The Chocolate Run (4 page)

Greg glanced away, his disappointment shimmering in the frosty air around us.
Oh
, I thought,
he’s got something big he wants to talk about. That’s why he’s free on a Friday night. That’s why he wants to keep the evening going
.

He wasn’t exactly known for being Mr Open. If it wasn’t to do with sex or work or football, you had to drag things out of him. He’d probably been working up all week to telling me whatever this was.

‘Or,’ I said, ‘you can come back to my place. Stay over if you want.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, course. You practically live in my spare room anyway. In the morning, though, don’t w— BUS!’ And we pelted off down to the bus stop.

About an hour later we were still sat on the floor of my living room, music playing in the background while we talked, about the general stuff we always talked about. He hadn’t so much as uttered anything vaguely secret-like. I’d found out about the people he’d been interviewing in Sheffield earlier that day; that his mother had bought a new set of saucepans; that his brother who lived in Australia might be coming back for next Christmas; that he was just behind Matt in their goal-scoring league at football. My pyjamas and duvet were calling and I was hearing general things from Gregory. We lapsed into silence. I started picking at the label on my beer bottle, Greg stared into his coffee for a while then started gnawing at the edge of his thumbnail. I slapped his hand – as instructed to by him – he jumped, silently replied with an apologetic half-smile and instead ran his hand through his hair.

His hair. His bluey-black, neck-length hair. Women apparently loved floppy hair – the amount of scripts or books I read where the hero had floppy hair was astounding – but I found it wrong. It was like Orange Dairy Milk. I love Dairy Milk. I like oranges. But together, fundamentally wrong. The same applied to men with long hair. I like long hair. I like men. Together, bone-shudderingly wrong.

As I thought this, Greg started laughing. For one hideous moment I wondered if he’d read my mind and thought I had follicle envy.

‘What you laughing at?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, the silent laugh shaking his shoulders and smirks escaping from the corners of his closed mouth.

I pushed him. ‘Whaatt?’

Greg giggled into his coffee a moment longer, then tore his eyes away from the creamy liquid and faced me full on as he said, ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘ All right.’ He paused, took a deep breath, held my gaze. ‘I was thinking, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I kissed Amber?”’

‘What’s funny about that?’ I replied. ‘You kiss me all the time  . . . Oh  . . . do I
smell
? Is that it? Does kissing me make you gag and that’s funny because I don’t realise?’ I put down my half-drunk beer, lifted my arm, sniffed. A touch of Hugo Woman and a soupçon of Dermalogica Body Hydrating lotion, but other than that, nothing.

Greg’s eyes bulged in his head like I’d missed something obvious; as if he couldn’t believe I was that thick. Almost in slow motion, he put down his coffee, leant forwards and pushed his lips on mine, his fingers stroked my face as his tongue parted my lips then entered my mouth. It’d been millennia since juicy lips had pressed against mine and I’d forgotten kissing was like this. Soft, warm, tender.

He eventually pulled away, sat back. Silence. Silence as Greg stared at me and I stared at my former friend. My former friend who had terror streaking his face. ‘Are you cross with me now?’ he eventually asked in a low voice.

Was I cross with him? No, I was stunned. More stunned than any other emotion. I slowly moved my head from side to side.

‘Shall I go?’ Greg asked.

I shook my head again, faster this time. No. No. He didn’t get to jeopardise three years of friendship and then walk away.

A grin spread across his face. ‘Can I do it again then?’

I leant forwards and kissed him. I had to try it out again. I was stunned, but galloping up behind stunned was lust. And soon, this thing called lust was overtaking every emotion, every thought. His arms pulled me closer as I kissed him, then his hand was inside my top, caressing my skin. It was as though he had insider knowledge of my body; had detailed cooking instructions:

Greg pushed me back onto the floor, eased up my top and covered my stomach in soft little kisses. He undid my jeans, kissing every bit of exposed skin and, as he reached the last button, he stopped, his face a dreamy picture of lust and satisfaction.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ His voice was throaty with desire.

What sort of a question is that?
I asked silently as our eyes met.
Of course I’m not sure!

Let’s put aside the sex with a friend issue, for a moment. This was a big step. I’d gone eighteen months without sex. And, after eighteen months, you’ve got to be careful about who you go with: leap into bed at haste; fake your own death, change your identity and move countries to get away from him at leisure.

On the other hand, eighteen months without sex was eighteen months without being caressed, sweet-talked and lusted after. After all those months and months of healthy eating, after more than a year of the sexual equivalent of lettuce and salad and cottage cheese, if you’re offered the most gorgeous tart on a plate, the one with the freshest, gooiest jam, the fluffiest cream, the crumbliest pastry, what do you say? ‘No thanks, I’m on a diet’?

I got up, bundled my jumper and his jumper under one arm, held out the other hand to him.

I’d never been good at diets.

chapter four

movie loving

It was February.

Cloudy-skied, dark by six o’clock, air loaded with moisture. A short blast of wind blew right at me, whipping up my bobbed black hair and throwing open my long black winter coat.
It’s far too cold for going out for Jen’s birthday dressed like this
, I decided as I ran my hand through my hair to flatten it again and pulled shut my coat.

I was wearing the equivalent to twenty-four carat gold. Amid a need to not let the side down when we went out for a posh dinner, I’d gone shopping for a new dress. It’d stood out, a red and pink shimmer in the blacks, blues and greys in the shop. I’d picked it up and tried it on before I checked the price tag. Once it was on, I turned the price tag over. Even though my heart skipped a beat, I had to have it. It could have been made for me: it emphasised my cleavage, skimmed over my waist, hugged my hips, gently flared out to my ankles. It fit all over. I had to have it. My bottle had almost gone at the till and my hand had started to shake as I signed under the three-figure sum – that’s three figures
before
the decimal point. (Spending like that went right against the grain. I was earning a decent wage but, at heart, I was a sale rail girl – it was always the first area I headed for in a shop.)

I’d also re-employed my red wedge-heeled shoes with straps that criss-crossed up to my knees which always left me hobbling for a couple of days after wear. Tights weren’t an option with those shoes and the minute I left the building my bare legs became a mass of painful little goose bumps.

I should know better. I did know better. I was a thirty-year-old Southerner, I felt even the slightest drop in temperature in every part of my body. I thought I’d moved to Siberia when I first came to college in Leeds twelve years ago. My first winter here I’d called my parents and asked them to post me every jumper I’d left at home; begged them to lend me some money so I could buy two duvets and more knitwear; and wore gloves almost permanently. It was still a wonder that I’d decided to settle up here. Or that I dared leave anywhere centrally heated without thermals and at least three layers.

Holding my coat close to my shivery body, I picked my way across town towards The Conservatory. Lights from street-lamps and cars shimmered up from the slick streets like the soporific globules in lava lamps; looking at them took me back to Friday night.

In the movies, when two people get together they make slow, soft-focused, backlit love to a smooth, saxophone sound-track. They lie entwined afterwards, with strategically placed sheets covering their bits, talking in hushed tones.

Not Greg and me. When we got to the bedroom on Friday night we leapt on each other like hungry lions thrown an antelope’s carcass, almost tearing the clothes off each other. Then doing it in an intense, scary, filthy way. Every time we did it, it was animalistic, greedy. Not the stuff of romantic movies at all.

Talk-wise, we didn’t. After each time – of which there were eventually five – we lay beside each other breathing heavily, not intentionally touching. Not aching to cuddle up in the safety of each other’s arms and murmur about how we’d been waiting for months for this to happen. We lay on the bed, not speaking. I didn’t talk because the only thing I could think to say was, ‘Never tell anyone I did this. Never tell anyone I was this stupid.’

He wasn’t simply a shagabout, you see, he was an-out-and-out, dyed-in-indelible-ink, should-probably-carry-his-birth-certificate-to-prove-he-knew-who-his-dad-was bastard. The man was a walking, talking screwing over women machine, which was why Martha and Renée hated him. They’d heard one too many a tale that began, ‘We were sat in the pub and this woman came up to Greg . . .’ and ended, ‘So she chucked a drink in his face/ran out the pub in tears/warned me that he’d never change.’ (I didn’t volunteer the information about Greg’s exploits, they dragged it out of me when I’d received thank you flowers from him for the third week on the trot.) Over the years, as I’d become his friend I became his conquest confidante, his sidekick, too. I’d become the woman who spotted he was chatting up the wrong person and was likely to get a kicking as a result of it, so led him away from danger. The woman who pretended to be his girlfriend to stop someone he’d screwed over thinking she still had a chance. And, naturally, the woman he called when he needed bailing out of things like police stations.

One May morning two years ago I’d been called to a police station in Harehills to go vouch for Greg and, rather bizarrely, bring him some clothes. I’d been in the police station reception a few minutes when I was shown into an interrogation room and sat at a table, with two officers sat opposite me.

‘Miss Salpone,’ the male officer began.

I didn’t hear him, I was fixated on the tape recorder on the desk beside me. Had been since they led me in. They hadn’t turned it on and a quick glance at my wrists confirmed they hadn’t slapped on handcuffs, but my heart was galloping in my chest. I kept trying to moisten my mouth but couldn’t get saliva to stay in there more than two seconds. I didn’t even flinch at the ‘i’ and ‘s’ being left in my official title. In fact I,
Miss
Amber Salpone, was one step away from confessing to being the gunman on the grassy knoll the day Kennedy was assassinated.

‘Miss Salpone,’ the policeman repeated, to secure my attention, ‘how well do you know Mr Walterson?’

‘Erm, quite well. Um, pretty well,’ I’d replied, trying to stop myself counting the hairs coming out of his nostrils, for it’d lead to a tension-relieving comment from my good self. ‘I’ve known him about a year.’

‘Any romantic involvement?’ the other officer asked so casually her voice could’ve been arrested on suspicion of withholding evidence, but I didn’t notice.

‘Erm, no. I’ve got a boyfriend, Sean. Sean O’Hare,’ I replied, having a sudden need to tell them everything. I was crap under heavy interrogation. Who was I trying to kid? I was crap under light questioning. ‘And Gre— I mean Mr Walterson, is single,’ I added.
Very single
.

Suddenly the whole atmosphere in the room shifted and relaxed. Everything – the officers, the furniture, even the dust – seemed to exhale. Again, I was too shaken to notice. I was busy wondering if I should give them Sean’s address so they could check he existed.

‘Mr Walterson is being held on suspicion of breaking and entering, and indecent exposure,’ the male police officer explained briskly.

WHAT?!
‘Greg Walterson?’ I said. ‘
My
Greg Walterson?’

The policeman nodded. ‘He was found naked on the porch roof of a local house—’

‘Let me guess,’ I cut in, suddenly seeing everything clearly. Clothes. House. Greg. It could only mean one thing: ‘There was a woman inside whose husband had arrived home and she claims never to have clapped eyes on Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, before in her life.’

‘This has happened before?’ the policewoman asked.

I sighed and shook my head. ‘No, I just always expected it to. Not the breaking and entering. Greg couldn’t break into anything.’

‘Well, that’s for the court to decide,’ the policeman stated.

He’s done it again
, I thought.
He’s dragged me into another of his sordid exploits. Except now, it’s court. They’re talking about court
.

‘Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, he’s a prat, but not a criminal.’ I launched myself into a plea. I couldn’t face court. Walking into a police station had been bad enough. Going into an interrogation room was hideous. Court would finish me off. ‘Please don’t charge him.
Please
. He won’t do it again, I promise. And, well, he wants to work in America and any kind of criminal record would put paid to that. I can swear on my life that he’s of good character.
Please
. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. And even though he’s a journalist, he’s always going on about what a good job the police do, especially in the current climate.’ That was pushing it a bit. OK, it was an outright lie, but court! ‘
Please
don’t let his stupidity ruin the rest of his life.
Please
.’

An hour later I was stood on the pavement outside the police station. Greg was beside me, wearing the clothes – a WYIFF sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms – I’d brought with me. ‘How long did the cab say it’d be?’ I asked him. He’d had to borrow my phone to call a cab because his mobile, wallet, keys, oh, and clothes were in the house of the woman who’d never seen him before in her life.