pulling on one of his T-shirts and awkwardly undoing my bra and wriggling out of it without showing any flesh. Instead of finding my usual sleep position: legs entwined with his, face buried in his chest, I stayed on my side. My feet were freezing.
And now, here I was, lying in bed awake at five in the morning, thinking too much, sniffing him and stalking his tattoo.
The events of last spring were still raw in my mind, nine months later. A fateful trip to Hawaii had changed the course of my life: I had finally realised Rob did have feelings for me; my then boss, Mona, completely lost the plot; and my best friend Vicky ended up shagging Trey Jones, the Trey Jones, the famous film director and man who we were meant to be watching get married. You couldn’t have made it up.
Vicky moved in with Trey in LA almost immediately, but it had taken Rob and me a whole four months after that to finally get together, when he tracked me down at work in London. I’ve been starring in my own rom-com ever since – Vicky providing the ‘com’, even from the other side of the globe.
Rob had said he needed to be out of the house extra early in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, but this morning I was happy to pretend to be still asleep while he tip-toed around the room, gathering his clothes before going off to shower. I stirred as he gently kissed my cheek goodbye but waited for the front door to slam before I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom.
I’d gone to sleep trying to convince myself that things are never so bad in the cold light of day, but why did I still have the same feeling of impending doom? I tried to tell myself that three months was nothing – it would be over in a flash. But when you’ve only been dating for five months, it feels like forever. As a waterfall of hot water cascaded onto my head, I was lurched out of my despondency by the even more horrific realisation that there was no shampoo or conditioner in this shower. And soon after that, I realised there was none anywhere in the bathroom, so I went to work with hair washed in Lynx Deep Space shower gel. The day could only get better.
I called Vicky as I walked to work from Oxford Circus tube. ‘He’s going to be filming underwear models.’ Saying it aloud made it sting even more.
‘Man, that’s tough,’ said Vicky, confirming what I already knew.
‘Underwear models!’ I exclaimed again, thinking that making them sound faintly ridiculous might make them less threatening.
‘I heard you. The Icons all have legs up to their armpits, washboard stomachs, perfect racks, peachy—’
‘Yes, yes, okay, I think I know what an underwear model looks like, Vicky. I feel crap as it is, no need to rub it in.’
She paused, before replying, measuredly, ‘What I was going to say was peachy bottoms – and air for brains. Amber, stop doing the paranoid girlfriend thing and rise above this. It’s you who Rob’s going out with, and that’s not going to change. Well, unless you start acting all insecure and paranoid about the underwear models and their peachy bottoms that he will be filming. Not dating or having sex with – just filming. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ She didn’t have to spell it out quite so bluntly. Although she had hit the nail on the head.
‘Anyway, when are you coming out to see me?’ She changed the subject. ‘Not being funny but it’s been nearly a year, and you still haven’t got on a plane. We’ve got tons of space. I’m even naming a suite after you – the Green Suite. Come on Am, book it! Bring Rob too if you want. I’m going nuts out here in this huge mansion. And I need some English humour, desperately. I also need digestive biscuits dunked in Earl Grey tea. But most of all, I need us!’
She was right. I needed ‘us’ too. I missed Vicky so much – her wry sense of humour and the hilarious escapades we’d got up to when we shared a home.
‘Anyway, how’s things with you?’ I asked
‘Not great, to be honest. Why do you think I’m still awake at two in the morning and not at a party? I’ll tell you, because I’m lying in bed – alone – trying to work out what I’m doing with my life.’
‘Oh, honey, sorry to hear this, and I’ve been banging on about me. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing really. And that’s half the problem. I’m so bored here, Amber. Trey’s out at the crack of dawn each day and back late, if he comes back at all. He’s working on a big feature film and although it’s filming in LA, I hardly see him. I know more about our pool cleaner’s life than my own boyfriend’s right now. I even made lunch for the hedge trimmer yesterday, I was so bored of cooking for myself. He was pretty hot, as it goes, I was starting to find his strimmer sexy. Honestly, if Trey hadn’t come back that evening… Amber, I don’t know what I’m doing out here.’
‘You found his strimmer sexy? That’s desperate. Have you told Trey how you’re feeling?’
‘If I had a chance I probably would, but, like I said, he’s barely here and I don’t want to do the whiney girlfriend on the phone thing. I never wanted to be that girlfriend, but I’m getting close to having no option. Be careful what you wish for, Amber, maybe there’s more spark living apart.’
‘But not living in separate continents. God, it’s never straightforward is it? What are we going to do?’
‘I wish we could go to the Chamberlayne and get drunk.’
‘Me too. I could murder a girlie drinking session with you.’
‘I miss you so much, honey. I keep thinking of my room in the flat. At this rate, I could be back before you know it.’
‘Listen, let’s keep each other posted, okay, and if it all goes wrong, of course you can just move back. We’ve still got the flat, your room is exactly as you left it, and we’ll just carry on like before. Our lives weren’t so bad, were they? Sainsbury’s must be suffering from a loss in revenue from hummus and Popchips since you’ve been away, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms too.’
Finally, she laughed. ‘You’re right. It will be fine. This film is meant to end in a couple of weeks and then Trey’s mentioned a holiday in Mexico, so I’m sure we’ll be back on track. And Rob does love you, Amber, I know it. He might not take the job anyway.’
‘I s’pose. Let me know if you speak to Trey. Love you, bestie.’
‘Love you more. Night night from here.’
I had our Kensal Rise flat pretty much to myself these days. Trey, being loaded, was paying Vicky’s half of the rent so they had a London bolt-hole, but they were yet to use it; the one time they popped back for a premiere, he checked them into a suite at the Soho Hotel. Even so, she was definitely still there, haunting the place. Some of her belongings were still strewn around her room and many of her pictures still hung on the walls: the black-and-white framed print of Brigitte Bardot in the living room, cigarette casually hanging from her lips, wind-swept hair, black scarf tied loosely around her neck, to remind us how to be cool, like Brigitte; the collection of Instagram photos from various holidays, printed out and carefully framed, to remind us of our best moments, if ever we needed reminding – usually on the Saturday nights when we were in our PJs, having a living room picnic in front of Ant and Dec. It was all so carefree, silly – and single.
And now here we were, coupled up in our late twenties. Much as I loved the days of being in a platonic relationship with Vicky, I was so happy about that fact I
