‘Yup, we’re not some hick town outfit,’ I laughed. I eyed up Renée, who seemed to be chewing on a wasp. ‘I’ll let you know about interviewing Renée.’
She, Mimi, came and, knowing she hadn’t been up norf before, I met her at the station. She’d given me the once over and found me wanting. I wasn’t wearing the right clothes, I wasn’t carrying the right kind of bag and I was a Southerner who’d chosen to live in the North. ‘How can you bear it?’ she’d asked me as I walked her to the hotel I’d booked her into.
Her voice – nasal, imperious, affected – was even more annoying in real life. Her blonde bob had been styled by expensive fingers, her comely figure was clothed by well-named people. We had nothing in common, but I’d been nice to vile people before in the name of work so I’d smiled at her and said, ‘The longer you live here, the more you love it,’ and prayed that the God of Yorkshire didn’t strike me down for being so disloyal.
Later that Friday night, at the after-screening party, when The Celeb had gone to bed, Mimi held court from her bar stool in the hotel surrounded by male crew from the film and male journalists, pontificating on how ‘dinky’ Leeds was: ‘It’s got a Harvey Nics, hasn’t it? It’s like a mini London.’
Had their tongues not been hanging out, those Yorkshire men would’ve run her out of town. Among those male journalists was Greg. And, guess who disappeared upstairs with her? You two deserve each other, I thought as I crawled off home.
I’d been knocked out by the event, had needed to work late for weeks beforehand co-ordinating things. Sunday afternoon, when it was finally over, I’d come home after seeing The Celeb off at the airport. She, in stark contrast to Mimi, was down-to-earth with a wonderfully dry sense of humour. I’d enjoyed meeting her most out of all the stuff over the weekend and she’d promised to come back for the Festival if she could. I’d collapsed onto the sofa still wearing my coat, staring unseeingly at the television. An hour must have passed before I could get my faculties together enough to contemplate taking my coat off and getting something to eat. I’d just about raised my head from the sofa armrest when my phone had bleeped in my pocket. I’d tiredly pulled out the silver mobile, expecting to see a message from The Celeb who’d said she’d text me when she got back to London.
Instead, I got:
Help. At Hol Inn. Rm 513. She’s talkin about movin 2 Leeds. Help. G.
I’d almost ignored it. I’d been saving him for over two years and I’d decided right then not to do him another good turn, ever. I deleted the message, tossed the mobile onto the sofa beside me.
‘How can you stand it up here?’ Mimi’s condescending tone said in my head. She won’t move here, I reassured myself. Course she wouldn’t. Nooo. Even if she did, Greg won’t go out with her. But what if she was different? What if she was The One? He might start dating her. I’d have to go out with him and her. They might get married. Ten minutes later I was on the train to Leeds.
After my third knock on 513 Mimi bad-temperedly threw the door open, and I internally recoiled. Only a towel – a not very big one at that – was covering her comely figure. Doesn’t this hotel provide dressing gowns? Or bigger towels? I asked myself.
‘Oh. Amber. Hi?’ she said, unable to hide her disappointment.
I opened my mouth a couple of times, startled by the sight of her. How overtly sexual the whole scene was. Everything smelt and felt of sex. I hadn’t had sex in almost a year and now it was assaulting me from every angle. Also, I was doing a fish impression because not once during the forty-minute journey down there had I thought of what I was going to say. This wasn’t like the time in the pub when I’d stared down some psycho woman and her equally psycho boyfriend who wanted to kill Greg. Or any of the other times when I’d gone up to him, slid my arm around his waist to lead him away from a kicking. This needed a story, plausibility. Words.
‘Are you . . . OK?’ she asked. Again with the condescending tone. Again with the begging to be battered. Would I get away with it? I wondered. ‘She condescended to me, m’lud.’ You never know, it could work.
‘Er, yeah. I, erm, uh, was, um, wondering, have you seen Greg? Greg Walterson. You were talking to him in the bar on Friday night. I thought you’d gone back to London but when I heard you’d decided to stay on a couple of days I thought you might have seen him?’ There was enough confusion and desperation in my performance to make it sound real.
‘You couldn’t have called?’ she said. Every word, every syllable went through me. Set my teeth on edge; hacked at my nerves. She irritated me with her voice, m’lud.
‘I was in the hotel anyway . . . Look, have you seen him? I’m really worried.’
‘What’s it to you?’ she asked.
‘He’s my, erm, friend,’ I said.
Her eyes ran down me in scorn. Then reversed up the other way with a smidgen more of that scorn. And then there were the looks, m’lud. ‘Your friend?’
‘My boyfriend,’ I hissed.
Greg chose that moment to step out into the part of the room where I could see him, thus destroying what small vestige of innocence I had left in me. He’d pulled on the smart black trousers he’d been wearing on Friday night but hadn’t done them up, his shirt was open, exposing his chest. In all the times, in all the rescues, I’d never seen him so soon after the act of sex. I don’t know what my core had thought he was doing in a hotel room with a beautiful woman for the entire weekend, but it was suddenly very shaken. I was stunned to silence as I stared at him.
‘Amber,’ he stated, his voice a swirl of apprehension and bewilderment.
‘Gregory,’ I replied.
Our eyes remained fixed on each other. Another wave of exhaustion almost submerged me. I was so tired, and why wasn’t I at home asleep? Because Greg was a fucking idiot. Literally. When it came to fucking, he was an idiot. Anger and adrenalin surged through me. ‘This is where you’ve been?’ I said loudly. ‘I’ve been worried out of my mind and you’ve been here.’
‘He didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend,’ Mimi protested.
‘I’ll bet he didn’t,’ I snarled at her. She pressed herself back against the door in response.
Greg stood rooted to the spot, silent.
‘Why am I always finding you where you shouldn’t be? With people you shouldn’t be with? I’ve had enough of this, Gregory,’ I ranted. And I had. This was the final straw. ‘Do you hear me? I’ve had enough . . . You’re welcome to him!’ I screeched at Mimi before I turned and stormed off towards the lift.
Greg, who saw his salvation, his one last chance to escape the hotel a single man, marching away, came to life. ‘Amber! Stop! Wait!’ he called after me.
I stomped down the long corridor, rage thudding in my temples and chest. I really had had enough. A few seconds later Greg came running out of the hotel room, jacket in one hand, hopping as he tried to pull on his shoes.
‘Amber! Stop! I’m sorry!’ he called after me. ‘I’m really sorry!’
I got to the lift and started pounding on the lift call button. The lift hadn’t arrived when Greg reached me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘This is the last time,’ I snarled at him. ‘The very last time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he implored. He was taken aback by my anger now that he knew it was 100 per cent real. He took my arms in his hands in a calming gesture. I shoved him off so violently he stumbled backwards.
‘I’m really, really sorry,’ he said from where he’d stumbled to, now horrified by my rage. This was a side to me he hadn’t seen. Few people had seen it. I didn’t often see it, but now it’d been set free it was going to be hard to rein it in again. I didn’t want to stop at shoving him. I had an almost overwhelming urge to punch him. Smack him right between his stupid eyes. Then kick him between the legs, hurt the thing that was always getting us into these situations. ‘You’re lucky I don’t cut your balls off !’ I shouted at him. Greg’s hand immediately went to protect his crotch, scared that I was angry enough to do it.
The lift pinged i
ts arrival at our floor, the metal doors slid open and I stormed into it. As I turned to face the doors, I found we had an audience. Not only was Mimi leaning out of her hotel door, quite a few other hotel guests were hanging out of doorways too, taking in the floorshow Greg and I were putting on. Great, can’t come back here ever again.
Greg, not knowing when to leave well enough alone, reached out to touch me. I slapped his hand away.
‘Don’t touch me!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t ever touch me!’ And the lift doors closed on us.
I stomped out of the hotel into the street with Greg, who hadn’t quite finished getting dressed, trailing behind me. ‘You’re really angry, aren’t you?’ he said after I stopped on the pavement, trying to decide if I should get a bus, taxi or train home.
‘What gave it away, the shouting or the shoving?’ I snapped.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of who else to ask for help. She was seriously talking about leaving her job and London. She thought I’d get her a job at the Chronicle and that she could stay at my place while she found somewhere to live. She was talking in absolutes and such detail, I panicked.’
‘Don’t you think it would’ve been better to find out her mental state before you shagged her?’
‘She seemed normal.’
‘I’m sure she is. Greg, sex is important to women. If you do it with someone then they usually think it means something to you, that it’s the start of something. She seemed nice enough. Now she’s sat there wondering what went wrong and probably hating herself. And I’ve taken part in that. You’ve made me an accomplice in screwing over another woman.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You keep saying that, but then you keep doing it.’ My anger was dwindling now I wasn’t in front of a half-dressed woman with a comely figure and expensive haircut who couldn’t help patronising me by simply opening her mouth. Besides, what’s that saying? ‘Who is more stupid? The man who jumps off the cliff or the person who follows him?’ Who was more stupid in all this, the man who got laid or the celibate woman who came rushing in to rescue him? ‘I hope the sex was good enough to warrant all that, Gregory.’
‘It was pretty average, actually,’ he said.
I tutted. ‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
He came back to my place and to worm his way back into my affections cooked me dinner, bought a bottle of wine, washed up afterwards and kept flashing his big browns at me.
I would’ve carried on feeling wretched for how we treated Mimi if she hadn’t written Renée a nine-page letter slagging me off, saying I was unprofessional, I’d treated her with contempt from the moment she stepped off the train, that I’d physically threatened her and she’d been receiving dodgy phone calls she was sure were from me. She also said if Renée wanted to avoid a scandal when she took me to court, she should sack me. Renée couldn’t stop laughing when she got the letter and kept screaming, ‘And listen to this . . .’ (With hindsight I should’ve been offended that Renée didn’t think me capable of such behaviour but back then I was just grateful she didn’t sack me. The letter was also the final nail in Greg’s bastard coffin as far as Renée and Martha were concerned – it was the worst thing he’d ever done and they’d never forgive him after this. Nope, they hadn’t heard the police station story.)
And that was her, Mimi, on the phone now. ‘How are you?’ Mimi asked, acting as though we were friends.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I, erm, didn’t catch your name.’ An easy way to let someone know that all thought of them left your mind when they left your company is to pretend you don’t know who they are.
‘It’s Mimi Verner.’
‘Right. Who do you write for again?’ Just in case she thought she was important enough in my life for me to remember who she writes for.
‘Viva.’
‘Oh, erm, yes. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I heard that,’ she mentioned the name of a B-list celeb Renée was good friends with who would be opening the Festival in September, ‘is coming to the Festival and I wanted to interview her. We worked so well together last time, I was hoping we could work together again.’
We talked the logistics over and, eventually, she decided not to come since the celeb’s movie wouldn’t be new enough for the magazine. ‘Oh, do you see much of, erm, Greg?’ she asked when it was clear I was about to say goodbye.
Sudden, spiteful anger surged through me. Like it did that night. Only this time, it was entangled with jealousy. That bitch had him before me (although, to be fair, most women have had him before me) and I didn’t like it. Let’s not forget, either, that she’d tried to get me sacked.
‘Greg Walterson? The journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I see him quite a lot.’
‘Through work?’ she asked, not even bothering to hide the desperation in her voice.
‘Yes, through work. And personally – we recently got married. Bye, then.’
I hung up and hopped off Renée’s desk to find the pair of them staring at me with open mouths. I never lied like that unless it was in the name of work. And even then, I’d talk around the subject, not out-and-out lie.
‘She pissed me off,’ I explained.
They both gasped: nobody pissed me off to the point where I admitted it. Ever. I might internalise my anger, scowl about it or go for a long walk to ease my rage, but I never said I was pissed off. ‘She said Leeds was a mini London!’ I hissed.
‘The bitch!’ Martha snarled.
‘The bastard!’ Renée added. ‘You should’ve said you and Greg had a baby.’
‘Actually, no,’ Martha said, ‘you should’ve let her shag Greg again. That would’ve been punishment enough.’
Their laughter ricocheted off all the walls in the office, bruising my sensitive skin as it went through me. I returned to my desk, staring unseeingly at what I’d been writing on the computer screen.
I hope this isn’t a sign. I hope this isn’t Fate telling me something. Because goodness knows, Greg hasn’t called me in three days.
chapter nine
crazy lady
I let myself into the flat, tossed my bunch of keys – house and office – with its big fish key fob onto the floor by the living room door, then stopped, went back, picked them up and slotted them into the door keyhole and locked it.
Then I did what I knew I shouldn’t: I checked the answer-phone. It answered me with a silent, still red light. I knew it wouldn’t be flashing. Everyone with my home number called me at work during the day, meaning the red light wouldn’t be flashing, but still, my chest sank. My whole body gave in to abject disappointment. He wasn’t going to call me. Not now, not ever.
I went to the bedroom to change into my pyjamas for the Friday night ritual. Friday nights were made for lying on the sofa with my duvet, junk food and telly. Except last Friday night hadn’t gone down like that at all, had it? And because of that, this Friday night was going to be long. The Long Night of Amber Salpone.
I tugged my purple, slash-neck top over my head. This is why I’m single, I reminded myself as I unhooked my black bra and slung it onto the laundry pile.
The real reason. Not the reason I trotted out when other women were talking about all the good men being taken, married, gay or complete bastards. The reason I was single and celibate, the reason I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go out with Greg, the reason I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go out with anyone was because I was insane at the start of relationships.
While other women got excited, giggly and full of hope for the future, I became a floor-pacing psychopath who’s one step away from trying to get into my man’s brain with a hacksaw. I lost all sense of reality when a man entered my life. I was literally stood at the precipice of an abyss of madness, a hair’s breadth from pitching forwards into it.
During the first few weeks with a new man I started to obsess about every little thing connected with him. I’d be on the verge of calling him every tw
o minutes ‘just to say hi’; if he was a stockbroker, say, I’d start reading the financial newspapers even though I rarely read my bank statements. I would even try to find out all I could about him on the Internet.
It didn’t end there. Oh, no, no, no. If he lived in Lady Wood, which is on the other side of Leeds to where I live, I’d get an A–Z out, work out the quickest routes, see which other streets were around him, check out house prices; I’d see signs that we were fated to be together in every little thing – ‘Wow, the time on my bus ticket says 18:00 and I met him on the 1st August 2000, so we’re destined to be together for ever.’ That was on top of the time I spent wondering where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking . . . I’d know I was doing it, would tell myself off for doing it, would remind myself women had died to get us the vote and I was being this pathetic, but couldn’t find a way to stop myself.
I’d sometimes almost be physically sick because I was so unsure of where I stood. Wondering if I’d been traded in for someone else. It wasn’t the being traded in, it was the not knowing if I’d been traded in. Not knowing that while I went happily about my daily business, he was lying beside some other woman and making plans for their future together. Twisted as it sounded, I’d rather know if someone was being unfaithful. Probably my biggest fear was being duped, someone getting me to trust them and then betraying me.
I’d survived one affair and, even though I was older and wiser now, I didn’t want those emotions back.
I felt like that normally.
When it’d been three full days without so much as a text from Greg, I was on the verge of throwing up every three minutes. Especially after that call from Mad Mimi. Did you truly expect anything better from him? I asked myself. Did you honestly expect texts and calls and emails reiterating how much he wanted to be with you?
It niggled me to realise that yes, I did. I thought I was different. He’d seemed so genuine on Tuesday. Convincing . . .Spoken like every other woman who’s watched some conman head off into the sunset with her life savings, best friend and dignity.
The Chocolate Run Page 8