Amber is my best friend and sister. She’s not a real sister, but more like a surrogate sister. We were both unintentionally only children. My mother suffered from ten miscarriages after my birth and never managed to carry to full-term again. As for Amber, it’s a long story, but basically her parents never had any more sex after she was born. We were both desperate for siblings and found the answer in each other.
My being an only daughter explains a lot. It’s why my mother’s paranoid about what I do with my life. All her hopes and dreams are pinned on me. To her, Hugo’s the son she never had. If I end up with him she kills three birds with the same stone. She gets the son she’s longed for, the son-in-law she’s dreamed of and the social standing of having a barrister in the family.
Amber and I met at Brownies when we were eight and found out that we both lived in the same road. From the first day that I ventured five houses down on the right hand side and rang her doorbell, we were inseparable. She was the sister I never had. With a bit of imagination it was easy to pretend we were part of the very same, extended family. Only a tiny bit of street distanced her bedroom from mine, which, when you thought about it, was no different to living in a big, airy castle somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.
Amber’s got long curly red hair to die for, but like most redheads she can’t stand it. Plus she’s always been embarrassed by the sheer obviousness of her name and was ashamed of her parents for choosing it. Even Blondie was only a stage-name. It’s like out she popped, some nurse cried “oh, how wonderful, she’s ginger” and as sure as the Pope’s a Catholic, she simply
had
to be called Amber. Her school friends nicknamed her
Annie
, after the orphan in that hit musical. She liked it at first and toyed with the idea of changing her name by deed-pole, but then her father traded in her mother for a younger model (which is why Amber’s an only child) and Amber truly did feel orphaned. So whenever somebody called her Annie instead of Amber she got really upset and decided that being a fossilised resin was preferable to being constantly reminded that her Dad was never coming home.
We’re very different. Kind of like the Bette Midler/Barbara Hershey couple in the film
Beache
s. I’m more similar to the outgoing Bette Midler figure (confusing, I know, because I’m
not
the one with red hair) and Amber is the Barbara Hershey character, content to be in my shadow, encouraging me, spurring me on, almost wanting more for me than for her. I’ve always tried to look out for and protect her.
We see each other less frequently now than we’d like. We’re both busy leading our separate lives, trying to make sense of everything. When we were younger, despite going to different schools, we spent practically every other waking moment together. When Hugo came along it changed things, but not that much. I was constantly playing matchmaker, setting her up with a conveyor belt of Hugo’s mates so that we could double date. She gamely played along, probably just to please me, even though she rarely enjoyed herself on those nights out, her tongue invariably trapped by shyness. She either wasn’t that interested in men yet or found them intimidating. I suspect her short, dark and stocky father was responsible for her distrust in the opposite sex. She saw all blokes (except tall, blonde, thin ones) as the enemy.
She might have been a late starter, but once she got to college, she made up for lost time. She found it easier to get in touch with her sexual side away from home and couldn’t believe she’d been content to live a life of celibacy for so long. She’s not in a relationship at the moment. In fact, even though she’s twenty-six she’s still not had what I would call a proper boyfriend. I, on the other hand, have been with Hugo on and off (more on than off) for nearly eleven years now. Christ that sounds scary. Perhaps eleven years is too long.
*****
After college Amber and I rented a place together for a couple of years, but eighteen months ago, that all came to a sorrowful end. Hugo (who earns ridiculous money as a highly successful barrister) bought this gorgeous two-bed conversion in Highgate, a posh pocket of north London which has an almost country village-like feel. It also boasts a famous cemetery where Karl Marx is buried. Anyway, it was make or break time between us. We either both moved on (i.e. split) or I moved in. When I picked the latter Amber was forced to find a new flat-mate. She eventually paired up with a fellow teacher (that’s what she does professionally) in a flat in Finchley, not too far from her Mum.
Amber found solace in the fact that Hugo’s road is practically opposite Kenwood House, a stately home whose extensive grounds spill onto Hampstead Heath, her favourite place in the whole of London. It’s glorious stomping ground, come rain or shine and a huge area which is easy to get lost in, but Amber knows every nook and cranny. It’s a sunny July Sunday. Hugo’s got work to do for a demanding new court case so I’ve agreed to go walking with Amber and her dastardly dog, a scarily large chocolate brown boxer called Pele. Unfairly (because this is actually Pele mark two) I make sure Amber acts as a barrier between it and me. Pele mark one (who died more than a decade ago) jumped at me when I was nine, scratching a deep, thankfully non-scarring gash down the side of my face. I never forgave him and have since discriminated against his successor and all other boxers.
She’s just finished telling me about her latest beau, a delicious American called Randy who completely lives up to his name. Apparently he’s a more smouldering version of a young Robert Redford. What’s more, not only was the sex unparalleled, she’d also experienced her first orgasm with him. I’d smiled my way through this piece of information, exclaiming “Great, how wonderful!” I omitted to mention that despite being with Hugo for so long and despite having had a handful of other sexual encounters, I’ve still not experienced the pleasure of the big ‘O’.
“Oof,” Amber stops and puts her hand to her head.
“What’s the matter?”
She shakes her skull.
“Oh, nothing,” she says, rubbing the left side of her temple.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “It’s nothing that a good breath of fresh air won’t cure.”
Amber’s had this thing about fresh air since my father once made a comment years’ ago over dinner at my house. He’d read an article saying that most people in Britain spend ninety-five per cent of their time indoors. Amber was appalled by this statistic, saying that fresh air and sun were vital to one’s well-being and if the Brits were only getting it for five per cent of their lives then it was little surprise that they were miserable most of the time. She blamed our rubbish climate for preventing people from venturing outside.
She’d get really pedantic on this subject, lapsing into generalisations. She’s been a fan of antipodeans since she got hooked on
Neighbours
and its fair weather portrayal of life down under. “I bet the Australians don’t spend ninety-five per cent of their time indoors,” she’d say. “Or even the Spanish or Portuguese.” It doesn’t rain constantly in any of those countries, which is why on the whole they tend to be happier, healthier people rather than pasty-faced like the average Brit.” So she’d decided to major in foreign languages, with a plan to leave England at the earliest opportunity. She picked Spanish and Italian, because both those countries were fairly safe bets when it came to weather and because you couldn’t read Australian studies anywhere. Her obsession with all things foreign rubbed off on me more than her fresh air theory. It encouraged me to read French at University. French is so much sexier than English. In fact, I don’t think there is a more beautiful language. It’s the only one I know that truly rises and falls like musical ebbs and flows. My favourite classical composers are all French. It’s no wonder Chopin, Debussy and Berlioz were, in my opinion, a cut above the rest. They were speaking music before they started composing it.
I don’t know what went wrong. We both had such big plans to travel the world, to emigrate to fresher air, especially Amber. She’s always said how much she’d like to live in Australia, but every time it comes to the crunch, she can’t face leaving her Mum. So far, the only use she’s made of her languages is to teach them. That’s about all I’ve done as well. I haven’t really made it on the career front. I’ve dabbled here and there, deciding early on when I got a job as a Tour Consultant for a French travel company that I was allergic to an office environment, and quite possibly, to work full stop. I’ve taught English to foreign students and more recently was part of a French acting troupe. It sounds glamorous, but basically we just went round schools performing educational French plays. I’m currently working hard to stretch out being in-between jobs. Well, Hugo doesn’t mind because he’s hardly short of a bob or two. Plus I still don’t know what it really is I want to do.
*****
“So, what did you do last night?” Amber asks, as we walk.
“Oh, Hugo decided I needed a culture injection and took me to see this play called
Summerfolk
at the National. It’s by a Russian playwright called Gorky who I’d never heard of. A bit like Chekhov.”
“Was it good?”
I make a face.
“Well, I thought it was rubbish, but clearly I’m an uncultured imbecile. All the critics gave it five stars. Nicholas de Jongh from the
Evening Standard
claimed it was the best production he’d seen in London for at least twenty years. And everyone else in the theatre obviously agreed with him, Hugo included, because they all gave it a standing ovation.”
“What was so bad about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was just so long and slow and nobody
did
anything. They just sat around drinking tea and discussing Russian politics. The most active they got was to occasionally get up, smooth their clothes down and change seats. Do you think I’m a philistine or am I just missing the point? I mean, I don’t understand how everyone else could be so riveted whilst I had to fight not to fall asleep.”
“I think it’s just different strokes for different folks.” She pauses to reflect. “What would have made the evening better?”
“I don’t know. Seeing a cheesy musical?”
Amber chooses her words carefully.
“Don’t get me wrong Danni. You know I like Hugo, but I get the feeling that maybe it’s time to spread your wings. You have been with him for a very long time.”
“For good reason,” I quip. “Hugo and I have a great relationship. Why would I change him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says airily. “Forget it. I was just thinking out loud.” She points to a pub in the distance. “Do you mind if I pop in? I’m dying for a wee.”
“No, I need to go too.”
We cross over the road and when we reach the pub Amber ties a reluctant Pele to the outside railing. As soon as we enter, this guy at the bar brandishing a microphone greets us. He’s late twenties, tall and blond, Amber’s type through and through.
“Hello Laydeeeeeez,” he welcomes. “I’m Simon Shufflebottom. You can call me Shuffs for short. I’m your Quizmaster. If you or anyone else thinks they know what the largest organ in the body is then you could end up not five, not ten, not fifty, but a hundred pounds better off. We’ll be starting in ten minutes. It’s a quid to play. Miss it, miss out.”
“Ooh,” Amber whispers in my ear. “I know the answer to that. It’s the skin. Can we stay?”
I hate pub quizzes.
“Oh, come on Amber.”
“Please,” she implores. “Besides, the Quizmaster
is
quite cute.”
“Alright,” I cave in. “If you can bear the thought of ending up as Mrs Shufflebottom, he’s all yours.” On the bright side, I smile maliciously to myself as we head downstairs to the toilets, the wait will drive Pele mad.