Chapter 8
AMBER
Felix waves his wine glass towards Willow’s empty chair.
‘Don’t mind her, Amber. Seventeen’s a tricky age. She’ll come round.’
Simone offers me a plate of spinach and feta pie and I take a piece even though my appetite has vanished.
‘Was it something I did?’
‘Not at all. She’s a spoilt little madam who should know better.’ Simone’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. ‘You’re too soft with her, Felix. She needs boundaries.’
‘Ah, give the poor kid a break. It can’t be much fun being stuck here with us old farts for company.’
‘She didn’t have to come.’ Simone pops an olive into her mouth. ‘Vic and Barney have the right idea, leaving James and the twins at home. Am I right, Vic?’
‘You’re right,’ Victoria says, clinking glasses with her friend. ‘Holidays with kids are so overrated. So what’s this about Greta Thunberg?’
‘Willow’s decided she’s an eco-warrior, which basically means she’s become a militant vegan, watches our recycling habits like a bloody hawk and is constantly lecturing us on our carbon footprint.
Even though she was quite happy flying here first class.
’ Simone shakes her head. ‘At her age I was too busy trying to sneak into clubs to worry about saving the planet.’
Even Felix laughs at this, and while he tops up everyone’s glasses my fingers find the amber pendant around my neck.
I rub it between thumb and forefinger absent-mindedly.
At seventeen I was juggling my schoolwork with a part-time job and looking after my gran.
By then, her bronchitis was so bad she couldn’t even shuffle from her bedroom to the living room of our tiny council flat without her oxygen tank.
Every breath was an effort, every conversation a rattling wheeze as her scarred lungs struggled to take in enough air to keep her heart beating.
Other kids in our sixth form threw themselves into organising Pride events or anti-fracking protests.
I didn’t have the time or the headspace to campaign about anything. My hand drops to my lap.
Victoria notices and points at my necklace. ‘That’s pretty. Looks vintage.’
I shift in my seat as all eyes turn towards me. ‘My gran gave it to me for my eighteenth.’ I finger the smooth pendant, still warm from my skin. ‘Because it’s amber.’
‘I get it.’ Victoria holds out a hand. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘Vic considers herself something of an expert because she did a three-month internship at Sotheby’s after she graduated,’ Barney explains. ‘An internship, mind, not an actual job.’
‘Excuse me? They offered me a position, if you remember. Said I had a talent for authenticating provenance.’ She looks around the room, pleased to have everyone’s attention.
‘It was just after Sotheby’s in New York sold Picasso’s Boy with a Pipe for over a hundred million dollars.
There was no way I could justify a career helping the super-rich amass more of our finest art treasures for their private collections when there were homeless people sleeping on the streets.
My conscience wouldn’t allow it. That’s when I decided I was better suited to the charity sector. ’
‘Christ, can you quit with the moralising, Vic. You’re starting to sound like Willow,’ Simone grumbles.
Victoria ignores her and takes my necklace, holding it up to the light.
‘An amber drop, tear-shaped. See here? That little inclusion looks like a mosquito. Quite a good one, actually. Amber is fossilised tree resin, tens of millions of years old. The best pieces trapped insects inside as the resin hardened. They’re like tiny time capsules. Collectors love them.’
‘Does that mean it’s worth something?’ Barney asks.
‘Not much. A hundred pounds? Maybe one-fifty on a good day? Antique Baltic amber can fetch quite a bit more, but this is 1930s and they’re ten a penny. Sorry,’ she says to me.
‘It’s OK. I’d never sell it anyway.’
Victoria passes the necklace round the table and everyone studies the tiny mosquito preserved forever in the cognac-coloured resin.
I find I’m sitting on my hands to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing it back.
Their scrutiny feels personal, as if it’s me they’re inspecting and finding wanting.
Finally, Felix, who is sitting to my right, drops the necklace into my hand and smiles wolfishly.
‘Beautiful,’ he declares, with a sidelong glance at his wife. ‘Give me vintage over antique any day of the week.’
My fingers are greasy from the olives and I struggle with the clasp. Dominic jumps up from his seat.
‘Let me.’
I hold my ponytail out of the way and dip my head. Dom’s fingers brush against my skin, warm and reassuring. ‘There you go,’ he says, dropping a kiss on my neck.
I look up, smiling, to catch a look of unbridled fury on Simone’s face. I grab my phone, desperate to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere. ‘Where’s the little girls’ room?’
‘Do you mean the loo?’ The anger has gone from Simone’s expression, and again I wonder if I imagined it. It’s been such a long day. We left Dom’s apartment just after five this morning and it’s now almost nine at night. I’m bushed. It’s no wonder my mind’s playing tricks on me.
‘Along the hallway, third door on the left,’ she says.
The corridor is long and cool, with magnesium-white walls and a marble floor that echoes under my sandals.
Half a dozen busts of Greek gods and goddesses on plinths line both sides, their blank eyes following me as I pass.
Zeus, with his flowing beard and wild curls.
Patrician-faced Apollo. Athena, her marble features calm beneath a dented helmet.
Without thinking, I reach out and run a hand down her cheek, marvelling at the detail the sculptor has coaxed from a slab of cold, uncompromising stone.
I turn left into the bathroom, which is also completely over the top, with floor-to-ceiling polished black marble tiles and floating twin sinks with brushed chrome taps.
The ghostly silver veins running through the marble look like lightning forks in an inky night sky.
I check I’ve locked the door properly, then open my phone.
There’s a WhatsApp from Nessa. Seeing her name gives me a jolt of homesickness and for a moment I’d give anything to be back in London, gossiping about our workmates while cocooned in the familiar shabbiness of our local, The Royal Oak.
Not gonna ask how Greece is cos it’ll just make me sick with jealousy lol xx
So why are you texting? Anyway, you don’t need to worry. It’s horrible here. All blue skies and sandy beaches. Total purgatory. You’d hate it.
I add a laughing emoji, a palm tree and three kisses.
That’s all right then. Rainy London sounds soooo much nicer. Had the result of the investigation yet? Xx she types back.
I pause, picturing the email that dropped into my inbox this morning, then count to five and reply.
Nope, not yet xxx
Bummer. Let me know when you do, OK? You know I’ve got your back, whichever way it goes. Love ya xx
I close my eyes and roll my shoulders. I’ve been on tenterhooks for two weeks. Now the email is right there in my inbox, and I can’t bring myself to open it.
I tell Nessa I love her too, wash my hands and pat them dry on a fluffy white towel embroidered with Villa Paradiso in the same font as the mosaic sign on the wall outside, then tramp back down the hallway to the kitchen.
I’m almost there when I catch the angry buzz of voices, and it reminds me so strongly of the sibilant hiss of Mum and Gran’s whispered argument the night of my fifth birthday – the night their already fractured relationship finally broke down irrevocably – that I stop in my tracks.
‘This is no way to bring up a child, Jennifer. Amber needs you. If Social Services gets even a whiff that you’re back on the booze they’ll take her into care. Surely even you can see that?’
‘Fuck Social Services and fuck you.’ Mum’s voice was slurred. Spiteful. ‘She’s my daughter and I’ll bring her up how I fucking well like, you interfering old bitch.’
I shiver, one hand on a fussy walnut side table, and catch my breath. The voices in the kitchen are rising. I cock my head, an automatic reflex for someone who spent their childhood listening at closed doors while the adults on the other side decided her fate.
It’s Felix and Barney. Barney is slurring too, his words jammed so hard together it takes me a moment to tune in to what he’s saying.
‘You promised we’d have a chance to talk out here, Felix. It’s the only reason I agreed to come!’
‘And we will, old boy. We will. But not on your first night, eh?’
‘Then when?’
‘Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow, I promise. In the meantime, I think we could all do with another drink, don’t you? I have some eighteen-year-old Glenmorangie from a grateful client somewhere.’ Felix’s voice is placatory, but Barney hasn’t finished yet.
‘Grateful client? Don’t make me laugh. You’re killing me, Felix. D’you hear me? You’re killing me.’
‘Now, now, there’s no need to get hysterical. The girls will be wondering where we are, so get that down your neck, calm yourself down and we’ll talk in the morning.’
A chink of glass is followed by the sound of the tap running. I clear my throat and amble into the kitchen, pretending I haven’t heard a word while wondering what secrets they are hiding.