About Last Night - Chapter 19
"When Amy saw Helena in the crowd, she thought she was seeing a ghost. Not only because she hadn’t seen Helena in twenty years, but because Helena looked like one."
Dear readers,
Sorry for the delay in sending you the next chapter. I have been on a sailing course and happy to report that I am now a qualified ‘competent crew’ member. I enjoyed sailing a lot more than I thought I would and can’t wait to go back to Greece and get my skipper’s licence. But enough about me, I know you’re drying to find out what happened next.
Catch-up on Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapters 13 and 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, and Chapter 17, and Chapter 18.
December 2017
When Amy saw Helena in the crowd, she thought she was seeing a ghost. Not only because she hadn’t seen Helena in twenty years, but because Helena looked like one. Pale, smudged make-up on her face, absent, like a spectre stuck between two realms. Amy could have walked by, unnoticed. She didn’t need an agent of chaos in her life and she didn’t need a friend that much that she would risk rocking her love boat; even if that friend was her childhood best friend, her only real friend, who had vanished straight after her mother’s death like the Earth had swallowed her whole.
She’d often thought of hiring a private detective, find her and ask her the questions she didn’t dare ask at sixteen. But it was always just a thought. She never acted upon it. She never opened a Yellow Pages and dialled the number of a private detective, though she did do it over and over again in her head. After so many years of imagining it, she began to believe that it was true. That she had tasked someone to find Helena and that they had come back empty handed. And now that she was face to face with the friend she thought she would never see again, she found herself paralysed. She wasn’t ready for it. But she had no choice. If she wanted to live with herself in her perfect new world that is.
She called out Helena’s name. Come what may.
They had coffee in a nearby Starbucks, the most neutral ground there ever was. Helena didn’t talk much and it made Amy more talkative than usual. Seeing Helena after all those years, with no explanation from her former best friend made Amy uncomfortable. She rushed to cushion it with words and sentences. It was funny, she though, taking a sip of her latte. Helena used to be the only person in the world she could be silent with. Her beautiful, wise, dependable friend. What had happened to her? That question has been on Amy’s lips ever since that fateful night. If only Helena could read lips.
‘Tell me about your fiancee,’ said Helena, out of the blue, placing her mug on the table. ‘How did you two meet?’
Amy felt herself blushing as she conjured up Christopher’s full lips pressed hard against hers, his lean and muscly body like a stone fortress she climbed night after night, desperate to make her way into his soul, to claim her stake, constantly jaded by the feeling that she was nothing but a fraud. Something unpleasant formed inside her chest and lingered, nagging like a fly.
‘Actually, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,’ Helena said, the sad undertone of her voice a little harder to hide.
Amy narrowed her eyes at Helena. There was something only Amy sensed, like an ultrasound that only dogs can hear. She hoped that she was still in there. The friend she used to trust with her life.
‘Why don’t you join us for New Year’s Eve? Christopher is having a few friends together at his place,’ said Amy.
‘That sounds lovely,’ Helena said, with an inflexion that suggested she was about to accept. Even in this sorry state, Helena was still the most beautiful woman Amy had ever seen. A steely, mesmerising beauty that came from within. Emma’s beauty was obvious, frivolous, easy to replicate. Helena’s was like an alien’s from another universe: impossible to describe and do it justice.
‘If you don’t have other plans, that is. I’m sure you must have so many party invites already,’ Amy jumped in, instantly changing her mind. That nagging fly again.
‘It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to impose,’ said Helena, draining her mug, her eyes suddenly vacant. Amy has seen those eyes before. They followed her in every dream, in every nightmare. ‘Besides, I absolutely hate New Year’s Eve. I’ve spent the last decade avoiding it,’ she let out a pathetic attempt for a laugh.
‘Nonsense,’ Amy said, regretting it already. ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’
It was the right thing to do. She almost let Helena die once because of her inaction. Not to mention, none of what happened to Helena after that night in the woods would have happened if she had just listened to her friend. But no, Amy had to have her way. And this was the consequence of her decision to be selfish. A tiny ripple then, a full-on tide now. Wasn’t she supposed to be that ‘worthy’ woman Christopher thought she was. Or try at least?
If she dug within herself any any deeper that day, she would have found a stronger reason why she’d invited this Trojan horse into her home. She couldn’t have the perfect life with Christopher, when Helena was so very clearly not happy in hers. And Amy had a debt to pay.
She regretted it even more on New Year’s Eve when she saw Helena stumbling out of the taxi. She expected her to maybe have a bit too much to drink at the party (and she had made plans on how to handle that), but she didn’t expect her to show up already drunk. Fortunately, Christopher was sweet about it and she eventually relaxed. What was the worse it could happen?
When the bell rang at 11:35pm and she went to open the door, she had her answer. The worse that could happen was staring right at her.
‘Emma, hi,’ said Amy, idiotically staring at the beautiful blonde, holding an oversized bottle of champagne.
‘Say hello to Monsieur Moet,’ Emma said. ‘Nice dress.’
It wasn’t a nice dress and Amy knew it. It was an awful dress. An old velvet frock that made Amy look like a midget Mary Poppins. ‘Thank you,’ said Amy, taking the bottle and almost dropping it. But it wasn’t the sight of Emma looking like she was shooting a l’Oreal advert that disabled Amy’s ability to grip. It was the man behind her.
‘Amy, this is David,’ said Emma, removing her coat and putting in on a hanger. ‘My boyfriend.’
Amy felt the room spinning and she had hardly had a sip of wine all evening. Either her sugar level was low or this was the last man on Earth she expected to walk through her door? Well, Christopher’s door, technically speaking.
‘David, this is Amy. Christopher’s fiancee,’ continued Emma.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she managed to say and extended her hand. David took it and kissed it, looking straight at her from under those immense eyelashes, which totally fucked with her insides. She no longer had organs that performed specialised tasks to keep her alive. She had organs that had started a riot and were beating each other up. She must be wrong. Maybe the man kissing her hand was just an uncanny lookalike.
‘It’s a pleasure meeting you,’ he said, looking up at her, his body still bent and her hand still in his, with what people who didn’t know any better would describe a meaningful glance.
The eyes. She couldn’t be mistaken about those speckled green eyes. Or those immense eyelashes. It was him. Fuck.
‘Come on in,’ said Amy, and, against all rules of hosting, ran into the kitchen, leaving them to make their own way into the living room. She leaned against the island, trying to steady herself. One agent of chaos she could handle. Two, was simply not an option. She had never planned for this and she always planned for everything. She had to contain this crisis like she contained her viruses in the lab, but how?
‘Cupcake, are you all right?’ says Christopher, startling her. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
If he only knew how right he was. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, trying to keep Christopher as in the dark about this as possible. ‘I’m just having a dizzy spell.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right? If you’re not well, you should go lie down,’ he said, solicitously.
Amy looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes until midnight.
‘I’m sure I can manage. It’s almost midnight,’ she smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to ruin your party. I how important it is for you to have your friends here tonight.’
He kissed her hand. Softly, with gratitude, awakening the burn that still lingered on her hand from David’s earlier touch. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For being so understanding and the best partner I could have ever hoped for.’
Tonight really was important to Christopher. It was the first time in months he had reached out to his friends. Depression had set in after the stabbing and he had been a recluse for months. Amy had been there, looking after him, patiently like the worthy woman she was supposed to be, to the point she even believed herself to be. Until tonight. She only had to keep it together for fifteen more minutes and avoid being near David at all costs. After that, she could tell everyone she was not feeling well and leave. Run away. Never to be seen or heard of again.
She took a few deep breaths, made a few attempts to regain her composure, picked-up a tray of canapés and made her way as dignified as possible into the living-room, just in time to see Helena emptying her guts onto Christopher’s sculpture.
She watched bewildered as Helena fell over and started apologising, groping with sticky hands, trying to clean the sculpture. Amy thought she should run to her, but something kept her stuck, unable to move as if her feet have been nailed to the floorboards, the tray of canapés still firmly in her hand. If somebody spray-painted her silver or gold, she could have been one of those live statues in Covent Garden nobody paid attention to. She wished she was invisible. But most importantly, she wished David wasn’t there.
Everyone in the room took a step back. Only Christopher, who was behind Helena when it happened, ran to her aid. He gently tried to remove her from the mess she just made and told her not to worry.
‘Shhhh. It’s okay,’ he said to her, as she cried, black kohl tears leaving dirty traces on her cheeks. Crocodile tears, Amy found herself thinking.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated hysterically and frantically fought Christopher for the right to clean up her own mess.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ he said, and took hold of her hands. ‘It happens.’
‘But your father’s sculpture,’ she said as if just realising exactly how badly she screwed up, her eyes magnifying to an abnormal size like in a Japanese cartoon.
‘Nothing a damp cloth and soap won’t fix,’ he said, continuing his work to keep her calm. ‘Besides, you probably increased its value.’ He laughed, though nobody else did.
There was a time when Amy trusted Helena with her life, but in that moment, she felt like hitting her over the head with the tray in her hand until her brain burst. This was not the Helena she once knew. And she certainly wasn’t the same Amy.
‘Christopher,’ Amy said, finally able to move her feet towards the ongoing scene and place an ever so slightly shaking hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you can take Helena to the guest bedroom while I get this cleaned up.’
He nodded, put his arms around Helena’s shoulders and pulled her up firmly.
‘Let’s get you to lie down,’ he said and Helena followed him, catatonic.
Emma came over and took the tray away from Amy’s hand, putting it down on the coffee table with a slight bang. She took her hands into hers. ‘You must be so embarrassed.’
Amy was many things and embarrassed wasn’t it. She was mostly angry. Angry at herself.
‘Oh, poor darling,’ continued Emma, gazing into her eyes. ‘You must feel awful.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Amy, pushing her away. ‘Excuse-me, I need to clean this up.’
‘Thanks for a great party,’ she heard someone say and the shuffling of people putting their coats on and leaving ensued.
Amy walked to the utility room and started to fill a bucket with water. She poured some washing liquid and watched the bubbles forming under the force of the jet, gathered like a unified mass around the liquid stream. She focused her gaze on on this spectacle. Nothing that went through her head makes any sense, so she focused on the bubbles in her bucket, forming, dancing, bursting, engaged in the world’s shortest cycle of life. She wondered if this was the moment her own precious bubble would finally burst.
She returned to the living room, bucket in hand and armed with a roll of paper towels, a bin liner, a sponge and rubber gloves. The living-room was empty, a few voices still audible from the kitchen and the hallway. Half-empty wine glasses had been left in a hurry on the coffee table. She kneeled and noticed the carpet has been tainted too. She imagined the violence of the spurt, hitting the perfect curves of the ironic Michelangelo sculpture, exploding into small beads that landed everywhere. The insides of her friend revealed to the world in their impure glory, exposed like the oversized germs Amy studied in her lab. That mess was her mess too.
The stench got to her, but she breathed through her mouth. She would not let this break her. She would finish this job. She would clean up this mess. And then what, she asked herself as she gathered bits of half-digested food into handfuls of kitchen roll and shoved them into the bin liner. She still had to deal with David. She still had to deal with the fact that he was Emma’s boyfriend.
Amy had never been squeamish, but suddenly she felt sick. She took a a moment to control her gag reflex and felt an unspeakable sadness. Their friendship was doomed that night at the festival. Amy should have known better than to try and save it. Again.
When she was done, she sat on the sofa staring at the diminishing fire, hardly remembering to blink. The guests had gone, one by one, in a haze. Amy saw them through a filter that separated her from their reality. They were muffled spectres kissing her on the cheek, saying goodnight, thanking her for a great evening, saying Happy New Year. Except for David. He was clear, his edges sharp, his voice close. He stood behind Emma, holding her waist, smiling politely. Amy did not say good bye to either of them.
Was his polite smile he asking her to keep her mouth shut or was he asking her to give herself to him the same way he did twenty years ago? Nonsense, he probably didn’t remember her. Why would he? She must have been nothing but one of many girls that fell head over heels with him. It was of course for the best, but that didn’t stop Amy’s heart from feeling a little broken in all the wrong places.
‘What took you so long?’ she found herself snapping when Christopher walked back into the living room.
He sat down next to her on the sofa, massaging the bridge of his noise.
‘She was crying,’ he said. ‘I stayed with her until she could fall asleep.’
‘She’s not a child, you know,’ Amy snapped again. ‘She’s a full-grown woman. Who ruined your party.’
‘Cupcake, she is your friend,’ he said, gently, placing his hand over hers, but Amy pulled it back.
‘Some friend,’ she said, though she immediately felt ashamed for more reasons than she could articulate in one passing thought.
‘She needs you,’ said Christopher, turning on his counsellor mode.
‘What she needs is to get her shit together,’ she said, more to herself. ‘And professional help.’
She noticed a stain on the carpet that she had missed. She went back to the utility room, took the sponge and the stain remover spray and returned, beginning to scrub furiously.
‘Leave it,’ said Christopher, softly. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s only a carpet.’
She turned her face towards him and spit out the words. ‘It’s only a carpet to you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, raising his eyebrows, looking innocent and splendid. His beauty pained her.
‘You know what it’s supposed to mean,’ she said, slowly releasing the words between her teeth before they became explosives. ‘You and your…’ She struggled with the next word. She stopped herself before she made irreparable damage. ‘Friends,’ she finally said with a tone that meant the opposite, but at least it wasn’t an outright insult. ‘You don’t care about how much things cost.’
Christopher got up from the couch and knelt down next to her. ‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to argue, please. Can it wait until tomorrow? I am shattered.’
‘Go to sleep then,’ she said, throwing the sponge and the spray on the carpet. ‘I’m going home,’ she said, getting up and taking her coat off the coat hanger in the hallway with shaking hands.
‘Cupcake, come on. Be reasonable,’ he repeated, helping her into her coat.
His niceness infuriated her. She wanted him to scream, she wanted him to argue, to slap her, to make her feel like an equal. She wanted him to give her what she deserved. Instead, she got this. Whatever the fuck this was.
‘Stop calling me Cupcake,’ she said and slammed the door behind her.
Stay tuned for the next chapter!
With love,
Iulia xxx
PS: As the world continues to throw literal and metaphorical bombs at breakneck speed, I hope you stay safe, loving, open, and fighting the good fight in any way you can.
Practical ways to help people in Gaza: go on chuffed.org and find Palestinian families’ fundraisers (they literally rely on donations to buy food) or download boycat or No Thanks apps to scan the products that you buy in your supermarkets to ensure buying only ethical products. As Tesco always says, every little helps!
