she wept. ‘It was so awful!’
‘Well, yes it was,’ I said. ‘It was terrible.’
She was sobbing on to my shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he could do that.’
‘I know.’
‘It was such a shock.’
‘You’re telling me!’
‘Such a dreadful thing to do.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Dreadful.’
‘Woof!’
Oh God, she’d brought Pedro, I realised. Her parrot. And then I thought, why has she brought Pedro? And why is she here at ten p.m. with Pedro and a weekend bag?
‘Amber, what’s going on?’
‘It’s …it’s – Charlie,’ she sobbed.
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing’s happened to him,’ she howled. ‘It’s what’s happened to me. Oh, Minty, Minty – I’ve been dumped!’
There’s nothing like someone else’s misery to make you forget your own. I don’t really like to admit this, but Amber’s anguish instantly cheered me up. Even though I’m terribly fond of her, and have known her all my life. She staggered inside with her stuff, and sat sobbing in the kitchen. Pedro was squawking in the sitting room – I’d decided to install him in there because he’s an incredibly noisy bird and our nerves were on edge.
Great fat tears coursed down Amber’s cheeks as she told me what had occurred. It was all because of me, apparently. Or rather, it was because of what had happened to me in church. I suppose you might call it the Domino Effect – or perhaps the Dominic Effect.
‘When Charlie heard Dom say those things to you, about not being able to make those promises, it really affected him,’ she explained between teary gasps. ‘He said he knew then that he could never make those promises to me.’
‘But you’ve always seemed so happy.’
‘Well I thought so too,’ she wept, throwing up her hands in a pietà of grief. ‘I mean, I was happy.’
‘I know.’
‘But Charlie was so shocked by what Dom did to you that the next day he blurted out that we’d have to break up too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Because he said he knew he could never do such an awful thing to me. So he said it had to come to an end, now, before it went too far, because …because …He says we just don’t have a future.’ Her large green eyes brimmed with tears, then overflowed again.
‘Why does he say that?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Because of the children,’ she howled.
‘What children?’
‘The children I don’t want!’
Ah. That. The baby issue. It’s the big issue for Amber. Or rather, there isn’t going to be any issue, because Amber has never wanted kids.
‘But he knew how you felt about having children, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, pressing a tear-sodden tissue to her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s always known, but he was hoping I’d change my mind. But I’m not going to. And he should respect that, because it’s my choice. But he can’t see that,’ she wailed. ‘Because he’s so selfish! He says he wants to have a family. Bastard!’
‘Er, that is quite an important …’ I said tentatively. ‘I mean, I always assumed he knew your views and didn’t mind.’
‘Well, he does mind. He’s always minded; and we’ve been together two years. And he said if I still don’t want kids, then we’ve got to break up, because he’d like to find someone who does.’
‘Hmmm, I don’t entirely …’
‘And so we had a huge row about it,’ she went on. ‘And I pointed out that I’m not a bloody breeding machine and he should want me for myself!’
‘I see …’
‘But he won’t accept that.’
‘Ah …’
‘So I told him that in that case he’d have to move out,’ she went on. ‘And he said, “But it’s my flat.”’
‘Oh yes. So it is.’
‘So I came straight round here, Minty. Because I need somewhere to stay. Is that OK? Just for a bit.’
‘Er …of course.’
‘Thanks, Mint.’ Her tears subsided. ‘Gosh, it looks clean in here.’
I always thought Amber should have bought her own place. She should have done it years ago. It’s not as though she didn’t have the cash. She did. We both did. Granny was loaded, you see. Her books had made her rich. And when she died, we were each left eighty grand. Robert used his to emigrate to Australia; I put mine towards this flat. But Amber invested hers very cleverly so that she could live off the interest, leaving herself free to give up the day-job and write. She’s a novelist too, like Granny. She bangs one out every year. And although she’s only thirty-three, she’s already written eight. But where Granny wrote good romantic fiction, Amber’s are harder to define. For example, her latest book, A Public Convenience, is a sort of political mystery. It was published six weeks ago, but I don’t think it’s done very well. She’s already halfway through her ninth novel, which will be published next June. Apparently this one’s an ‘unusual’ love story, set in an abattoir. Anyway, Amber had always rented before she moved in with Charlie, and that’s why she needed somewhere now.
I have the space – my flat’s quite big. And in any case, I’d never have refused. We’re first cousins but we feel more like sisters, probably because our mothers are twins. But to look at us you’d never guess that Amber and I were related. She has a shining helmet of honey-blonde hair and enormous, pale green eyes. She’s absolutely gorgeous, in a foxy sort of way, with high cheekbones that taper to a pointed chin. She’s slim, like me, though taller. Much taller. In fact, she’s six foot one. But she likes her height. She’s proud of it. No slouching or stooping there. She’s rather uninhibited. And she’s very clever. Well, in some ways she is. She’s also extremely well read. You can tell that from the way she talks. It’s Thackeray this, and Dr Johnson that and William Hazlitt the other, and, ‘As Balzac used to say …’ She reviews books too, occasionally. It doesn’t pay much, but it keeps her ‘in’ with the publishing crowd. Or what Dominic liked to call ‘Lit-Biz’.
Anyway, I gave her the spare room, which isn’t huge, but it’s fine as a temporary measure, and she installed her things in there. And of course she had to bring Pedro – I understood that. They’re inseparable. And although he’s rather annoying, I’m fond
