by Sue Watson
‘I’m… Nothing really. Just looking at the car. I thought someone had scraped it when I parked it up in town.’
‘Who? Him?’
‘No,’ she says, irritated again, dismissing my comment with a flutter of her hand.
‘No point looking down there – if someone had scraped your car it wouldn’t be near the tyre,’ I point out. ‘It’s here where the damage would be.’ I run my hand along the bumper. ‘I can’t see or feel anything.’
But she isn’t listening, she’s now marching towards the house, so I follow her.
‘What makes you think someone scraped your car?’ I’m asking as I try to catch up.
‘Nothing… I just thought…’
‘It’s him again, isn’t it?’ She probably doesn’t want to worry me, but I want to know what’s going on. ‘Have you had any more messages?’
She shakes her head and looks away. I can’t help but wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling me as she opens the front door and I follow her into the hallway and close the door behind me.
‘Do you think he’s been hanging around your car? I knew I should have been here for that police interview. I bet you just played it down, didn’t you? “Oh I’m fine, it happens all the time – it’s nothing, officer.” Well, a dead bird in pink wrapping paper isn’t nothing, Amber!’ My voice is raised. I’m in her face. I need her to realise what this is.
‘Calm down, Lucy. I gave a statement, but didn’t make a drama of it. I’m handling it, okay?’ We’re standing in the kitchen now and she’s drumming her fingertips on the counter. I can feel the tension – she’s as scared as I am, just in denial.
‘Look, he’s already turned up at your home to leave the parcel. If you think he’s vandalised your car, what else is he capable of?’
‘I don’t know, but I wish you’d just stop talking about it.’ She turns and picks up a cloth to wipe the already clean surface – she has a cleaner come round three times a week, so the place is spotless. She’s obviously trying to avoid this conversation, but why? Clearly, she’s not telling me everything. It must be something to do with the car; why would she be lying on the ground checking underneath?
Then it hits me. ‘Oh. My. God. You think he’s put a tracker on your car?’
‘No I don’t, Lucy.’ She throws her hands in the air. ‘This is not an episode of The Wire. People on Mulberry Avenue don’t have trackers put on their cars.’
‘Who knows what goes on here?’
She rolls her eyes and throws the damp cloth into the sink. ‘Stop making out something’s going on when it isn’t.’
‘You stop making out nothing’s going on when it is!’ I snap back, and we look at each other and I notice the glimmer of a smile.
‘You’re impossible,’ she sighs.
‘No, you are.’
‘No, you are.’ And we both start laughing. We can never be angry with each other for long.
‘You know,’ I say, pretending like this just occurred to me, ‘the more it happens, the more I’m beginning to think it might be someone you know…’
‘Well it isn’t Ben, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You can’t rule him out – have you seen anything of him since…?’
‘Since last week? No, but there’s a chance he might call. He might come over. I caught him looking at me yesterday at work. I know that look,’ she says, her eyes going all misty.
‘Just be extra cautious. Stay with us and if Ben calls you can always meet him here.’
‘I don’t know, Lucy. You and Matt have been very kind, but I feel like I can’t intrude on you any more.’
‘Amber, you aren’t intruding, you’re a friend. We love having you over. I hate to think of you alone here, scared to death at every little noise in the middle of the night. I understand you want to live your life, and if you want to spend time with Ben – or anyone else – it isn’t ideal or romantic meeting up in your neighbour’s house. But I just don’t think it’s wise to be on your own at night in your house until we know this weirdo has stopped.’
‘But I haven’t had a text in over a week and the alarm has been checked and now it’s working…’
‘Amber, he may not try and get into your house, he might just watch. What if he leaps out one night when you’re out? Within seconds you could be lying in the gutter on a dark, empty road… or God knows, he could do that thing burglars do and short circuit the alarm. You aren’t safe until they’ve got him.’
‘Lucy, you’re scaring me,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry, but you need to take this seriously. You haven’t heard from him for over a week, but he might just be sitting in his dank little flat somewhere making plans. This is exactly what he wants – for you to think that he’s stopped so that he can catch you out.’
But again she rolls her eyes. She’s had creepy texts, a dead bird, and he’s maybe done something to her car, but it’s like nothing seems to touch her. I wonder what it would take for her to be really scared.
‘I can’t believe the police aren’t going to put a trace on your phone, or that they haven’t wanted to talk to your friends, exes… admirers?’ I start, and glimpse the ghost of a smile and wonder if she thinks I’m faintly ridiculous for taking this so seriously. I know she thinks I’m overreacting, but she doesn’t realise just how bad this could get.
She heads out of the kitchen and I follow her into the hall. She makes her way upstairs and, halfway up, turns to me.
‘I’m off to work soon, Luce. Got to get ready now, so I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Sure I can’t give you a lift?’
She stands for a moment looking annoyed. ‘I can’t ever just say no to you, Lucy, because you just won’t take no for an answer.’ She then seems to realise how this sounds and tempers it with a giggle. ‘I was only joking!’ she says, and we both know she wasn’t.
Sometimes I wonder if Kirsty might be right and Amber picks me up and drops me at her whim.
She leans over the huge bannister and looks down on me.
‘Hey, Lucy, I’m sorry if you’re upset. I think this is getting to you more than me. What can I do to make it better? I know, is there anything girlie on at the cinema this week? We should go, do the popcorn thing?’ She gives me a big smile.
‘I’ll check the listings,’ I say sulkily, though secretly I’m quite pleased – there’s a new Emma Stone movie out and it looks hilarious and romantic. ‘Okay, I’ll get off now, but be careful.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll make sure I leave the studio with a male colleague,’ she says. ‘Someone big and butch and handsome.’
‘Anyone in particular?’ I bite back.
Her face lights up. ‘Who knows…’ she says, throwing me a crumb, letting me peep into her world. She often does this: opens up a little chink of light, a little sparkle of something just to intrigue me before closing it shut again. It can be quite frustrating, but I keep coming back for more, because it’s a lot more than most people get from Amber.
‘Do you think you’ll ever be over Ben?’ I ask.
Still leaning on the bannister, her face turns all dreamy.
‘I don’t know.’ She looks at me almost defiantly. ‘I can’t lie, I still sometimes wonder if things might—’
‘Would you take him back?’ I hope not. He isn’t good for her. I just know he’ll break her heart again.
She looks up at the ceiling for inspiration, stretches out her arms and brings them back down onto the bannister, leaning on them, swaying softly. ‘If I did, it would be on my terms. I’d be in the driving seat, and this time I’d want the fairy tale. I want what you and Matt have.’
I soften at this. ‘Ahh, that’s sweet,’ I say. Though privately I think she might be being unrealistic. We’re such different people to her and Ben.
‘You and Matt have this lovely ease with each other, a mutual, supportive, loving thing – I envy you.’
I’m touched and a little surprised by this. Whoever would have th
ought that Amber Young would be envious of little old me?
‘Yeah, Matt and I are happy,’ I say, then I pause to reflect, ‘but sometimes – I know it sounds mad – I feel lonely, like he just cares about what play he’s involved in that week. I think about your exciting life in TV, the way you can click your fingers and have any man you want… and I envy you too.’
‘The grass is always greener,’ she sighs. She’s right. We often look over at a friend’s life or a neighbour’s house and wish we had something they had, but we don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.
‘So, I’ll see you later… that is, on the TV?’ I say as I walk to the door.
‘Yep, you’ll see me after the late bulletin tonight.’
‘You’re going in very early if you’re not on till that late.’
‘Yeah, I’m going in early because I’m doing… other stuff.’
‘Ooh, is it something special? Are you doing that on-screen reporting they keep promising?’ I know it’s her dearest wish to do reporting and presenting like she used to, so stop and wait for her to tell me all about it, but she doesn’t.
‘Oh no, nothing special… I’m just working on something behind the scenes… Anyway, bye babe. See you later.’ And she disappears upstairs, leaving me to let myself out.
I walk back home knowing something doesn’t add up. Is she just keeping things to herself because she doesn’t want to worry me – or is she lying? And if she’s lying to me – why?
***
I wasn’t a typical teenager. I didn’t socialise, never went to school discos, didn’t hang around on street corners with the rest of them. I was at my happiest after the evening news, lulled to sleep by the safety and reassurance of nightly weather reports, moving gently from cold to warm from sunny to cloudy. If it was sunny, she took all the credit, but if rain was forecast, she prepared viewers with a polite apology – like it was her fault it would piss down all over bank holiday weekend. I loved the weather girl. She was always there for me – unlike my slut of a mother.
Chapter Eleven
Lucy
Later that evening, Matt and I watch Amber delivering the late weather forecast on TV. As always, it feels surreal to see my best friend on screen. So near and yet so far.
‘She looks good tonight in that blue top,’ I murmur.
Matt’s busy with a script for the local amateur dramatics group – as if running a school drama department isn’t enough! He’s only half watching Amber as she predicts the next day’s late summer weather.
‘Yeah. Blue’s good on her,’ he has to admit, but I sense Mr Nasty coming in. He’ll want to follow this up with a criticism or perhaps another comment about when she’ll be moving back to hers, so I step in before he gets the chance.
‘Amber was saying today that we have a great relationship.’
‘Who does?’
‘You and me, dipstick!’
‘Oh, that relationship,’ he mutters. As usual he’s engrossed in what he’s doing, but that doesn’t stop me continuing the conversation.
‘She’s doing well to hold everything together. So calm on screen, but underneath she’s really going through it,’ I say, adding a little drama to get his attention.
He looks up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Her car’s been scratched – I think it’s her stalker… I reckon he crashed into it deliberately.’ Okay, I’m laying it on a bit thick, but I have to so he takes it all more seriously and doesn’t dismiss it as ‘some nutter’.
‘What, you mean crashed into her car with his?’ He looks doubtful.
‘I don’t know. When I popped over earlier, she seemed convinced that someone had either scratched it or bumped it.’
‘Have there been any more wildlife deliveries? What did the police say about the feathered friend in the end?’ he asks rather flippantly. It might be funny to him, but it isn’t to Amber.
‘Who knows what they said? She hasn’t really told me.’
‘Do you think she even actually spoke to the police?’ He’s still only half engaged; his mind’s clearly on his script.
‘Of course she has – they came on the Wednesday afternoon. I told you, I was pissed off because they didn’t wait for me…’ Has he not been listening to anything I’ve told him about Amber’s situation for the last couple of weeks? This whole thing has made me realise Matt doesn’t seem to take anyone else’s problems seriously.
‘So you’ve only got her word that she’s spoken to the police?’
‘I suppose so.’ I turn to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know… I just wonder if she might have called them and asked them not to bother. Perhaps she doesn’t want the police involved… or maybe she has something to hide?’
My stomach twists slightly – I hate to admit it, but he has a point. She didn’t want me to call them from JoJo’s and there’s no proof she gave a statement. Even if she did, I don’t know what she told them – that’s if they even turned up at all. But then again, she’s my friend, and I shouldn’t be so mistrustful. I just wish Matt wasn’t so negative about her. It makes me question what she says and does – and then I doubt her too.
‘I doubt she has anything to hide. It’s probably because she just didn’t want a fuss,’ I say, irritated that Matt doubts my friend. This is the person who gives me more time than he does, the friend with whom I share dinners, drinks, sleepovers and secrets. Without her my life would feel quite empty now, so I just wish he’d stop using every opportunity to put her down, because she really doesn’t deserve it.
He puts the pencil he’s using to his mouth. It reminds me of the way he held Sherlock Holmes’ pipe last Christmas in the Manchester Drama Society’s version of The Speckled Band. Being a thwarted actor, Matt sometimes likes to play a part and it really grates on me. He takes the pencil away. ‘Lucy, what I’m thinking is… is there really a stalker, or is it Amber pretending there is?’
‘Don’t be so stupid.’ I don’t want to hear this. ‘Of course there’s a stalker. Why would she lie about something like that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He raises his eyebrows in a disbelieving way. ‘Seems to me that she isn’t happy unless everyone’s looking at her. Amber has to be the star. Like the other night… going on about her glory days in telly, and how she went out with royalty, and everyone had a crush on her.’
I laugh. ‘Matt, now you’re exaggerating. She was explaining how hard it is for women who work in TV. She said men expected to sleep with her for work – she never said they had crushes on her. That’s quite different.’
‘Well, that’s what it sounded like to me,’ he says, and is soon back in his am-dram world of script marking and scene setting.
Amber had talked quite a lot about her career that night, it’s true. She’d told us about the different people she’d worked with and the fun they’d had. But she’d also described the sexism, the unequal pay, the unwanted attention and propositions made by male colleagues. I’d found it fascinating, and assumed Matt was enjoying it too. Perhaps I was so swept up in it myself I wasn’t aware that he was bored?
‘I think she was trying to distract herself by chatting about her work, but I could tell she was also thinking about the texts, and being watched. She was upset, Matt. I thought she might cry at one point.’
He shakes his head. ‘Well, if I’d just had a text like that, or received a dead bird, I reckon I’d be sitting in my bedroom clutching a knife, not bragging about who I could have slept with and laughing my head off about some prank played on a news reader in 1998.’
‘People deal with things in their own way. God, Matt, you always try and belittle things that happen to other people. You say that Amber wants to be the star but no one’s got a bigger ego than you… always putting people down,’ I snap, incensed at how he’s being so dismissive.
But – typical Matt – he just shrugs and carries on leafing through the script like I’m not here. I know what he’s doing. He knows ignor
ing me when I’m annoyed and want to discuss something really winds me up. I want to talk through our disagreements, but he wants to sulk through them. That’s what our marriage has become: a competition about who can quietly hurt and irritate the other the most. When did that happen?
‘You’re trying to dismiss this whole thing because it isn’t about you,’ I say, refusing to let him win. ‘Let’s face it, Matt, you’d love a bloody stalker. You’d dine out on it for years, tell all the little teenagers at school, pretending like you’re a real actor with a deranged fan!’
I know I’m being mean, but I’m angry and want to nip this constant Amber-sniping in the bud. I’m absolutely sick of it. I battle with Kirsty’s sly remarks at work and Matt’s comments at home. At the very least, I don’t want Matt making dubious comments suggesting she’s not all she seems the next time she’s here. Which could be tonight when she returns from work. She won’t want to go back to hers late and alone, and she has her own key so she’ll probably come back here. I just don’t want Matt making any comments about how long she’s staying over the bloody toast and marmalade in the morning.
‘I know you value this friendship, but you’re always defending her – you’re like a tiger mother,’ he says, irritated.
‘Only because you’re being so unfair, Matt. Yes, perhaps I do overreact, but I’m bloody angry.’
He continues to look at his script as he delivers his killer blow: ‘Perhaps it was for the best that we couldn’t have kids.’
I am shocked rigid. And in an instant I’m fired up. He’s lit the touchpaper, and I can’t help it – when he looks up from his script, I lean in and slap him hard in the face. I’ve never done anything like this to Matt before and I’m as shocked as he is. I pull back, and we both look at each other, startled by my actions. I stand up from the sofa, aware there’s a red hand mark already forming on the side of his cheek. ‘You get really nasty, really quick, these days, Matt,’ I say. ‘Perhaps you should take out your frustrations somewhere else – not on your wife. I don’t deserve that.’