The Chocolate Run (36 page)

‘I meant to,’ I explained. ‘I really meant to, but, um, remember in college I went out with your fella Connor’s best mate and I dumped him after a few weeks because he was
so boring
?’

She gave a curt nod, her dusky pink lipstick making her lips a flat line as she pressed them together.

‘Remember how much trouble it caused between you and Connor and how you kept trying to get me to give his friend another chance? And it caused so much trouble between us. We almost fell out over it. I didn’t want that to happen to us again. To be honest, I didn’t think it’d go so well with Greg. I thought it’d be over in a few weeks so nobody need know.’

‘But you’re going to live with him, it must’ve been going well,’ she hissed.

‘We were going to tell you tonight, but they made that announcement and I got tied up talking to people and . . . I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Never. Not Sean, not anyone. He’s my soul mate. Not that I ever believed in such things before. But he is. I . . . I . . . Oh, please be happy for me, Jen.
Please
.’ I was begging her. Begging her because I wanted all this to stop. I wanted my Jen back. Not the one who called me fat or bought me half-pints. The one I’d spent the last twelve years with. The one I called my best friend.

Jen’s face softened into a huge smile as she put her spindly arms around me. ‘Course I’m happy for you, sweetie. I’m very happy for you.’

As I hugged her, I felt every bone in her. Shame washed over me – I’d let this happen. I’d let Jen slip into this by not being a proper friend, by being so caught up in being with Greg. While I was falling in love, becoming more confident, Jen was becoming a shadow of her former self.
Well
, I decided, holding her closer,
I have to get the real Jen back. And that starts with getting her weight up.

I hit the loos at a run. A feminine run that was more a swift walk because of the confines of my dress and because I was trying to cross my legs as I walked.

I was aware that I was probably doing a wiggly-bum walk as I crossed the dance floor, keeping close to the fat pillars that ringed the dance space until I reached the heavy oak doors. I stepped out onto the thick, springy carpet of the corridor, then wiggly-bum walked into the marble-floored loos. The air was heavy with pot pourri and expensive perfume. A loo attendant sat on a gold chair with a red velvet cushion. It was so posh in there it was technically a powder room; had I not been busting to go, I would’ve wondered if it was too posh to piss in.

I emerged from the loos altogether more composed. A couple of people stopped me to congratulate me on how great the Festival had been and on my promotion. I grinned back at them as I said thank you. I was important now. Admittedly I hadn’t exactly liked the limelight earlier when I had to stand on the stage, but I was behind-the-scenes important. I was a behind-the-scenes star.

Now that Jen and Matt knew, my night was complete. Greg and I could hold hands, or, as we’d been doing, he could slip his arms around my waist, and kiss my neck, lean down to whisper ‘I love you’ into my ear as we talked to the other two . . . Yup, we were a disgusting couple. That had to stop. But not tonight. Tonight was the night we’d finally come out, so we were allowed to be disgusting. Matt had been unbelievably overjoyed about Greg and me getting together. He kept thinking back over the past few months and then saying things like ‘So, when you were going on about the best sex ever, that was Amber?’ and Greg would nod, very smugly.

I returned to the ballroom, heading back through the smoke and almost-visible pheromones as bodies writhed to ‘Careless Whisper’, heading towards what had become our pillar. I stayed close to the pillars that ringed the dance floor so I wouldn’t be caught up in the mass of people who’d got lucky and intimate. Once upon a time I would’ve vilified these people, but now I could understand. I was that yucky couple. I was one of those people who wanted to snog and grind to George Michael with someone I found—

‘Amber was the one you were talking about that day at my flat?’ Jen was saying, above the music.

‘Yup,’ Greg replied.

‘So you like her?’ Jen asked.

‘We’re moving in together, what do you think?’

‘
I
think you fucked me and you’ve moved on to my friend because I told you it was a mistake.’

The earth lurched on its axis, taking me with it. ‘
I think you fucked me
.’

I stood stock still but I heard it again: ‘
I think you fucked me
.’

And again. ‘
I think you fucked me
.’ Those words popped in my ears, under my skin, exploding like fireworks in my blood.

‘
I think you fucked me
.’ It started to kick in my chest. Kick in my stomach. Kick in my guts.

‘No, Jenna,
I
told
you
it was a mistake. And we agreed never to bring it up again.’

Acid-like, champagne gushed up my throat and hit the back of my mouth.

I sensed movement to my side. My eyes swivelled towards it. Matt. He was stood near me. Matt. So smart in his black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie. He was holding four champagne glasses. And then he wasn’t. They slipped from his fingers, twisting and falling as they headed in slow motion for the floor. They exploded, showering both our feet in champagne.

The music stopped for a fraction of a second, a fraction of silence that magnified the smashing of champagne flutes. Greg and Jen turned to the source of the sound, as did half the room, I’d imagine.

Greg and Jen. The image of them naked, covered in sweat, moving together bolted across my mind. Him moving inside her. Whispering her name, telling her he loved her.

Greg and Jen.

Jen and Greg.

I clamped my hand over my mouth to prevent champagne spewing out, spun on my fancy heels. Had to get out of there. I wanted to run. Wanted to sprint out of there but the dress bound my legs together and I could only do that stupid wiggly-bottomed walk.

I heard him calling my name. Above the music, I heard him. Heard him like he was far away and I was slightly deaf. Or should that be dumb?

I hitched up the dress to my knees. I could move faster. My legs propelling me out of the ballroom, into the corridor and towards the lift as the doors were sliding together. I threw myself through the gap and the doors clunked open again.

Greg wrenched open one of the heavy oak doors from the ballroom, came running towards the lifts. The doors had begun to slide shut but not quick enough – at the speed he was running, he’d make it. He’d make it, jump into the lift, start talking to me, start trying to explain. Trying to explain the inexplicable.

Close!
I willed the lift doors.
Close! Close!

Greg reached the lifts with only a sliver of a gap between the lift doors. It was enough, though. Enough to see the look on his face. Imploring. Pleading.

Stop
, his look said.
Stop and let me explain
.

chapter thirty

secrets and lies

I couldn’t get my keycard into the door slot.

I held it in my gloved hands, but they were shaking and it kept slipping. Wouldn’t fit into the rectangle and let me in.
Calm, calm
. I took a deep breath. Then another. Stilled my hand and tried again. CLICK, it went as it slid into place.

I turned the door handle and rushed in.

Should I change my shoes or throw up first?

This was a big decision. Should I change my shoes or try to purge that choking ball of bile that was lodged between my throat and chest?

I had to get rid of the bile. But my shoes. My shoes. I looked down at the black heels. They weren’t the sort of thing I wore. I was a trainers girl. I hated these shoes. Hideous. Stupid. Pointless. I kicked the right one off. It flew in a high arc and disappeared under the bed. Then I kicked off the left one. It too arced through the air but landed by the bathroom door.
Stupid things. Don’t you know you’re only meant to be worn by the star of the show? Not people like me
.

I hitched up my dress, got on my knees, grabbed my trainers from under the bed. They were battered, dirty, old. But mine. I loved them. Nobody could take them away from me. Wear them first. Use them first. I sat on the bed and pulled them on, laced them up. That’s better. That’s me.

Now, pack! Get the hell out of here!
my brain screamed to me like it was watching me in a horror movie, sat on the edge of its seat screaming, ‘Run, you stupid bint. Run in the opposite direction!’ as the rest of me went to investigate a loud howling noise on the roof with only a fake Manolo Blahnik sandal thing for protection. With only my trainers for protection.
Pack, then get the hell out of Dodge!

I sat on the edge of the huge bed, staring at the door. Unable to move, just waiting. Waiting for the monster to show up.

The door burst open and the monster appeared in the doorway.

I stared at the monster. The monster stared at me.

Who the hell are you?
I thought. He wasn’t my hero.

He couldn’t be. Heroes didn’t do this kind of thing. Heroes didn’t leave blatant clues as to why they were the villain of the piece. Every time I thought about it, more clues came up. Hints and clues that told me about this:

They was all there – all those clues – and I’d missed every last one of them. After a lifetime’s worth of Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie and other murder mysteries, after all those years of me sat there going, ‘It was him’, ‘It was her’ (I’d even guessed it was the wife halfway through
Presumed Innocent
), I’d missed every clue. I knew nothing about nothing.

Sure, Greg was fond of me now. He liked me, he’d probably even talked himself into thinking he could love me. He’d always treat with kindness and affection the woman who rescued him but he
wanted
Jen. She was the star of his life. I was the understudy. Not even the co-star; I was the understudy, the one he’d called upon when the star wasn’t available. I loved him. He wanted Jen.

‘I thought you’d be gone, but I’m glad you’re not,’ the monster said.

I didn’t say anything, just stared at him.

‘What did you hear?’ he asked, his suit-covered chest heaving from, I presume, running up here.

BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! at the door made me jump. I looked to the door, but Greg ignored it, carried on talking.

‘What did you hear?’ he asked again.

The braying continued, getting louder, more insistent. They’d be hammering through the door soon. Not even Greg could talk over the noise, so he spun on his heels, marched to it, turned the handle. Again, the door burst open, and suddenly the room was filled with raised voices, all shouting to be heard over the other. There was pushing and shoving, too. Matt, pushing and shoving Greg. But he wasn’t pushing as much as he was shouting, possibly because Greg could kick his butt with both hands tied behind his back, standing on one leg, with a bad cold – indignant and angry Matt may be, but he wasn’t that stupid.

Slowly, I could make out what they were saying. Matt was calling Greg every bastard under the sun and, as it turned out, there were a lot of them. Greg was saying sorry and calm down at the same time, Jen was screaming that they should both stop it.

I sat on the bed, feeling removed from the whole thing, as though I was watching this on a screen. Watching a lot of films will do that.

Greg took several steps back into the middle of the room, and, ‘Let’s all calm down,’ he said. His voice was so calm and commanding that it had the most amazing effect: Matt instantly stopped looking like he was going to batter Greg and stalked off to the other side of the room and threw himself into one of the armchairs. Jen went to the window and jumped up to sit on the wide window sill. Greg stood his ground, arms folded across his chest. He was staring at me. I was staring into the mid-distance. I was so stressed I was on the verge of telling a ‘knock, knock’ joke.

I never knew Greg could do that with his voice. But then, I never knew he could roger Jen, so there you go: he was a rich box of chocolates, new varieties of which I was discovering every day.

Matt sat glowering at Greg. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Then opened it again. He did the fish thing a few times, then eventually, ‘So, all the time you were trying to put me off Jen it was because you were knocking her off ?’ came out.

‘You were trying to put him off me?’ Jen said, aghast. ‘You
bastard
.’

‘I wasn’t knocking off Jen,’ Greg said, looking at me for some reason. ‘Amber, I promise you, I wasn’t. It only happened the once.’

Once is enough
, I meant to say, but my vocal cords were paralysed.

‘ONCE IS BLOODY ENOUGH!’ Matt screamed. ‘YOU ABSOLUTE WANKER!’

There’s no need for that kind of language
, I went to say, but again, nothing came out.
Besides, if he was an absolute wanker, we wouldn’t be having this drama, would we? It was because he was an absolute shagger that we were here
.

‘YOU’VE BEEN AFTER JEN ALL THIS TIME. YOU WANTED HER FOR YOURSELF SO YOU TRIED TO PUT ME OFF HER.’

Greg rounded on Matt. He was suddenly so angry his whole body trembled with unspoken rage. Rather than shouting, though, he controlled his words. ‘You know that’s not true.’ He glared at Matt. ‘You
know
what I meant.’

I was glad Matt knew. Glad that Greg knew. And glad that Jen probably knew too. Because I didn’t have a bloody clue what was going on. I was still back at the ‘
You fucked me and moved on to my friend
’ stage, if I was honest.