The Chocolate Run (41 page)

‘That night in the club, it was happening again. Greg had fallen for you. Once again, warm, friendly Amber gets the man. Well, I decided that night, no more. If Greg was going to be with either of us, it was going to be me. Not the warm one, not the curvy one, me. I went over and started flirting.’

‘Let me get this right, you didn’t sleep with him because you wanted him, but so I couldn’t have him? Are you mad?’

‘I didn’t sleep with him.’

I noticed she’d ignored the ‘are you mad?’ bit.

‘There was nothing remotely sleep-like about it. Five minutes, against the wall in my corridor. It was all so hasty we didn’t even have time for a condom.’

Jesus. Christ. JESUS CHRIST. I thought I’d heard the worst of it. I knew first-hand how fanatical Greg was about safe sex – even when he hadn’t seen me for almost a month he’d practically torn off my clothes but had waited to find a condom before penetration. But not with Jen. Not with fucking Jen. And. . .

‘
It was a mistake. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to dump me then he’s going to kill me
,’ Jen’s voice echoed in my head. ‘That was why you were so frightened about being pregnant,’ I managed. ‘You thought it was Greg’s child.’

Jen nodded.

Her dalliance with Greg had cost me £180. She hadn’t at any point offered me cash for the pregnancy tests or for me rebooking my train tickets. She didn’t say thank you for me putting her before my parents. Not that I needed or wanted a thank you. Just the truth. The truth. Was that too much to ask from my closest friend?

‘Afterwards, I knew he’d forget about trying anything with you. That day I told you that Greg had made a pass at me, well, Matt had said they’d got drunk together and Greg had confessed he thought you were sexy. So I told you about the pass. I knew you’d ask him about it and he’d be reminded how I could screw up his life if he came anywhere near you.’

I had to ask again. ‘Are you mad?’

‘
Amber
.’ Jen could raise her voice now most of the children had been picked up by their parents. ‘You get filthy looks from women because of your chest. Imagine getting them because of your face. You don’t know what it’s like to be beautiful. Women hate me, men don’t want me. I wanted, for once, to have what you had. I just wanted to have Greg look at me with all that affection.’

What Jen was saying was poignant, touching, heart-rending.
Cheeky bitch
.

Cheeky bitch who had crossed the mythical line in the sand; who had done something I couldn’t forgive. She was calling me ugly. ‘
You don’t know what it’s like to be beautiful
.’ I never realised that was the thing that couldn’t be taken back with me and Jen. It wasn’t being called ugly,
per se
– I’d much rather be called ugly than stupid – it was because of who was saying it.

When your best friend can’t even
pretend
you’re beautiful, why is she your best friend? What’s a best friend for if not to bolster your ego? Sure, she’s meant to tell you if that lipstick makes you look like a cheap whore instead of the high-class hooker style you were aiming for; or if you have broccoli in your teeth; or if that bloke’s playing you for a mug. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d slept with Greg because she genuinely felt something for him; I wouldn’t have liked it, but if she’d genuinely wanted him then I’d find a way to understand.

She didn’t feel the same about me. She’d called me fat, I’d let it slide. She’d set me up on blind dates, I’d let it slide. She’d lied to me. She’d manipulated me. She’d even tried it on with my beloved brother.

Now, she was saying I was ugly. And there was only so much you can let slide before you become buried under a mountain of bitchy comments and ill-treatment. Before you become a world class mug.

In my head I went through all the thoughts I had of Jen, like searching through a crowded wardrobe. Each positive thought I had I unhooked then flung down onto the floor of my mind, banishing her good name from my thought closet. There went ‘caring’. Next, ‘thoughtful’. ‘Encouraging’; ‘friendly’; ‘vivacious’; ‘understanding’; ‘exciting’ – all of them, piling up around my head, waiting to be removed.

I finished plundering my mental wardrobe, purging it of all things Jen, until I had nothing left of her. It’d all been put out for the bin men. Screw her. Screw her and her pretty life.

Jen finished her monologue of pain and confusion, of being a pretty blonde in an ugly world. ‘So, you see, there is no me and Greg.’

‘You really have no feelings for him?’ I asked.

‘Only friendship. I only want Matt. I know, I shouldn’t, but I love him. I wish I hadn’t done that to him.’

Never mind what she did to me. At no point had she said sorry to me. Or that she wished she hadn’t done that to me. Because she’d always known that she could do whatever she wanted to me and I’d be there. She knew that my terror at being abandoned would mean I’d put up with anything from her.

‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, if you give him time.’

Jen’s face lit up. ‘You think?’ she asked eagerly.

‘I’m sure he will. Look, you’d better go, your after-school classes will be starting soon. I’ll call you later.’

‘Yeah. Neither of us has got anyone else to be with right now. We might as well be together.’

‘I guess so.’

I took one last look at Jen. Her short blonde hair, her gaunt face, her wretchedly thin body. Then I walked away. It was over with Jenna Leigh Hartman. Our friendship had run its course. For us, this was the end.

chapter thirty-five

the end, part two

I wish I’d forced Greg to go home after the café.

I’d tried to take him home, but when the taxi driver pulled up outside his house he’d clung to my hand, his eyes desperate and scared, like a man clinging onto a branch as he dangled over a cliff edge, so in the end I’d taken him back to mine. Got him settled on the sofa before I started the epic journey across town to see Jen.

Jen. My heart trembled every time I thought about her. I’d actually stopped on the way to the bus stop to throw up. A couple of people gave me odd looks, schoolchildren leaving the school had gone ‘Euurggh’ and run away. (Pretty third-rate for kids – most of the ones I knew had a wider four-letter vocabulary than me.) But I couldn’t help it. The reality at the one thing I hadn’t wanted to happen, happening had made me physically sick. I’d had to rinse my mouth out with the bottle of water in my bag.

The TV was on as I pushed open my front door and the air was stained with something. I sniffed. Cleanliness. The air was stained with clean. I sniffed the air a couple more times. Lemon. Beeswax, too. Soap powder. Washing-up liquid. I glanced down, the red hallway carpet had been vacuumed. The picture frames on the corridor walls had been polished. I went into the living room, pristine too.

Sprawled on the sofa, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the TV was Gregory. He’d been sat in that exact same position when I left. Looking at him, I could almost believe that the cleaning fairies had visited my flat and whilst Greg watched telly they’d straightened up, done the dishes, vacuumed, polished surfaces, emptied bins, put a box of Greg’s stuff at his feet.

Internally, I shrank back; cowered in a quiet place inside when I saw that box.

It was a big red plastic box I’d used for moving. Big as it was, it was overflowing. His clothes, his books, CDs, shoes, videos, toothbrush, aftershave, vitamins, hair products. He really had been moving in with me on the sly. At least he wasn’t going to be moving out as sneakily. I shouldn’t really be surprised, should I? I’d already told him it was over, he’d acted like he knew. We were on the same page on that score. But I hadn’t considered that it being over meant he was out of my life.

‘Over’ = ‘going’.

I lowered myself onto the sofa.

‘How did it go?’ Greg asked. Couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the box.

‘I, erm, I don’t know,’ I said, pushing my hand into my hair.

‘Are you friends again?’

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat, I couldn’t speak it. It was over. Over between me and Jen. The longest non-familial relationship I’d ever had. Finished.

‘I don’t know,’ I managed again.

‘Oh,’ Greg replied.

I stared at the big red box with my boyfriend’s things in it. ‘Why  . . . I mean  . . . how come  . . . erm  . . . you cleaned,’ I struggled.

‘It was partly my mess. I also packed up my stuff. You know, in case . . .’ He purposely let the sentence peter out. He didn’t want to say it, but wanted to talk about it. Wanted to know where he stood.

Nowhere. He stood nowhere. I thought he’d worked that out, I thought that he’d realised I was telling him it was over, even though I wasn’t sure I was. Why else would he pack?

‘So. . .About us. . .’

‘I don’t know,’ I confessed.
I don’t know about anything any more
. If there was one, no, two things I’d learnt in the past few hours they were:

‘What does that mean?’

I rubbed my hand across my eyes. ‘It means, I don’t know.’

‘And I’m supposed to hang around until you do know?’ Greg’s voice was raised. Why was he shouting? Did he think it’d make me know faster?

‘You don’t know, so I’ve got to what? Wait? Wait until you do know? Is that it?’

I stared at the wall opposite. The wall was painted white and I tried to blank my mind like that.

‘I wait around until you decide otherwise? Listen, Amber, either we work this out now, or . . .’

I finally turned to him and he stopped talking. He took a deep breath as his eyes drilled into me. ‘If we split up now, then we split up for good. I mean it. No calls, no friendship, no meeting up, no thirty-something angst over getting back together. Nothing. Me and you, over.’

I could hardly look at him without wanting to retch. Dramatic, but the truth. He’d slept with Jen. That was awful news. Knowing that he’d orgasmed inside her . . . I wanted to retch. He’d done something so intimate with her and not me. Or any other woman apart from Kristy, because Greg was almost evangelical about safe sex. Except that one time when . . .

How could I be so bloody stupid?
The thought smacked me in the face.

The HIV test. It was because of Jen. That’s what he meant about his life being over. Because if he was positive that would’ve meant Jen would’ve been positive and Matt would’ve been positive and Matt’s wife would’ve been. And their construct of lies would’ve come tumbling down.
How could I be so bloody stupid? Around the same time two of my closest friends went through a sex-related crisis and I thought nothing of it. I didn’t at any point connect the dots. I couldn’t be more stupid if I became a brain donor
.

‘So?’ Greg demanded. ‘What’s it to be?’

I couldn’t look at him. I hated him being near me. I returned my gaze to the wall opposite.

‘Fine! Fucking fine!’

He picked up his box, tried to tuck it up under his arm, but couldn’t because there was too much stuff; instead, he pushed his arm under it, picked up a black bag that had been resting behind the box. ‘I DON’T KNOW WHY I EXPECTED ANYTHING ELSE FROM A CONTROLLING BITCH LIKE YOU. I DON’T KNOW WHY I EXPECTED SOMEONE WHO ALWAYS WANTS EVERYTHING TO BE ON HER TERMS OR NOT AT ALL TO CHANGE. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?’

He bent down, ‘IT’S FINE!’ he screamed in my face, so close I could feel spittle on my skin; the warmth of his breath; his divine scent of vanilla and spices.

I pulled my knees up to my chest as I listened to Greg trying to escape. Slamming things, dropping stuff, swearing blue murder. Swearing Amber murder. I wrapped my arms around my legs, rested my forehead on my knees. And, suddenly, the leaving noise and its soundtrack of swearing ended. My flat was still. Calm. Empty.

He wasn’t coming back. It was over.

I curled up on the sofa, put my arms around myself, safe and warm and small.

I’m going to go to sleep
, I decided.
And when I wake up everything’s going to be as it was. I won’t have slept with Greg. I’ll still love Jen. Everything will be as it was.

chapter thirty-six

starting over

You expect your life to change, of course you do.

But mine hadn’t. Not dramatically. Not like I expected. A month went by and I didn’t fall apart.

Greg had done a pretty thorough job of clearing out. There was no sign of him in my house. There were holes in my CD rack, on my bookshelf, in my wardrobe, on my bathroom surfaces – meaning every time I went to the bathroom, to the living room, to get dressed I was reminded anew how much he’d moved in with me. But, when he left, he totally left. Took everything with him. He’d cleaned the smell of him off every surface. Put the sheets in to wash, vacuumed. There were no love letters or photographs of us kissing because we weren’t that kind of couple.

Our letters were written on our skins when we had sex. Made love. Fucked. Whatever. Our photographs were mental, like the time he put on my bra and came wandering into the living room. The time I made him laugh when we were driving to Harrogate and his face had exploded into the biggest grin and he’d glanced sideways at me with such a look of affection I grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. The time he’d drawn a heart on top of a bacon sandwich in tomato ketchup and I told him off because the bread looked yucky and he’d said I was a stroppy bitch in the mornings, but I’d better bloody eat that sandwich. The time we had a picnic in my living room with beer and toasted chocolate sandwiches. The time I’d been out drinking and called him from the train station to say goodnight, and he’d driven to town to pick me up. There were loads of times. Loads of mental photographs.

Jen. Jen was different. I didn’t think about her. At all. Our daily phone calls had stopped months ago anyway. Our weekly meets had been cancelled. I had a wealth of memories with Jen, photographic and mental, but I didn’t access them. Didn’t think about Jen.

I was starting over, not breaking down. I hadn’t even cried. I was doing OK. Because it was OK. Honest.