Don't Want To Miss A Thing (13 page)

Was this how it felt to be addicted to hard drugs? Knowing it was wrong and that you were dicing with danger but feeling the overwhelming need to go ahead and do it anyway?

Well, maybe once he was back at home he’d come to his senses. Realise that he should leave it now.

He’d already done what he’d come here to do.

Sam’s heart quickened.

Hadn’t he?

Facebook, Facebook, brilliant Facebook. What Amber loved most about it was the way it wasn’t just a question of who you knew, but who your friends and their friends might know. Similarly, she might not go to school in Cheltenham but she knew some girls who did.

Bournside was by far the biggest; the odds were that Sam was in the sixth form there.

Except . . . after asking around a bit, it seemed he didn’t.

Never one to give up at the first fence, Amber doggedly made her way through the other schools in the area; the independents, the boys only, the Catholic one . . . eventually she even double-checked that Cheltenham Ladies’ College hadn’t started taking boys.

But no one anywhere had heard of Sam Jones.

Which . . . and there was no getting away from it . . . was totally weird.

The other thing that had piqued her curiosity was the comment her mother had made in passing: ‘Did you see the look on that boy’s face when you said he had a secret? For a moment there he was terrified!’

‘Maybe he really is a transvestite.’ Amber had looked innocent.

Her mum had been appalled. ‘Oh darling, don’t say that. Of
course
he isn’t.’

This had happened earlier, been said jokingly over dinner in front of the TV. Neither of them had thought any more of it at the time. But it was midnight now and Amber was beginning to have second thoughts. Adjusting the pillows propping her up in bed, she frowned at the screen of her laptop. Sam Jones. Samuel Jones. Could Sam be short for some foreign name that might solve the mystery?

The front door opened and closed downstairs, signalling her dad’s return. He’d been working down in Dorset for the last two days.

Amber heard her mum say, ‘You’re home!’ and knew they were hugging each other in the hallway.

‘You didn’t have to wait up for me.’ Her dad always said it every time he got home late and her mum always waited up anyway.

‘No problem. Hungry? There’s pasta left, or cold chicken and potato salad.’

‘Don’t worry, I grabbed something at the services outside Winchester. Where’s my girl anyway?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘Oh. Asleep?’

He sounded disappointed. There was something wonderfully comforting about overhearing yourself being discussed by people who loved you. Switching her laptop on to standby, Amber sang out, ‘I’m still awake,’ and heard footsteps bounding up the staircase.

‘There you are.’ Her dad appeared in the bedroom doorway. ‘Hey, sweetie, missed you.’

‘Missed you too.’ Amber held out her arms for a kiss and
breathed in the scent of the aftershave he’d bought himself the other week, more lemony that the one she was used to, but still nice.

‘Brought you a present.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘A nice jar of fish eyes and some pickled pigs’ ears.’

It wasn’t that, of course. She watched as he produced a packet of Maltesers. Maybe it was childish but it was a long-standing tradition that whenever he came home he brought her a tiny present and told her it was something revolting.

‘Pigs’ ears are my favourite.’ Amber held out her hand and he dropped the Maltesers packet into it. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘How’s school? Get that essay finished?’

‘Yeah, it took ages.’ She moved her feet out of the way as he sat on the edge of the bed.

‘But was it good in the end?’

‘It was brilliant.’ She grinned. ‘
Obviously
.’

‘Glad to hear it. And so modest too. Now look at the time.’ He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘You should be asleep.’

She
was
tired. As he took the laptop away from her and placed it on the chest of drawers, Amber said, ‘Dad, what should you do if you find out someone’s been lying to you?’

He looked serious. ‘Who is it? One of your friends?’

‘Not really. Just a boy.’

‘Daniel with the shark-tooth necklace?’ He tried not to sound too hopeful.

‘No.’ Her parents weren’t great fans of Daniel. ‘Someone I’ve only met twice. He came along to Molly’s class tonight.’

‘And is he keen on you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Amber shook her head. ‘He
says
he isn’t. But Molly and Mum think he probably is.’ A huge yawn overtook her.

‘Maybe he’s just showing off, trying to impress you. But if you’ve only just met this boy and he’s lying already, it’s not a great start. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.’

Another yawn, she was really tired now. As her dad reached the doorway Amber said, ‘Don’t worry, I already don’t trust him.’

He gave a nod of approval. ‘Good.’

In the changing room of his select West London health club, Henry Baron was in the process of placing his belongings in a locker when his phone went
ttting
to indicate the arrival of an email in his inbox.

Force of habit meant he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it. It wasn’t just that he was terminally conscientious; when you worked as a hedge fund manager, time was money and you never knew what you might be missing out on. Henry unzipped his sports bag, took out his phone and saw that it was a message from Dex.

OK, just a quick look. He opened the email, which said: ‘And this is me introducing Delphi to my new girlfriend . . .’

The attached photo was of Delphi in an orange bobble hat and purple anorak pulling a comically surprised face as a result of finding herself nose to nose with a beady-eyed, tufty-chinned goat.

Henry didn’t mind admitting – though only to himself – he’d had his concerns about his friend’s ability to handle such a radical change of lifestyle. But so far, thankfully, Dex appeared to be managing to cope. He smiled, but his gaze was already being drawn to another character caught in the background of the photo. Her light brown hair was half blowing across her face but she was laughing at Delphi’s expression as she passed behind him, carrying a tray of cups.

The door to the changing room was pushed open and Henry’s squash partner stuck his head round.

‘There you are! We’re waiting for you.’

Henry said absently, ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’

The door closed again and he enlarged the photo as far as it would go. Delphi and the goat disappeared off the bottom of the screen as he zoomed in on the woman whose face was almost hypnotically drawing him to her. She was around forty, at a guess, and wearing a red shirt and jeans. Her figure was curvy, her face lit up; her smile was . . . oh God, Henry couldn’t believe he was even
thinking
this, but it was just magical. He didn’t want to stop looking at her, which had to be the most ridiculous situation ever, because it wasn’t as if he knew her or she was even someone famous . . .

OK, get a grip, switch off the phone, you’ve got a squash match to play.

An hour later, with the match won, Henry switched his phone back on and texted: ‘Great photo. Where were you when you took it – some kind of zoo?’

See? Subtle.

The reply pinged back less than a minute later. ‘No! Right here in the village at our local café. It’s where that TV show
Next to You
was filmed, hence the goat. PS: Who isn’t really my new girlfriend. Mainly because he’s a boy goat.’

Yes
. Henry experienced the kind of adrenalin rush he got when he took a major punt on a risky deal and saw it pay off. This meant if he
did
happen to find himself in Briarwood he might just decide on the off chance to call in at the café and there was a possibility the woman might still be working there –

Oh God, unless she didn’t work there. He shuddered at the belated realisation that she might not, could in fact just have been a customer carrying a tray.

And there was definitely no way he was going to ask Dex, whose capacity for mischief was second to none.

OK. Think, think. He was possibly one of the few people who hadn’t watched
Next to You
, but he’d heard of it. And it had presumably featured a goat . . .

Henry put
Next to You
+ Briarwood + café into Google.

And up it came, Frankie’s Café, a modest website welcoming visitors to Briarwood, explaining the history of the show and the opening times of the café. There were also photos of the house, of various items of
Next to You
memorabilia and of the tethered billy goat whose name was apparently Young Bert.

Best of all, there was a photograph of Frankie, who owned and ran the café and wasn’t a Frankie of the Sinatra kind. It was her, this time aware that she was being photographed and visibly self-conscious about it, her shoulders a bit stiff and her smile fixed. But that just drew Henry to her all the more. He was the same, tensing up whenever a camera was pointed in his direction. Some people could relax and not let it bother them; some actively loved it, relishing the chance to preen and pose and show themselves off. Personally he found it as relaxing as root canal work.

It felt like another connection between them. Henry gazed at Frankie’s face, taking in every last detail, feeling as if he knew her and knowing that he definitely wanted to. Was he going mad? It wasn’t normal, surely, to be this affected by a photo of a complete stranger?

Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

But she looked so perfect, so right
.

‘Haven’t you even got in the shower yet?’ Kenny, a towel fastened round his waist, was vigorously spraying his underarms with deodorant.

‘Some of us have important business to take care of. It’s called making money,’ said Henry. ‘Give me two minutes.’

‘Coming for a drink?’

‘Not tonight.’ His mind was working overtime; how could he find out what he needed to know without arousing suspicion?

Luckily every problem had a solution. Henry fired off another text: ‘OK, this could be a weird coincidence but the woman in the photo looks familiar – is she by any chance married to a guy called Bernard?’

As he waited, he could feel the perspiration drying on his skin. It wasn’t the nicest sensation. Come on, Dex, hurry up . . .

Because for some reason he was finding he couldn’t even jump in the shower until he had an answer.

Four long minutes later, it arrived: ‘Not the same woman. Frankie runs the café and her husband’s called Joe.’

Henry exhaled. That was it then, she was married. Just the answer he didn’t want to hear.

Damn and blast.

In fact . . .
shit
.

Then again, so much for allowing himself to get his hopes up.

This was pretty much the story of his life.

Chapter 17

‘I’ve got a massive favour to ask. But I don’t know if you can do it.’

‘If it’s help with your maths homework you’re after, fire away,’ said Molly. ‘But I’m warning you now, the answer to every question you ask me will be seven.’

Amber, who was a whiz at maths, said, ‘Luckily it isn’t that.’

‘Come on in, then.’ Molly had a piece of toast in one hand and a pen in the other. ‘So what’s the favour?’

‘OK, this is going to sound weird, but I’ve been trying to find out more about that guy from last night.’ Having come over to the cottage straight from the school bus, Amber dropped her heavy bag loaded with textbooks on to the sofa. ‘And basically, either his name isn’t Sam Jones or he doesn’t go to school in Cheltenham.’

Molly frowned. ‘Hmm, that
is
weird.’

‘I know! Me and my friends have been trying to work out what’s going on, but they don’t know what he looks like.’

‘Got it.’ Molly’s expression cleared. ‘So if he turns up at next week’s class, you want me to take a sneaky photo of him. Or not even sneaky. We can make it part of the task. That’s fine, we can do that.’

Was it being so much older that made Molly so patient? Amber said, ‘Yes, but that’s seven whole days away. How could you bear to wait that long? Don’t you want to know
now
?’

Molly finished chewing a mouthful of toast. ‘So how are you planning on doing this then? Taking a DNA sample from the pencil he was using last night? Tracking him through CCTV?’

‘Right, here’s the thing. Can you draw a picture of him?’

‘What? No.’ Molly put down her Berol pen and shook her head. ‘No way.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just couldn’t do it, not without something to work from. If he turns up next week I could ask him to sit for me . . .’

This
so
wasn’t the answer Amber wanted to hear. She said, ‘Could you do one of me? Now? If I wasn’t sitting in front of you?’

Molly pulled a face, thought about it for a few seconds, and looked pained. ‘Possibly. But only because I’ve known you for so long. And I still wouldn’t do it.’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘It wouldn’t be good enough.’

‘Have you ever tried?’

‘No!’

‘Why not?’ This was like being a high court judge.

‘Because I know it wouldn’t be good enough!’

‘OK, don’t panic. You mean it wouldn’t be up to your usual standard,’ Amber said soothingly. ‘You’d end up with something not as completely brilliant as usual. But it doesn’t have to be brilliant, it just needs to be similar enough to be recognisable.’

Molly still wasn’t looking thrilled. It was evidently a pride thing. But at least she’d stopped shaking her head.

‘Where’s the harm in giving it a try? Just close your eyes and
picture him.’ Amber made her voice go all gentle and encouraging, like a hypnotist. ‘Remember the eyebrows? And those eyelashes? And the way his hair falls forward? Think about the shape of his mouth . . . Just have a little go and see what you come up with. Even if it’s just
slightly
recognisable, that’s all we want . . .’

Molly opened one eye. ‘Are you trying to do a Derren Brown number on me?’

‘Yes. Is it working?’

‘No.’

‘Look, just have a go. One sheet of paper, that’s all it takes. And it doesn’t matter, does it, if it all goes wrong? It’s not as if you’d be ruining a three-ton block of Carrara marble—’