up with Matt?’
‘Matt has issues. And those issues mean he won’t speak to me, or see me, or return my emails. What about you and Jen?’
‘I’m going to see her later, when school’s finished.’
‘Mind if I tag along? Haven’t been to a cat fight in years.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Cat fight? Sexist get. What’s it called when two men fight?’
‘A fight, of course.’
‘Not a dog fight?’
‘Hmmm, since all men are dogs, you could have a point there.’
‘Didn’t I tell you I was always right?’
A wash of colour returned to his stubbly face, the dark circles under his eyes became grey instead of black, as he grinned.
‘Anyways, I don’t know why Matt’s blaming you,’ I said. ‘He’d been cheating on his wife for three years and when he went away on “business” he was cheating on Jen. Out of all of us, he was the worst. You just kept his secrets.’ And shagged his girlfriend.
Greg treated me to a stare almost as stony and rock-filled as one of Martha’s. Didn’t know he was capable of them. ‘What did you want to talk about?’ he asked sternly.
‘What do you think?’ I mumbled. This was hard. Harder than I expected. Part of me was so angry, felt so stupid and duped and second-rate, that I wanted to chuck my tea in his face. The rest of me, the part of me that Eric had got through to, was ready to do almost anything to be with him. Anything.
This was what I felt whenever he walked out. Whenever anyone got cross with me. I was scared of being that little girl finding her mother packing to run away all over again. Of being the little girl who came back from school one day to find her dad had gone. Vanished. The room that became Eric’s bedroom was Dad’s office and I came back to find it empty. His stuff was gone from my parents’ bedroom and he never came back to the house. Never. Never explained why he left, either. He just packed and never returned. Mum had said he was living somewhere else and that in time I’d be able to go see him. I didn’t want Greg to disappear like that. Or at all. But . . .
‘You look well.’ His voice had softened again. Maybe he could see I was scared. ‘Really well.’
‘I’ve been to see my brother. He kept dragging me out on long walks and making me drink medicinal whisky and eat healthy food.’
‘I suppose he hates me now as well,’ Greg
said, smiling sadly.
Of course he doesn’t. But I’m not going to tell you that. I inhaled deeply, tried to get the air to give me strength. The strength to do this. ‘Why Jen?’ I asked.
He ran a hand through his long hair, stared into his coffee. ‘Remember I told you that in the time I fell for you I slept with a woman who’d been coming on to me for ages?’
‘The mercy shag?’ I was flabbergasted. ‘That was Jen?’
Greg nodded. ‘The mercy shag was Jen.’
‘Is that what you wanted to tell me the night you broke my mug?’
Greg nodded, carried on playing with his cappuccino.
‘So I was right, you had had sex with a cow.’
A smile rose to Greg’s mouth, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. I don’t know why he wasn’t rolling on the floor clutching his sides. It was funny and it was true. It was funny because it was true.
‘Tell me what you wanted to tell me that night in the hotel.’
Greg shook his head, ran his hands over his face. ‘That was a lifetime ago. It’s too late now.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘Tell me, please. I was too angry and hurt and shocked and paranoid to listen before. But I want to hear it now.’
‘I . . .’
‘Pretend we’re in the hotel room. I’ve just come back from my walk and . . .’ I went to the café door and stood there, looking at him. I went back to him. ‘Now, you say, “I was hoping you’d come back.” And I say, “I didn’t come back to talk, I just want to sleep.” And then we get into bed. And you say . . .’
‘It was before you. The second it was over I regretted it.’
‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘I know, and I’ve felt awful ever since it happened.’
And we’re transported back to our hotel room. It’s dark, moonlight streams through the windows, bathing our room in magical light. There’s still a gulf of anger and shock between us. ‘Why did you do it then?’ I say from my side of the bed, still facing the wardrobe.
Greg turns over in bed so he’s facing me. ‘She made me feel special.’