This is what I told myself as the chaste old maid suggested I take time off. There had been complaints. I watched as she neatly arrayed her pens and pencils around an antique inkwell; soulless salves for childlessness.

‘I don’t need time off. I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a few personal problems, that’s all.’

‘Amber, you’re not well. Your weight is less than some of the pupils. You need to see a professional. Get help.’ She patronised me over the top of her half-rimmed glasses. What did she know about my life? Seven stones was a perfectly reasonable weight and when I put on a couple of pounds I’d treat myself to a new wardrobe; a short skirt perhaps and some flirty tops.

I agreed to time off, confident that it wouldn’t take long to get back control of my life. But the future never turns out as planned. I’d no idea what was around the corner.

76

Amber

I spent the first two weeks of my enforced sick leave locked away in my flat. I promised Miss Harbinger that I’d seek professional help. Proof of such measures would be required before I was allowed back.

My pristine little bedsit took on the feel of a hospital ward as I became more and more neurotic over my health. In between rearranging morsels of food on a plate, I’d begun to gargle with antiseptic mouthwash. The doctor warned me an infection, in my weakened state, could prove extremely dangerous, deadly even.

The phone didn’t ring. I kidded myself that I stayed in to avoid infection but the truth was that Mitch had promised to call. I waited and waited, keeping the television volume low, often on mute, willing any small sound to bring forth contact. Silence was all there was and I willed a noise to offer hope. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on Rebecca but images of her with Mitch, sharing champagne in bed, making love on silken sheets, tortured me during these quiet times. Apart from a daily trip to the local convenience store for Pot Noodles and fruit, I spent most of the day in front of the television and occasionally picked up a book to distract me from the misery.

On that bright spring morning, nothing had prepared me for the finality of death. Mr Isaacs was chatting animatedly to a couple of customers when I entered the shop.

‘Dreadful. Imagine. Bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat,’ he announced with macabre importance. ‘Poor guy lived around here. A teacher apparently.’ Mr Isaacs lifted a mug to his lips and wetted his mouth which was dry from the verbal revelations.

‘Morning, Amber. Can I help you? How are you? You’re looking a bit brighter today. The sun helps lift the mood, doesn’t it?’ He pinged open the till before stretching out his sweaty palm for the coins. ‘Just the paper?’