by Eleanor Ray
‘That’s cool,’ said Tim, unperturbed. ‘But I’m a mess. You know that. I need to get the band sorted, or maybe I need to call time on it. Study law, like my dad said I should. Go back to him for a loan, tail between my legs.’
‘But music is your passion,’ said Amy, keen to make up for her earlier lack of empathy. ‘And you’re so talented.’ Although even she had to admit, he’d earned almost no money from the band for the last few years. She’d wondered herself if it was time for him to look for alternative careers. He was smart: he shouldn’t be stacking supermarket shelves for ever.
‘I love how supportive you are,’ said Tim, and Amy felt guilty again for her thoughts. He leaned over and kissed her, the plastic crinkling loudly underneath him. ‘And I just wanted you to know that one day, I’ll do it.’
‘And one day I’ll say yes,’ said Amy, wishing that was what she’d said at first.
They were interrupted by a loud bang on the bedroom door. ‘You guys decent?’ called out Chantel.
‘Just a minute,’ said Tim. They both hurriedly put their clothes back on as Chantel came through the door holding a tray, clearly stolen from a pub, with three cups of tea, a packet of shortbread and a shiny pile of keys with enormous fluffy key rings. ‘Yuck,’ she said, staring at Tim’s bare chest as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. ‘There is such a thing as a gym, you know.’
‘There is such a thing as privacy too,’ grumbled Tim, taking his tea from the tray.
Chantel popped the rest of it down on the floor and sat on the mattress. ‘Springy,’ she commented. ‘Nice.’
‘That’s a lot of keys,’ said Amy, helping herself to a biscuit. ‘And quite a collection of key rings.’
‘A copy of the front-door keys for you, one for me and two for Tim, because he’ll lose his,’ she said. Tim pulled a face at her. ‘And two copies of the back-door key. We can keep one in the kitchen and you can keep the spare, Amy, because you’re the most responsible. Great key rings, eh? My treat. Yours is the pink one,’ she said to Tim, throwing his set in his direction. He caught it, spilling his tea in the process. ‘Yours is grey, Amy,’ said Chantel. ‘To match your eyes. I’ve got brown.’
Amy took her set in her hand and squeezed it, feeling the reassuring sharpness of the key’s edge against her skin. She stroked the key ring, a grey fluff-ball that reminded Amy of a curled-up mouse. ‘Thanks Chantel,’ she said.
‘Thanks Amy,’ replied Chantel, her voice serious. ‘And you Tim. I needed this.’ She reached out and gathered them both in a large hug. Amy hugged them back. Living with the two people she loved most in the world. She knew she was going to be very happy in this house.
When Spike suggested that they meet in his ‘office’, Amy couldn’t help but picture the word in inverted commas. Probably used ironically to describe a squat that doubled as an opium den. She’d counter-proposed a café nearby, but Spike was insistent. She settled by suggesting a meeting in the morning, when she imagined there to be fewer of whatever ‘clients’ (also in inverted commas) Spike had around. He’d agreed, and surprised her by proposing eight a.m. The ‘office’ was in town and, looking at a map, Amy discovered that if she kept the meeting short and to the point, she wouldn’t even be late for work.
And she wanted to keep it as short as possible. She’d stopped by the Boots at the station again on the way and Joanna had obliged with a generous four sprays of perfume that left Amy with a slight headache. Still, it would be better than Spike’s fragrant alternative, and she couldn’t risk the scent of cannabis lingering on her clothes in her office.
So Amy was rather surprised when she found herself standing in front of a large corporate building, rather smarter than the offices of Trapper, Lemon and Hughes. She double-checked the address and then stepped inside, wondering if she’d somehow contacted the wrong Spike.
There were lots of companies in this building, and she filled in her details on a large book of lined paper. She hesitated at the name of the person she was visiting, feeling that to write ‘Spike’, was somehow inappropriate. There was no alternative, so she scribbled it in a messy, hopefully indecipherable way. Apparently she was expected, and the receptionist solemnly handed her a lanyard and instructed her to take the B lift to the seventeenth floor. Amy obliged. She stepped out of the lift to a maze of offices with glass partitions and myriad logos and stood there, feeling lost.
‘Amy Ashton?’ A tall man with short grey hair and a smart suit was looking at her.
‘I’m looking for Spike,’ she said, feeling like a little girl. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a surname.’
‘You haven’t changed a bit!’ he exclaimed. Amy found herself encased in a hug. The man released her and held her back from him a little so they could better see each other. ‘You don’t recognise me without the dreadlocks, do you?’ he asked.
‘Spike?’ Amy peered into the face. Sure enough, he was starting to look familiar. His eyes were less sleepy, his skin was cleaner and he was missing his trademark smell. But it was him.
‘Gosh, that takes me back,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Michael Spikerton,’ he added. ‘No one has called me Spike in years. Come, come, we’ll go to my office. I’ve ordered breakfast.’
Amy followed him, feeling dizzy with his transformation. He led her into a small room with a desk, table and chairs and a dazzling view of the city. ‘Mini Danish?’ he asked her, gesturing to a very corporate-looking breakfast platter. ‘Or fruit skewers? Help yourself and I’ll pour the coffee.’
‘What happened to you?’ exclaimed Amy, unable to contain herself.
‘I grew up,’ replied Spike. ‘A while ago now. Milk?’
‘Yes,’ said Amy. She took a cinnamon swirl and sat down, staring at him. ‘When . . . ?’
‘I’d always planned to become an adult when I hit forty. Have fun in my twenties and thirties, and man, I did.’ He smiled at Amy, memories filling his eyes. ‘By then I’d built up enough of a nest egg,’ he winked at her. ‘So I quit the drugs, invested the money and cut off my dreads. They were starting to stink.’
‘What do you do now?’ Amy gestured around the room.
‘This and that,’ said Spike, mysteriously. ‘Import export. Bit of property development. Investments. All pretty legal.’ He grinned at her again. ‘It’s actually much easier work. More sociable hours. How’s the art?’
Amy picked up the pastry then put it down again. ‘I don’t paint any more,’ she told him.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said.
She looked at the mug in front of her. White, bland and corporate. ‘I don’t remember you looking at my work back then,’ said Amy, suddenly feeling angry at this new Spike. Michael. ‘You were too busy getting high and getting Chantel in trouble with the police.’
Spike looked nervous for the first time. ‘I hope we’re not going to have a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed.’ He looked at her, his face hardening. ‘But if it’s trouble you want . . . ?’
‘No,’ said Amy, alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking. Spike had seemed harmless enough when she first met him, but she remembered now that he had a temper.
‘Sorry,’ said Spike, taking a bite of a miniature croissant. ‘Uncalled for.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Amy.
‘So how are you?’ asked Spike, his voice friendly again. ‘Are you still in that same house?’
‘Yes,’ replied Amy, surprised.
‘I’ve got a few properties in the area now,’ said Spike, the salesman in him coming out. ‘I’d be happy to arrange for mates’ rates. For old times’ sake.’
‘I’m happy where I am,’ replied Amy. She paused. ‘I’ve come about Tim,’ she said. ‘And Chantel.’
‘Have you seen her?’ Spike dropped the croissant back to his plate.
‘No,’ replied Amy. ‘Not since she disappeared.’
She took the photo from her bag and passed it across the table.
Spike inspected it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
&
nbsp; ‘Do you recognise the photo?’
Spike frowned at it. ‘Sorry,’ he said, passing it back. Amy swallowed disappointment and stared at the picture. It was a beautiful sunset, but why couldn’t it have a landmark? A clock tower. A church. Instead it was just anonymous trees, the ubiquitous sun and the corner of some kind of vehicle. If only she could find out where it was.
‘I blame Jack,’ said Spike, out of nowhere. ‘I never liked him. You know he’s a DCI now?’
Amy ignored him. Of course Spike would be jealous of Jack. ‘Jack told me that Tim borrowed money. From a friend of Chantel’s. I thought you might know something about that.’
‘Not a thing,’ said Spike, quickly. ‘Tim wasn’t my biggest fan.’
Amy felt disappointment rise up her throat and mingle with the cinnamon pastry. ‘You’re sure?’ she said. ‘You had quite a lot of cash around. Perhaps—’
‘I certainly didn’t lend him money,’ replied Spike. ‘I’d never trust a musician to pay me back. Definitely not Tim.’
‘And you don’t have any idea who might have?’
‘None,’ replied Spike. He picked up his croissant again. He looked into the air, as if his memories were floating there. ‘I never thought Chantel would have done that to you,’ he said, his voice hushed, as if someone might be listening. ‘You guys were so close. I think if she’d have run off with anyone, it would have been you.’
‘Well, it wasn’t,’ said Amy.
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ said Spike. He paused. ‘When Chantel and I were together, she still loved you the most. Not in that way,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘But it was hard, that’s all I’m saying. Always being second fiddle to her best friend.’
‘I didn’t see much of her once she was with Jack,’ said Amy.
Spike shrugged. ‘Maybe it was different with those two,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see her leaving you for a man. Not any man. Certainly not Tim. It just doesn’t feel right. You must know that.’
Amy sat in her house looking at Scarlett. The bird looked back. Leopards can’t change their spots, thought Amy, and robins can’t change their red breasts. But drug dealers? It was like the opposite of Samson. Perhaps cutting off his hair had given him strength.
What he’d said about Chantel had made her think. Perhaps it wasn’t just Tim she should be looking for.
She stood up and went to find her handbag. Inside was the piece of paper with Toyah’s number. The country code made it feel long and complicated.
Dubai.
It seemed an unlikely place for Toyah to end up, but perhaps her dislike of the sunshine was overshadowed by her desire to be around family. And perhaps her brother-in-law had mellowed. People change. Amy knew that.
She’d searched for Toyah on social media, hoping to be able to message her. But nothing. Amy was surprised. She also searched for Tim’s father. He came up on Facebook instantly, and Amy had fired off a quick message to him before she could change her mind.
Amy held the paper again, running her finger across the lettering. It had been years since she’d spoken to Toyah. Once she’d been like a second mother to Amy. She’d certainly felt closer to her than she had to her own. But after the initial flurry of contact and panic when Chantel and Tim disappeared, Amy had stopped calling. Toyah had tried to get in touch several times, but Amy hadn’t answered. If her daughter could betray Amy like that, she decided she had no reason to trust her mother.
Unless she’d been wrong all these years.
Amy picked up her phone and dialled. She realised she hadn’t even checked what time it would be in Dubai now, and decided to hang up and work that out first.
But before she could, a voice answered.
Not Toyah’s.
‘Is that Laura?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said a suspicious voice. ‘Is this a sales call? Because I’m busy.’
‘No,’ said Amy. She hesitated. She’d met Laura once or twice and pictured her in her mind’s eye. Dark blonde hair always partnered with a tan. An elegant array of white trousers and tailored jackets. A no-nonsense approach to life that Amy had found intimidating. ‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s Amy Ashton. I was friends with Chantel.’
This was greeted by silence. ‘How did you get this number?’ Laura asked eventually.
‘Jack Hooper gave it to me,’ said Amy. ‘He was Chantel’s boyfriend—’
‘I know who Jack Hooper is,’ said Laura, her voice careful. ‘What were you doing talking to him?’
‘Is Toyah there?’ asked Amy, not feeling up to dealing with Chantel’s rather aggressive aunt after all.
‘She’s out right now,’ replied Laura. ‘But I can take a message.’ Amy hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to share. ‘Can you tell her that I found something, please? Something that I want to discuss with her?’
‘That’s rather cryptic,’ said Laura. ‘Care to be more specific?’
‘It’s a letter,’ said Amy. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I found it five days ago, but I think it’s been there for a long time. From Chantel.’
Silence greeted her again. ‘I couldn’t read it,’ continued Amy. ‘Not much of it. It’s been outside a while and it’s all smudged by the rain. There was a picture there too,’ said Amy. ‘A photo.’
‘What was in the photo?’ asked Laura.
‘I don’t know,’ said Amy. ‘ A park maybe. Trees. A sunset. Some kind of car in the corner. But I can’t tell where it was taken. I thought that Toyah might recognise it. She could help me understand what Chantel was trying to tell me.’
‘And did you show the letter to Jack?’ asked Laura.
‘Yes,’ said Amy. ‘And the photo. He didn’t recognise it.’
‘There was no address on the letter, for you to contact Chantel?’
‘Nothing legible,’ replied Amy.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ snapped Amy. Then she felt bad. Laura must want to know where her niece was too. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But the letter was in quite a state.’
‘Did you show it to anyone else? The photo or the letter?’
‘Spike,’ replied Amy.
‘Spike? How’s that little scumbag?’
‘Surprisingly well,’ said Amy. For a moment Amy felt an overwhelming urge to gossip about Spike’s change in appearance with Chantel. But this woman on the phone was not her friend. Not even close.
‘He didn’t recognise the picture,’ said Laura.
‘No,’ said Amy, feeling impatience rise up again. ‘When will Toyah be back?’
‘Not for a while,’ replied Laura. ‘But I’ll tell you what to do. Scan in the picture and the letter and email it to me. I’ll show Toyah and she can get back to you if she recognises anything. She’s very busy, though, so it might take her a while.’
‘OK,’ agreed Amy, writing down the email address.
‘Amy?’ said Laura, her voice a little softer. ‘It’s been a long time since Toyah has heard from you.’
Amy nodded agreement, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t be seen.
‘I think that she’ll be pleased that you’ve been in touch. Very pleased.’
‘I just want to find out the truth,’ said Amy.
‘Of course,’ replied Laura.
‘I can’t imagine Toyah in Dubai,’ said Amy, her voice thoughtful. ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’
‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Laura. ‘She’s here with me. Her sister.’
‘But . . . ’ Amy paused. She knew Toyah didn’t get on with her sister or her sister’s husband. But she couldn’t say that. ‘It’s so hot,’ she finished, lamely.
‘We’re not camped out in the middle of the desert here, you know,’ said Laura. ‘There’s air conditioning and skyscrapers and sunscreen.’
‘OK,’ said Amy, unconvinced.
‘Listen, Amy,’ said Laura. ‘Toyah is fine here. But keep your thoughts to yourself.’
‘What
?’
‘You can’t trust everyone.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Amy.
‘Take care, Amy.’ She hung up.
The phone call reminded Amy how abrupt Laura could be. She remembered now that Toyah used to complain about her sister and was rather pleased when she moved abroad. She’d said that Laura was an easier person to love when there was a continent between them. Add in her dislike of sunshine and the fact she couldn’t stand her snobbish brother-in-law, and Amy found it more and more unlikely that Dubai would be where she chose to move. Something didn’t add up.
She’d lost her daughter, Amy reminded herself. Grief makes people behave in odd ways.
Still, it left Amy feeling uneasy. She wished she’d had the chance to speak to Toyah herself, after all. The unease mixed with another emotion. Sadness. She realised that it wasn’t just Chantel she’d missed from that family.
It was Toyah too.
Amy paused. She could hear a noise coming from outside her house. People talking. She made her way carefully through her little ravine to the window.
It was six o clock, but still light in the middle of the summer. Three women and a man were standing just outside the gate to her garden. Amy peered at them. Rachel and Nina, loitering there as usual. The man she didn’t know. He looked bored and was glancing at his watch. The third woman she recognised. Floral trousers again. It was the woman from the council.
The woman looked over and Amy tried to duck, but there was a box in the way. They locked eyes.
‘She is home,’ said Leah loudly.
‘I told you she would be,’ said Nina. ‘She’s always in, of an evening.’
There was nothing for it. Amy made her way to the door. She opened it. ‘This is a surprise,’ she said.
‘It shouldn’t be,’ said Leah, sounding cross. ‘We sent you a letter.’
Amy found herself rather pleased that she’d cleared out her hallway, and left the door a little ajar. ‘Must have got lost in the post,’ she said, thinking of all the mail she’d dumped into Richard’s recycling.