‘Oh, it’ll stop,’ says Bel.
‘It was only twenty p,’ says Jade. ‘How could he notice twenty p?’
‘Grown-ups,’ says Bel authoritatively, ‘notice everything.’
Well, if it’s me they do, she thinks. If it’s Miranda they don’t notice a thing. Or if they do, they find a way to blame it on me anyway.
She gets to her feet and hobbles over to the wall. ‘What’s your dad going to do?’ she enquires.
Jade shrugs. ‘God knows. But I’d better keep out of his way for a bit.’
‘He’s not going to hit you, is he?’
Jade acts scandalised, the way she’s been trained. ‘Of course not! Who do you think we are?’
Yes, thinks Bel. Best not to talk about it. Not till I know her better.
‘I’m going to get a bollocking,’ says Jade. ‘Best not go back for a while. Maybe I can put the money back and he’ll think he made a mistake.’
‘Yeah,’ says Bel. ‘Good plan.’
Jade sighs. ‘Bloody Kit Kat’s not going to get me through to teatime though,’ she says.
‘That’s OK,’ says Bel. ‘You can come back to mine.’
Jade raises her eyebrows, unused to invitations. She’s certainly never issued one herself, even if she had anyone to ask. ‘Won’t your mum and dad mind?’
‘Stepfather. They’re on holiday,’ says Bel with affected insouciance. ‘In Malaysia.’
‘What, and they didn’t take you?’
‘No. They’ve taken Miranda. But I was naughty so they left me behind.’
‘So they’ve left you all by yourself?’
Bel waggles her head. ‘Don’t be stupid. Romina’s there. But she does what I tell her.’
Chapter Twenty-one
It’s dark inside the café. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust and make out Amber, sitting on a sofa in a corner at the back, her features half hidden behind a pair of gigantic sunglasses, despite the gloom. She’s not sure what she should do next, now that she’s finally spotted her. What do you do in a situation like this? Smile and wave?
As she approaches and the other woman’s features fall into focus, she see that Amber’s face is solemn, slightly defiant, slightly frightened. She vacillates between staring hard at Kirsty and looking anywhere but at her as Kirsty winds towards her. She feels the way I feel, thinks Kirsty. She doesn’t know what to do or why she’s here, any more than I do.
She arrives, standing awkwardly in front of Amber, who stays in her cushioned seat as though she’s been nailed there.
‘Hi,’ she says. What now? Do they shake hands? Kiss?
They do neither. She puts her bag on the Bali Teak coffee table and slides into the vacant end of Amber’s sofa. It’s a Chesterfield: old leather, the worn spots covered by a length of woven ikat. A five-dish candelabrum, stalactites of melted wax depending gracefully from elaborate ironwork arms, sits unlit on the table before them.
They stare at each other. Kirsty is struck, again, by how old Amber looks, how strained. She sits and fiddles with the cigarette packet Kirsty scrawled her number on, turning it over and over between her fingers and drinking her in expressionlessly. I wish she’d take those damn glasses off, thinks Kirsty.
‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ she says. ‘Do you want anything?’
Amber jerks her chin towards the counter. ‘I’ve got a tea coming,’ she says.
Kirsty subsides. ‘OK.’
They look away from each other to cover the silence. Kirsty takes in her surroundings. It’s the sort of boho bar she thought she’d left behind when she left London, a place that would be right at home in Brighton: stripped brickwork, painted floorboards, velvet drapes, sunburst clocks, Moroccan mirrors, gold-painted wall sconces. There are twenty tables altogether, each surrounded by a collection of second-hand sofas and antique bucket chairs, mugs and cups and plates and glasses mismatched beautifully in junk-shop chic, a buzz of laid-back relaxation she’s not found in this town, where pursuing the next thrill is the order of the day. The artists have started colonising Whitmouth. I guess Whitstable’s got too expensive. Give it a few years and a couple of gay bars, and this town will be following the rest of the coast up in the world.
Over by the steamed-up window, she sees the stringer from the Mirror, coffee and a roasted-pepper-and-mozzarella ciabatta by his elbow, typing frantically into his laptop. Her own deadline is seven o’clock and she has no idea how she’s going to meet it. She barely remembers a word from the press conference. He doesn’t see her, and she hopes it carries on that way.
Amber studies her silently, her mouth downturned. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ she says.
Kirsty turns back to look at her. ‘No. It’s stupid. We’re stupid.’
‘If they ever found out…’
Kirsty knows what she’s saying. They’re violating their licence, deliberately and clearly. If someone saw them now, it would be the end, for both of them. They’ve stepped over the line and there’s no way they could claim coincidence. ‘It’s once, Amber,’ she says. ‘Just once. And after this we’re done. They won’t find out. It’s not like we’re tagged or anything.’
‘How often do you have to report in now?’ asks Amber.
‘Once a month. Or if I change address, which I never do. If I go on holiday. Abroad. You know.’
‘How does that work? How do you fit it round your…’ She gestures at the netbook, the notebook and the mobile phone she’s put on the table.
‘I’m freelance. Really I can say I’m anywhere, anytime, and no one would know any different.’
‘Useful,’ says Amber.
‘Mmm.’ She’s not sure how to respond. ‘How about you?’
Amber shrugs. ‘I work nights.’
‘Mmm,’ says Kirsty again, and cranes round to find a waitress.
‘I wouldn’t even know how to get a passport,’ says Amber.
‘It’s not that difficult,’ begins Kirsty. ‘You need your birth certificate and your deed poll…’
She sees that it was a rhetorical statement, clams up. She’s so used, through parenthood, through work, to being the person with the information, the one who offers advice, that she’s forgotten that it’s not always being solicited. Amber’s lips are pursed and she’s looking away again, over Kirsty’s shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ says Kirsty.
‘It’s OK,’ says Amber. They both fall silent again, studying each other’s features. Putting them together with the children they both once knew.
‘So you look as though life’s treated you OK,’ Amber says pointedly.
What do you say to that? To someone for whom life has clearly not done the same? ‘Yes. Can’t complain’?
‘Yes,’ she says meekly. Vertical lines run down Amber’s upper lip, as though her mouth is pursed a lot. Two more deep verticals divide her eyebrows. Kirsty is getting marionette lines and horizontals across her forehead, light crow’s feet at the sides of her eyes: the lines of interest and smiling, and none of them as deep, or as firmly etched, as Amber’s. Amber’s blond hair crackles on her scalp like seagrass. Her hands, wrists, neck, ears are devoid of ornamentation, other than a dull, practical watch on a waterproof band. Kirsty feels uncomfortably overdecorated, conscious of her engagement ring, which cost, by tradition, an entire month of Jim’s salary; of the fact that her necklace and earrings are not only matching, but are set with real emeralds, even if they are small ones.
Amber’s nails are cut short, the cuticles dry and ragged against work-roughened skin. Kirsty, though she spends too much time at a keyboard to maintain a manicure, nonetheless keeps hers shaped, and protected with a coat of Hard as Nails, the skin regularly fed from the tube of cream she keeps in her bag. Nothing speaks more about the contrast in our lives, she thinks.