The Chocolate Run Read online

  Matt, her boyfriend, aka Greg’s best friend, played football on Saturday mornings with Greg and some other lads down at Woodhouse Moor, the park near where Greg and Matt lived. Even though Jen lived all the way over the other side of town in Allerton and he spent a lot of time there, Matt still drove across Leeds to play with the boys, as it were. As soon as Matt pulled off in his car, Jen would be on the phone to me. We’d chat until Matt came back, then I’d dive back under the covers for a couple more hours of shut-eye. That’s if Greg didn’t call to give me a blow-by-blow account of the football game or his latest conquest. Or, as was most likely, both.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, stretching my body in a deep arc, trying to unkink my back. ‘I’ve been up for ages.’

  ‘Really?’ Jen’s voice perked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Erm, couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Ah. How was last night?’ she asked.

  She knows. Greg, who hadn’t talked to me about what had happened, had already told them and she’s ringing to see how long I hold out on her. The big-mouthed get. First he stayed for breakfast, then he was looking at me, now he was spreading rumours. True rumours. To our friends. But rumours is rumours. ‘Erm, what was last night?’ I replied cautiously.

  ‘Duh! Greg went to the film with you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Fine. He was fine.’

  ‘Double duh! I mean the film.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yeah. It was all right. Greg liked it, but then Greg likes Carry On movies, so there you go. I thought it was mediocre.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind. What did you do afterwards?’

  ‘Erm . . . had dinner then he stayed over.’ In my bed. While we had sex. All night.

  ‘That’s where he was! Matt called him to say he wasn’t going to footie this morning and Greg wasn’t home and his mobile was off. We thought he must’ve pulled and stayed in Sheffield.’

  ‘Why isn’t Matt at footie?’ I asked, seizing this opportunity to change the subject – the less she talked about Greg, the less chance there was of me confessing.

  Jen lowered her voice. ‘He’s going to kill me but I have to tell you. Matt asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I said, “You to move in here” and he said yes. We’re going to move in together.’

  I screamed. ‘OHMIGOD!’ I yelled into the receiver. ‘I can’t believe it’s finally happened! FINALLY! And I can’t believe it’s taken you six million years to tell me! So? So? Details.’

  Jen lowered her voice some more: ‘Can’t. Tell you Monday night, when it’s all official. Don’t tell anyone. Especially not Greg if you see him.’

  ‘Why would I see Greg?’ I said defensively. I wasn’t being at all suspicious, was I?

  ‘You might go to lunch or something?’ Jen said carefully, as though trying to talk me down from chucking myself off a building. ‘You do go to lunch with Greg quite often, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘Are you all right, sweetie? You seem a bit . . .’

  ‘Out of it? It’s the whole lack of sleep thing. Not as young as I used to be, you know.’

  ‘OK. Well, you try and sleep now. Matt’s here, we’re going shopping. So, I’ll see you Monday, all right? Six-thirtyish at The Conservatory.’

  ‘Yup, see ya there. Bye.’

  If I hadn’t been so comfy where I was, I would’ve done a lap of honour around my living room once I’d hung up. In my current condition, I settled for punching the air with my arms and legs, going, ‘Yesss! Yessss! Yeeesss!’

  She’d finally got it. A big commitment from Matt. A real, tangible declaration that he thought of their relationship as something permanent. This was big stuff for Matt – this man was sometimes reticent about breathing because of the effort involved. I never, ever thought he’d commit.

  The last time Jen and I had dissected this very subject – and it had to be admitted we dissected it a lot – Jen had said, ‘I want to get to the point where I can tell Matt anything and everything, like I tell you everything.’

  That thought made me tug the duvet over my head. In less than twenty-four hours I’d done two unbelievable things: slept with Greg; held out on Jen.

  All I had to do was donate all my savings to the Conservative Party and everyone would know the invasion of the Body Snatchers had begun.

  chapter three

  the big bang

  Silence. Everything was silence.

  Pure, perfect silence. The kind of silence that is invariably followed by trouble. The kind of silence, I’d imagine, that came before the Big Bang that created our universe. (Or, if you believe in creation theories, the kind of silence that came while God scratched His head and wondered if He should make the oceans blue or a nice peachy colour.) Our office had that silence. Everyone held their breath. Everyone was waiting for the Big Bang.

  The five of us in the office were expecting it, but when it happened, when the explosion came, four of us jumped. I, being closest to the epicentre of the blow-up, jumped the least – I was immediately caught in the blast and couldn’t physically move, even if I wanted to.

  ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED THE FILMS? WHAT, NONE OF THEM?’ the Big Bang screamed.

  This was Renée. My boss, The Boss. She was lovely. Honest. I’ve always liked Renée, have always had a deep respect for her. Even when, at times like this, she was shouting at me.

  I’d just told her I hadn’t done my ‘homework’ over the weekend and because I hadn’t done my homework, the meeting she had scheduled for that afternoon wasn’t going to go the way she expected. I’d let her down and rather than sit there slowly imploding while giving me the full-on, pursed-lipped, teeth-gnashing silent treatment, she’d chosen to explode.

  On paper, on my CV, I’d worked for West Yorkshire International Film Festival (WYIFF) for nearly eleven years.

  Since I was a little girl I’d been obsessed with films and television; I wasn’t allowed to play out much as a child, or party at all as a teenager, so I experienced life through the world on my TV; saw the wonders of life, love and everything through the box in the corner. That fascination with the moving image never left me.

  During the first year of college we had to do a four-month work placement in a profession that we were interested in working in. I asked to work at a Hollywood film studio – I got the WYIFF.

  I spent most of March to June as WYIFF’s unpaid skivvy, researching and photocopying for the brochure, and I loved it. Most people whinged about not being paid; about being given menial tasks; about people treating them like fourth-class citizens. Not me. So what if I had to make the tea and do photocopying and run errands? I got to sit in an office with a group of people who knew an incredible amount about films and one of whom had snogged a rather famous American film director. And another of whom had been a very famous actress during her teens. After the placement was over, I kept ‘dropping by’ the office – in the same manner you ‘dropped by’ the places you knew someone you fancied frequented – helping out.

  That following September, during the two weeks of the actual Festival, I was there again. I stood at venues, proudly wearing a WYIFF T-shirt, taking people to their seats, ripping tickets, handing out brochures that had my name in it. My name. That was it for me. I signed myself over. Pledged my soul to the god of WYIFF. Had basically walked into my idea of job heaven and didn’t want to leave. So, I didn’t. Every Easter, every summer, every Festival, every chance when I wasn’t earning money to pay my rent or eat for the following five years, I was there, lurking around the office, offering to help. Eventually, they took pity on me and paid me to compile their brochure. Even more eventually after that they offered me a full-time position as Festival Assistant. After a proper, full-time year I became Senior Festival Assistant. And a year after that, I became Deputy Festival Director. That was four years ago.

  In real terms that meant diddly-squat because there were now only three full-time
members of WYIFF – Renée, the Festival Director; Martha, the Festival Administrator and me.

  Me. The person who had a pile of vids stacked in her living room that she was meant to watch and report back to Renée on before her meeting with the film production company, that afternoon. From our little office, the huge, star-studded event in mid-September that showcased West Yorkshire as an area of outstanding artistic interest was executed. We organised it, came up with the themes, invited people, arranged the programme. Also, big film premieres that were held up here were organised by us – including sending out invites to getting press interest and organising the stay of any actors.

  On top of that, we sometimes undertook consultancy work. If we saw a production company had potential or if we had time, we’d give people advice on getting funding, editing their work, casting and scripts. That was what Renée would be doing that afternoon, if not for me.

  But, but, Saturday was a write-off once I’d put on my pyjamas. I couldn’t face watching what could potentially be a shite film, and the title – Welcome to Vomit Central – didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the product. Sunday, in between T4, EastEnders and running around town putting the finishing touches to Jen’s birthday present, there wasn’t enough time.

  I gazed up at Renée with what I hoped were big sorrowful eyes; pleading, beseeching if you will, for sympathy. Renée looked back at me with murder glinting in the windows to her soul.

  She usually looked like a teen-actress-turned-producerturned-important-name-in-Northern-England’s-film-industry. She was head to toe sophistication: sleek black hair, carefully kohled and mascaraed eyes, expensively cleansed, toned and moisturised olive skin, neutrally coloured lips. Her clothes were always designer, and crease- and bobble-free, obviously. Her shoes always matched her bags. When she wore it, her nail varnish matched her lipstick.

  ‘I AM GOING TO LOOK TOTALLY STUPID IN THAT MEETING!’ Renée ranted. ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’VE DONE THIS TO ME.’ Like her body, her fingers were long and thin. Her fingers always reminded me of Cadbury’s Chocolate Fingers, very little knuckle to spoil the length and shape of them. And wouldn’t you know it, those fingers made a very loud noise as they pounded on the desk, emphasising her words – probably the biscuit centre.

  ‘I REALLY [bang] CAN’T [bang] BELIEVE [bang] YOU’VE [bang] DONE THIS [bang].’

  I didn’t need to glance around the room to know that Martha, the administrator, was staring hard at her computer screen, and the two work experience girls were digging escape tunnels under their desks. This was the usual drill when Renée lost it. Which, it had to be said, she was doing quite a lot lately. Usually, Renée was on the highly strung side of normal – it didn’t take too much to launch her into a full-on head spin. Recently, though, even ‘Good morning’ could go either way: a ‘Hello’ back or a rant demanding to know what was so good about it.

  I knew this. Which was clearly why I said, ‘At least I didn’t sleep with your husband.’ This was classic Amber. When a situation begins getting serious, be it seriously bad or seriously good, I’m obliged to lighten it with some attempt at humour. Obliged, mind you. I can’t just turn it on and off. (That was where the whole ‘you’re a cab’ thing had come from.) Many a near war situation has been averted by me trying to make people laugh, or at least titter. I can’t help myself. I think it evolved from a deep-seated belief that someone’s less likely to batter you as long as you’re trying to make them laugh.

  Except what I said was in no way funny. Mere moments after my quip Renée’s sensibilities nosedived over the edge of reason.

  ‘What. Did. You. Say,’ she hissed, too shocked to shout or bang on my desk.

  ‘It’s only a meeting, not the second coming,’ I said, then winced. There really was no need to keep antagonising a woman whose head was 198 degrees into a 360-degree head spin but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  Renée’s flawless skin filled up to her hairline with blood-red anger. I wasn’t aware humans could go that shade of red without passing out.

  ‘HOW CAN YOU SAY SUCH A THING? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?’ she bellowed.

  ‘Oh, admit it, Renée, you know you wanna cancel the meeting anyway.’ We were in a ‘humour’ loop – the more incensed she became, the more I was trying to make her laugh, which led to more rage. Round and round.

  ‘I DON’T KNOW WHY I EMPLOYED YOU!’ Renée screamed.

  ‘Because the trained hamster turned you down?’

  ‘HOW DARE YOU. FOR TEN YEARS I’VE WATCHED YOU HANG ABOUT THE OFFICE, DOING NOTHING BUT EAT CHOCOLATE. WELL I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF IT. YOU ARE USELESS.’ With that, she grabbed her mobile and coat, and exited stage left. She shut the glass door with such force we all expected it to shatter in her wake.

  Everything was silent and motionless after the slam of the door.

  Renée had never gone for me like that before. She’d never gone for anyone like that before. Ever. Yeah, she shouted; yeah, she threw things, but in eleven years I’d never thought she was going to raise her hand to someone. And for one moment there I’d thought she was going to slap me.

  Martha gave the two work experience girls one of her ‘looks’ until they realised they needed the loo – really rather desperately – and left. They too shut the glass door, which had a film reel and WYIFF frosted on it, behind them, but quietly.

  Martha and I got up in unison then walked the length of our high-ceilinged office, which was filled with desks and filing cabinets and shelves of videos, to the windows. The expanse of windows took up almost a whole wall and had window sills wide enough for people to rest their bums on. Which is what Martha and I did. Out of all the offices in the West Yorkshire Council building, we had the best one. It had high white walls, the carpet wasn’t the regulation beige but royal blue. We even had framed film posters on the walls. When you worked there full-time you got to pick a poster. Renée had The Big Blue, Martha had Pretty Woman, and I had Terminator 2. Over the years other posters had come and gone, but the swimmer, the hooker and the cyborg had clung to the walls through thick, thin and Renée explosion.

  ‘She’s getting worse,’ Martha said, twisting slightly to see the panorama of Leeds we got from this height. Martha was far more human than Renée. She was my height with shoulder-length, mousy-brown hair, mousy-brown eyes, pale white skin – she even got the occasional spot. I liked Martha, but in a different way to how I liked Renée. Renée had employed me – eventually – and I’d helped employ Martha. Also, Renée had never invited herself to my place for dinner within a month of us working together like Martha had done. I was also pretty sure Renée wasn’t constantly rifling through my drawers looking for perfume, lipstick, tampons or other things most women should carry with them, like Martha was.

  ‘I know,’ I replied to Martha’s observation that Renée had got worse, then instantly felt bad. Renée was, all in all, a good boss. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘Because she’s a mad French woman,’ Martha replied and yanked her black cardigan across her chest to emphasise how mad Renée was. Renée had shouted at Martha on Friday for not returning her stapler. And, despite Renée going out to buy us cake ‘because you’re both worth it’, despite a weekend’s hiatus, Martha hadn’t forgiven or forgotten. She wasn’t the F&F sort. At some point, very soon, Martha would be paying her back in kind.

  ‘No, Renée’s all right. I wonder what’s troubling her,’ I said. Even after that performance I was fiercely loyal to Renée.

  Martha shrugged. ‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. I might go on a chocolate run, it feels like a bit of a Flake morning.’ She paused, thought about her chocolate choice. ‘Actually, sod it, I’m going to do a Renée, buy some cake and coffee and, hell, some caviar and champagne and put it through as expenses.’

  ‘She never did that!’ I said, turning to Martha.

  ‘Too right,’ Martha said. ‘She does it all the time.’

  ‘Clever, that,’ I said, not meaning Renée’s expenses violation. This was Martha’
s revenge: letting me know Renée’s little secret so I’d do it and when Renée sees it, she won’t be able to say a word, and it’ll burn in her soul.

  Martha’s face split into a wide grin as she realised she was rumbled. ‘All right, that was a bit obvious. But I’m going to get the bitch back. I’ll just have to be a bit more sneaky about it.’

  Instead of replying, I stared out at Leeds. The rise and fall of the buildings, the colours and shades stretching on and on. A patchwork of lives. A stitch here or there to keep them connected. Some lives overlapping, others only touching through other pieces of the patchwork.

  My eyes flickered over the panorama, but I knew if I stood in a particular spot, dislocated my neck and pushed my eyes out of their sockets, I could see Greg’s office from here. He worked ten minutes down Wellington Street in the Yorkshire Chronicle building, as Features Director on the Sunday Chronicle’s glossy supplement, SC.

  ‘You all right, love?’ Martha asked.

  I returned my gaze to her, realising we’d been sat in silence for a while. ‘I’m fine. A bit concerned about Renée, that’s all.’

  Martha nodded in understanding. ‘You had sex, didn’t you?’ she said.

  I rearranged my face so as to not look:

  a) guilty

  b) shocked that she’d guessed

  c) like I’d had sex.

  ‘Sorry?’ I replied.

  ‘You had sex, that’s why you’re acting crazy.’

  ‘Acting crazy how?’

  ‘How? What you said to Renée is how. Anyway, it’s written all over your face. You’ve been celibate for yonks and now you look like you’ve had a good seeing to. You’re actually glowing.’

  I laughed. Martha was so fishing, but it’d caught her the big one.

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ Martha encouraged. ‘You had sex.’