Chapter 17
AMBER
The others are already halfway down their first bottle of wine when we arrive at the restaurant, hot and dusty, half an hour later.
The place looks like somewhere you’d see on the Greek Tourist Board’s website.
A hand-painted wooden sign above the pergola reads Kostas’ Taverna, the letters faded by the sun.
The tables are arranged under a pergola heavy with acid-green vines bearing bunches of grapes.
Threaded through the vines is jasmine, the flowers like little white stars against the foliage.
‘It’s a bit basic, but the food isn’t bad,’ Simone confides as we take our seats.
I drink in the blue and white checked tablecloths, the candles in jam jars and the carafes of wine.
‘I love it. It’s so… Greek,’ I declare, and Dom squeezes my shoulder and laughs.
‘You’re such a cheap date.’
We flick through the faux-leather menus and before long a waiter, a guy in his early seventies with a tea towel slung over one shoulder and a car salesman’s smile, appears at our table, his pen poised over his pad.
‘I can recommend today’s special. Red mullet, straight off the boat this morning.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Dom says. ‘Thank you, Kostas.’
Simone pouts. ‘You’re not sharing a platter with me?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m not especially hungry.’
‘I’ll share with you,’ Victoria offers.
‘Stuffed peppers for me. No cheese,’ Willow says, handing Kostas her menu.
Felix and Barney both choose the red mullet and then Kostas turns to me.
I clear my throat. ‘éna souvláki, parakaló.’
‘You speak Greek, yes?’ he says, beaming.
Blushing, I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. ‘Móno lígo.’
‘I didn’t know you spoke the lingo,’ Dom says, impressed.
‘I really don’t. I just thought it would be nice to learn a few words, so I downloaded Duolingo.’
‘Why bother when there’s Google Translate? Besides, most Greeks speak English,’ Victoria says in that snooty voice of hers.
Willow wades in. ‘Jesus. Just because English is a global language doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to learn other people’s, Victoria.’ She draws out the name until it sounds like an insult. ‘Trust you to think the world revolves around you.’
‘Willow!’ Simone snaps. ‘That’s quite enough.’
‘I’m just saying it like it is,’ Willow says sulkily.
‘Well, don’t.’ Simone looks to Felix for back-up but he’s too busy chatting up a waitress half his age to pay her any attention. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she mutters under her breath.
‘When d’you hear if you’ve made partner?’ Dominic asks her, smoothly changing the subject.
‘What? Oh, they’re meeting to discuss it next week.’
‘You’re a shoo-in, aren’t you?’
Barney tips his glass towards Simone. His eyes are already ever-so-slightly glazed. ‘Unless they find any skeletons in the cupboard, eh, Simone?’
‘They’re a bunch of buttoned-up reactionaries to a man. I have to be whiter than white. If I had any skeletons – which I don’t, by the way,’ she adds, glaring at Barney, ‘I’d be sent packing. They wouldn’t countenance even the faintest whiff of a scandal.’
‘Let’s hope they deliver the goods,’ Dom says.
Simone raises her glass and clinks it against his. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Kostas brings our food and conversation lulls while we eat. The souvlaki is delicious. The chicken, seasoned with lemon and oregano, melts in my mouth; the tzatziki is cool, fresh and creamy. I’m chewing the last corner of pitta when Victoria asks, ‘So, where did you go to university, Amber?’
‘Oh, I didn’t.’ All eyes turn towards me and I redden again. ‘Not many did from my year. It wasn’t that kind of school.’
I don’t mention the fact that Mrs Frederick, my A-level English teacher, had begged me to consider at least filling in the UCAS form but how could I, when Gran needed me?
‘You could apply for one of the London universities, Amber,’ she’d said.
‘UCL or Royal Holloway. You could live at home then.’ Like all my teachers, she knew my situation.
For one heady, fleeting moment, I’d pictured myself in a cavernous university library, a pile of classics on the desk in front of me.
Sticking arty posters on the wall of my student digs.
Dissecting the works of the Brontes and Jane Austen with my fellow English undergrads.
But it was out of the question. We were already on the breadline, surviving on Gran’s state pension and my child benefit.
I couldn’t afford to rack up thousands of pounds in student debt. I needed a job.
‘You missed out. University was the happiest three years of my life.’ Simone’s gaze is fixed on Dominic as she says this, and I feel another flash of anger, not just because she’s so brazen about their relationship but that I’m judged as somehow inferior to her because I don’t have a degree.
A childish part of me wants to stick my thumb on my nose and wiggle my fingers at her like a kid in the playground. Instead, I say, ‘Actually, I’ve just enrolled in the Open University. I’m starting a degree in social work in October.’
Once again, I feel the heat of everyone’s gaze.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Dom says. It sounds like an accusation.
‘I was going to. I only just found out I got on the course.’
‘Social work?’ Victoria says. She’s looking down her nose at me, as if I’ve just announced I’m starting a Ponzi scheme. ‘God, why on earth would you want to do a job like that?’
‘Er, you’re the head of a charity for the homeless, aren’t you?’ Willow says. ‘I’d have thought you might understand. Though maybe not.’
‘Willow,’ Simone warns.
‘It’s fine.’ Victoria gives a tight smile and folds her hands in her lap.
‘Why d’you want to be a social worker?’ Barney asks. ‘There must be easier ways to make a living.’
I hesitate. I could trot out the pat answer, that I want to help empower people, make a difference, challenge injustice.
Or I could tell them the truth. But how would Dominic react if I did tell them, warts and all?
I think of all the ways I’ve tried to fit in with Dom and his privileged friends.
Spending money I don’t have on clothes I thought would look the part, learning a few scraps of Greek to impress, biting my tongue at some of their outrageously entitled opinions.
Despite all that, the truth burns a hole in me. I’m over pretending to be someone I’m not. And if Dominic doesn’t like it, then maybe that’s his lookout.
‘My mother was an addict.’ The words are out before I can change my mind.
Someone gasps. I think it’s Victoria, but I can’t stop now, so I plough on.
‘Alcohol was Mum’s drug of choice, though she was happy to pop anything when she was wasted.
I was three when she went to prison for the first time.
She served six months for stealing two bottles of gin from our local Co-op.
It wasn’t her first offence.’ I have everyone’s attention now.
Dominic’s eyes are soft. Victoria and Barney could catch flies.
Felix and Willow are also transfixed. The only expression I can’t read is Simone’s.
‘I was taken into foster care until she was released, but she was back inside a few months later. I spent the next four years being shunted between home and various foster families.’
Dominic frowns. ‘I thought you lived with your gran.’
‘I did, from the age of seven. Not long after Mum went into hospital with advanced liver disease.’
I close my eyes briefly, remembering the wail of the sirens as the ambulance pulled up outside our block of flats.
It wasn’t an unusual noise – they attended all the time for drug overdoses, heart attacks or falls, but this time it was different because it was here for my mum.
I held hands with my social worker, Lisa, as the paramedics carefully lifted Mum onto the stretcher.
Her face was yellow, as if she’d just been on holiday to Turkey like my friend Chloe, and an oxygen mask was clamped to her face.
Once she’d gone, Lisa helped me pack a Tesco carrier bag with clothes, my favourite teddy and a couple of books.
‘Who’s this, Amber?’ she said, pointing to a creased photo in my sock drawer.
‘That’s me and my granny when I was a baby.’
‘Your granny?’ Lisa’s forehead was all scrunched like she was thinking hard. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Can’t remember. Can I bring Yasmin?’ I reached for the Bratz doll Steve, Mum’s boyfriend at the time, had given me for Christmas. Stolen, probably, because he’d never done a day’s work in his life.
‘Of course you can, sweetie. But I thought your granny was in heaven. That’s what your mummy told us.’
‘Don’t fink so.’ I put Yasmin in the carrier bag and, as an afterthought, slipped the photo in too. ‘Mum says they don’t speak anymore cos Granny’s an interfering old bitch.’
‘Right,’ Lisa said. ‘You finish packing. I need to make a quick call.’
The waiter arrives to clear our plates. I wait until he’s gone, then continue.
‘When Mum died, my social worker, Lisa, tracked my grandmother down. It sounds crazy but she still lived on the other side of our estate. Social services had never thought to check because Mum always told anyone who came to the house that Gran was dead and she was my only next of kin. If it hadn’t been for Lisa, I’d have ended up in care, and I will never forget that.
So, yeah, that’s why I want to become a social worker. ’ I smile brightly.
‘And why you never drink?’ Simone guesses.
I nod.
‘Why, are you worried you’ll become an alkie like your mum?’ Willow’s eyes are burning with curiosity. ‘I mean, like, if she had an addictive personality, you’ll have inherited one too?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Simone says, before I have a chance to answer. ‘It’s true, you can inherit addiction genes from your parents, but environmental factors play a part too.’
‘Simone’s right,’ Victoria agrees. ‘And when genetic risk factors are combined with environmental factors, such as childhood trauma or mental health issues, people are at a greater risk of developing an addiction, whether it be class A drugs, alcohol or gambling.’ She says this with authority.
I guess her charity must help rehouse a lot of addicts.
‘Trust my luck to marry a woman who’s addicted to work and not sex,’ Felix says sorrowfully.
‘Yeuch, Dad. Too much information,’ Willow cries, pretending to vomit. It lightens the atmosphere and when Kostas returns to take our orders for dessert, the conversation has moved on to the plans for tonight’s barbecue.
I’m glad to slip out of the spotlight, though when I look up from my baklava I catch Simone watching me, a strange expression on her face.
At first, I think it’s compassion, and I wonder if she might finally ease up on me now she knows about my dysfunctional childhood.
Then I realise I’ve seen that look before, countless times, on the faces of teachers, foster parents, social workers.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles lock like a vice.
That’s not compassion. It’s not even sympathy. She pities me.