The House Swap(57)

She takes this in, frowning imperceptibly. As she does so, she sinks into a chair, gesturing for me to do the same. She leans forward, knotting her long fingers together, scratching her pale-pink-painted nails thoughtfully back and forth over her skin. There’s something hypnotic about the movement. ‘I think you are,’ she says at last. ‘I think you are wrong.’ Despite the qualifier, it doesn’t sound like an opinion. She speaks with absolute confidence. ‘If you know Carl,’ she continues, ‘then you should know that he doesn’t change his mind. It’s almost a weakness, as far as he’s concerned. And he made a very definite decision to leave your relationship behind.’ Only now does she meet my eyes, and the unblinking directness of her gaze is unnerving. ‘He’s moved on,’ she says.

When the words first land they hurt, a well-aimed blow that makes me flinch. But the impact is glancing, fading into nothing almost as soon as it has come. What she says is hollow in the face of the evidence I have – not only the secrets I am keeping from her, but the simple, tangible force of how similar we look. ‘It’s a strange way to move on,’ I say, gesturing into the space between us.

Amber’s face flickers briefly with doubt as she catches on to my meaning, but she shrugs, brushing her hair behind her ears. ‘He has a type,’ she says. ‘A lot of people do.’

I know it’s more than that, but I don’t comment, letting her hear the echo of her own words in the silence. ‘How much has he told you?’ I ask instead. ‘About me. About our relationship.’

She seems on safer ground now, drawing herself up and meeting my gaze again head on. ‘Everything.’ Her face twists, as if she might say more, but she presses her lips together and half shakes her head, a little internal self-check.

Without wanting to, I’m giving that one word its context. Images are rising inside me, headed with increasing speed towards that final still point: the road outside the Silver Birches hotel, the place where I last saw you. I see Amber watching me, and I wonder how much of what I am fighting hard to suppress is written over my face, and if she really knows, if she really understands. For so long I have believed that our secrets have existed only between you and me, in a tight, unhappy little club of two. It’s an unspoken bond, stretching across the distance. It’s kept me in your life, and you in mine, whatever the facts might say. The thought that the circle might have expanded to include her disorientates me.

‘Look.’ Her voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘That message you just sent me.’ With a shock, I remember the reason I texted her. ‘I don’t really understand what you were asking. You’re asking why I didn’t tell you Carl lived here?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That first day we had coffee, when I asked you if you knew the person who owned the house I was staying in, you said no. Why didn’t you tell me it was him?’

She frowns, clearly thrown off base. ‘Why would you think that?’ she asks. ‘Carl lives here. Here. In this house, with me.’

I blink, trying to take in what she is saying. It makes no sense, and yet it rings true. The crockery in her kitchen, the bright-coloured walls, the stark black-and-white prints in the hallway. These are your taste, not hers. I can imagine you here in this house, in a way I’ve never been able to imagine you at number 21. The mental images of you here flood my brain with a certainty that tells me she isn’t lying.

I’m wading through treacle, trying to catch up with a meaning I can’t quite grasp. Does number 21 belong to another of your girlfriends, someone who trusts you and lets you into her home and whose absence you’ve timed to coincide with my arrival? Have you posted her details on the house-swap website without her knowledge? Somehow enlisted her, obtained her keys and intercepted mine? Or do you own both houses? But every idea that comes to me feels implausible.

‘When is he coming back?’ I ask at last. I need to drag the conversation back to firmer ground. The here and now is what we need to concern ourselves with; it’s the only thing we can deal with right now.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ she says, and she can’t suppress the lift in her voice for an instant, her face momentarily illuminated by the private happiness the thought is giving her.

I clench my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms. I’m not due to return to Leeds for two more days and, although I still don’t understand how, you must know that. You’re choosing to return early. Why would you do that? Surely only because you want to see me?

‘We need to decide what to do,’ Amber says bluntly. ‘I’ll be honest, I don’t think you should stay. I don’t think it will do any good for you to see him. No good for you, or for him. Or for me,’ she adds – casually, but I know that this is what must be burning brightest in her mind.

My immediate reaction is to defy her, but I have the sense to keep my mouth shut and bite my tongue. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say at last. ‘I’ll text you in the morning.’

Amber nods, and I see her body sag in the armchair, as if drained by the intensity of our conversation. ‘OK.’ She rests her head back, half closing her eyes.

I stand to leave, but when my hand is on the door I can’t help turning back and asking the question that has been nagging at me ever since I knew that she was the one person who could give me the answer. ‘How is he?’ I ask simply.