The Chocolate Run (42 page)

I wasn’t even flinging myself into work because the month after the Festival was our quietest period. We had time to sleep, regroup, rethink. Gather ourselves together to prepare for next year. Renée, even though she was officially off work, still came in every day and would continue waddling in from Roundhay until she gave birth. Her husband worked from home and if she stayed there, she said, she’d kill him. Martha, who had decided to stay blonde – because, it had to be said, it did suit her – had secured her marriage proposal and was getting hitched in the spring so she spent a lot of time with wedding magazines or on wedding websites.

‘It’s like waiting for war to break out,’ Martha said three weeks or so after my separation from Greg and Jen.

‘I’m so glad you said it first,’ Renée said. ‘It’s exactly like that. I tell you, it’s not good for my baby, all this waiting.’

I continued to flick through a film book, searching for a write-up about a film for the Festival newsletter. I hardly paid attention to them any more. When they started rowing, I went to make tea. And stayed in the kitchenette making tea until they finished. I didn’t play referee; didn’t try to pour oil on their troubled waters. Part of me was embarrassed they’d seen what happened. Part of me didn’t want to get involved again. Despite what Eric said, I had settled, had gotten involved in things I couldn’t walk out on in thirty seconds flat, and I’d learnt my lesson.

‘Amber,’ Martha said.

I glanced up. The pair of them were staring at me.

‘We’re talking about you,’ Renée finished.

‘Why, what have I done?’ I asked.

‘We’re both on edge, waiting for you to break down,’ Renée explained.

‘It’s only natural,’ Martha added. ‘We won’t think any less of you.’

I gave them a ‘hard-luck’ smile. ‘I don’t do breaking down. It was no big deal. It’s over and I’ve dealt with it. You know, moved on.’

Both of them stared at me, not a look of belief between them.

I reached into my drawer, pulled out a white envelope. ‘I was going to wait ’til you got back from maternity leave,’ I said, ‘but now seems as good a time as any.’

Colour drained first from Renée’s face, then from Martha’s. Synchronised paling, impressive.

‘I’m . . .’ I glanced away, I couldn’t bear those expressions; that’s why I’d stuck here for so long. Why I’d put down roots. ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got a job, Associate Director of the Brighton and Hove Film Festival. I’ll leave a month after you get back from maternity leave. I could leave earlier, but I wouldn’t do that to you two.’

‘You’re going nowhere,’ Martha said.

‘Thank you, Martha, you took the words right out of my mouth.’

‘I’ve been here twelve years, I think it’s time . . .’

‘Amber, you’re going nowhere,’ Renée said. ‘Do you think we’ve spent years grooming you to be Festival Director to have someone else benefit from it? We’re not losing you to another festival.’

‘And, and, and,’ Martha said in a panic, ‘and you can’t.’

‘If you were going to be a film director or something, I would understand. But another FESTIVAL? No. I won’t allow it.’

‘And, and, and,’ Martha added, ‘you can’t leave me with her. It’s not fair. You stop me and her rowing. And she has a go at you instead of me.’

‘You’re going to be godmother to my child.’

‘You’re going to be one of my bridesmaids, I haven’t told you both that yet. But you’re both going to be bridesmaids,’ Martha added.

‘I’ve accepted the job now,’ I said.

Both Martha and Renée got up, came round to me. ‘You’re the constant in our lives,’ Martha said. ‘Our office doesn’t work without you.’ (Typical film person bastardising a film line for their own ends. And a Tom Cruise film at that.)

‘But we’re not in an office,’ Renée said. ‘We’re like a family. You complete us.’ (Now Renée was at it. If either of them uttered another convoluted line from
Jerry Maguire
I’d lose it.)

‘Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I need to leave,’ I said. ‘Maybe I need to do a job, not be in another family.’

‘Don’t make us suffer because of Greg,’ Martha pleaded.

‘It’s got nothing to do with him,’ I said. I wasn’t just saying that, it really had got nothing to do with him. And, all right, it had everything to do with him. And Jen. And me. And Martha. And Renée. And needing to start over. I had to get away. From everything that led to this. If I started again, maybe I could wipe the slate clean. Forget everything.

‘Cry, cut your hair, spend a lot of money, screw that director who’s always calling you, but don’t
leave
,’ Renée said, as though ‘leave’ was a euphemism for ‘slit your wrists’.

‘You’re going to Cannes next year,’ Martha said. ‘Because if you don’t, that bitch will make me go. And I ain’t going. In fact, if you leave, I’m leaving. I ain’t dealing with her alone. No way. No bloody way. Life’s too short.’

‘I’m not coming back after my maternity leave if you go. I’m not dealing with Martha. Remember that week you had off ? It was hell. She was such a cow. Wouldn’t answer the phone. Wouldn’t go out on chocolate runs. I’ll have a new baby. I was only going to come back as Associate Festival Director anyway. Work part-time. You were going to keep the title of Festival Director. But you know what? If you go, I am not coming back.’

‘You two are the worst people in the world to work with,’ I whispered, staring furiously at my desk top. I wasn’t meant to do this. Not here. Not now.

‘Us?’ they replied.

‘You’re always rowing. And you never take responsibility. And you don’t answer the phone.’ A little sob escaped from my mouth.

‘We know.’

‘If I’m going to stay, there’ll have to be changes.’

‘Anything.’

‘You have to make tea,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘And you have to stop leaving me to calm the film-makers down.’

‘OK.’

‘And no more rowing.’

Silence.

‘Sorry, Amber, not going to happen,’ Martha said.

‘There is a limit to what we’ll do to keep you,’ Renée said.

I collapsed onto my desk and started sobbing for real. I put my hands around my head, making a small private circle. My body heaved with sobs I didn’t know were in me.

It really wasn’t Greg. It was everything. It was Mum saying I couldn’t have anything long-term with Greg. It was Eric saying I was always running. It was not getting my nightly story. It was not talking to Jen. It was the Festival ending with me finding out Greg had slept with Jen – when I thought he’d liked my type to be the heroine, he’d obviously wanted the Gwyneth Paltrow, always-going-to-be-the-star type. It was spending the day of my thirty-first birthday alone because I chose to. It was being tempted to speak to Jen when she rang and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ into my answerphone. It was returning the flowers she’d sent me. It was Martha and Renée probably being the worst workmates in the world but being great because I couldn’t leave them. It was realising I’d spent three years pretending to like Matt when I’d always hated him, but I’d seen him sometimes three times a week and got on with him just to make Jen’s life easier. It was knowing that Eric was right, I was path-of-least-resistance woman because it was easier than saying how I felt. It was finding out that Sainsbury’s didn’t do aubergine dip any more. It was
every
thing. And it was
no
thing.

Martha and Renée went into crisis mode while I cried. When there’d been tears before it’d been me running for tissues and tea and kind words. I wasn’t sure they knew how to do it, but they did a great job. One produced tissues, one produced tea. Both found kind words.

‘We love you, Amber. If you really, really want to leave, we’ll cope. We’ll love you forever. I’d love a visit to Brighton.’ This was Martha.

‘Before you go, I’ll organise the christening. It’ll be a big party, you and Martha will have to buy new frocks. And hats. A lot of my film friends will come. But we can combine the christening with your leaving do. Make it bigger than the Festival.’ This was Renée.

‘What are you talking about?’ I said through my sobs. ‘You know I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Fantastic,’ Martha said. ‘I hate the South.’

‘I’m so glad you’re staying,’ Renée said. ‘Because now, I’m going to ring up that bastard and give him a piece of my mind. Trying to steal my staff indeed.’

‘Here you go, love,’ Martha said. She dropped something clattery on my desk. ‘I’ve been keeping these in my drawer just in case. I know they’re your favourites.’

I lifted my head to look at it. A packet of Maltesers.

My stomach turned. I scraped back my chair and legged it to the loo to throw up.

‘what’s all the fuss about chocolate? give me a packet of crisps any day’

chapter thirty-seven

wedding nerves

The invite stares at me.

I stare at the invite.

I’ve been sat here on my sofa, staring at it, turning it over and over in my hands since it was delivered.

‘What is it?’ I’d asked the courier who’d brought it to my door two hours ago.

‘A wedding invite,’ he replied as I put my moniker to his sheet. ‘I only know because it’s been in the office a few weeks but we were given specific instructions not to deliver it until tonight, love.’

I’d given him a smile, took the envelope, headed straight for the kitchen. I’d then ransacked the place looking for chocolate.

Since . . . since all that happened months ago, I’d stopped eating it. Stopped going out to sniff it. Stopped buying it. To eat chocolate was to be reminded I couldn’t read people. That I knew nobody. Not even myself. The closest thing I’d found to the real thing in my kitchen was cocoa powder right at the back of a cupboard. I’d snatched it from the shelf and shovelled heaped teaspoons of it into my mouth. It’d instantly absorbed the very little saliva in my mouth and set like cement, but I couldn’t stop. I carried on until it hit the spot.

Until I was calm enough to sit on the sofa and stare at the invite.

A lot has changed since . . . since. That’s what it’s become in my mind: since . . . since. A lot has changed in three months. Renée gave birth to a girl and called her Johanne Jayne. We hadn’t had the christening yet, but she was gearing up for it. There were so many film people down to come a celeb magazine had asked to cover it. Luckily, I got the phone out of Renée’s hand before she replied. (It was her home phone as well – things haven’t changed that much.)

Martha found her wedding dress, and mine and Renée’s bridesmaids’ dresses – she was serious about us being bridesmaids. She let me know last week that she was planning on conceiving on her honeymoon (heaven help Tony’s sperm if it didn’t comply).

And I finished my screenplay. I had so much time. Evenings stretched into nothingness. Sometimes I’d come home and lie on the sofa, stare at the Bahamas-shaped water stain on my ceiling and simply think. Hours would pass and feel like minutes. Minutes would pass and feel like hours. Everything was out of proportion. So I’d started to use that time, those hours and hours that stretched into infinity, constructively. When it was finally finished, I’d given it to Mr Chocolate Sniffer to read. (There was an immense attraction between Mr CS and me. The more we saw of each other, the more obvious it was. And well . . . well, I was different.) He and I spent a lot of time working on it. We spent a lot of time rowing over it. He was brutally honest and I was different. I stood up to him. It didn’t take much for me to passionately disagree with him. I felt deeply about my screenplay, it was my baby and nobody would insult it. Nobody would tell me this bit didn’t sound right, this bit wouldn’t look right. That bled into other areas of my life, too. I was different. If I still ate chocolate, if I still thought in chocolate, I’d say that I was the kind of chocolate they’d never sell because I was now such an eclectic mix.

All the things I kept right down at the bottom of my soul, the nuts, the raisins, the honeycomb, had come rising to the surface. Hard bits – I got pissed off and said so and didn’t apologise and didn’t fret about it. Being the boss now meant I had to be hard sometimes and not worry about it. I had sweet bits, the raisins that made me giggly and girly. I had ultra-sweet bits, the honeycomb that made me cry at the end of the most ridiculous made-for-TV movies (all someone had to do was say, ‘I love you’ and I’d be in bits because I knew they’d be about to kick the bucket). I had caramel bits that made people want to stick to me – I noticed now that people approached me with the same respect that they went to Renée with. Yep, I was different.

Greg was true to his word and didn’t call. Didn’t email. Didn’t text. Didn’t visit. Didn’t write, either. Technology was good like that, it helped remind you how much someone was blanking you.

Jen called, emailed, wrote. But I screened calls. If I answered the phone at work and it was her, I’d say I’d call her back and not bother. There was no going back with me and Jen.

Matt. I didn’t know about Matt. I didn’t care, either.

I stare at the invite. A cream envelope, thick paper. Expensive.

Maybe I should rip it in half, chuck it out unread. I can’t go to Matt and Jen’s wedding if I don’t get the invite. Or, maybe it’s Greg. I read a piece in the
Sunday Chronicle
the other month that he’d gone to Dublin. Dublin, where his ex, the infamous Kristy, lived. He’d apparently looked up old friends while he was there. Whether he meant it literally or not, I wasn’t sure. How would I deal with that? How would I deal with Greg getting married? It didn’t hurt like it used to any more. It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind in the morning, or the last thing I thought about at night. I thought about it now and again. Only four or five times a day.

I slide my fingers under the flap of the envelope, tear it open. I pull the cream card out.
OK, deep breath. Look at it
.

My heart stops. Physically stops. In that moment I’m struggling for breath, willing my heart to beat again, feeling all life drain from me. I’m actually having a heart attack. I clutch at my chest, trying to force air into my lungs.

In my hands I hold:

Eden Salpone
and
Leonard Hampton
Request the pleasure of your company at their wedding