Amber Ryan.
I try not to think about her, but sometimes the memories creep back anyway. The memories of how close we once were, and how it all went wrong; of what she did next, and where she is now.
We met when we were fifteen, at school, back home in Gloucestershire. Her family had moved down from Manchester because of her dad’s job, and Amber joined my year at Bayshill School at the beginning of the spring term. I thought she was beautiful – eyes a soft green that reminded me of wasabi, and hair a mass of deep red waves. By the time the summer holidays began, we were best friends, and for the next ten years or so we were inseparable. We went through it all together: the ecstasy and agony of first boyfriends and first break-ups, the stress of exams and the jubilation when we finally made it to university, the wild nights out and the dreadful hangovers, the celebrations when we both managed to land our first proper jobs in London within weeks of each other. It meant we could move here together, just as we’d always dreamed. We’d shared a flat at uni, always with a couple of others to keep the rent down, but in London it was just us and even though we didn’t have much money for the first couple of years, we had an absolute ball. And then, slowly, things began to change.
We were about twenty-five by then, and Amber, who’d been working in marketing for an events company, had started dating a new guy she’d met on a job. I normally liked her boyfriends well enough, but Theodore… Well, even the name, right? Theodore was a bit of a dick, or at least I thought so. He was a director for a videography company that filmed trade exhibitions, fashion shows, and conferences. It wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but Theodore acted as if he was overseeing the latest Tom Cruise movie, pontificating endlessly about storyboarding and graphics and dubbing and blah, blah, blah. Even his voice – an inflectionless drone – annoyed me, as he prattled on and on, sprawling on the sofa in our little flat in Maida Vale, drinking our wine, and constantly brushing his long, dark fringe back off his forehead, a habit so irritating I had to sit on my hands to stop myself slapping him. I couldn’t fathom what Amber saw in him and, in true Heather fashion, I couldn’t stop myself from telling her that, vehemently and regularly.
I should have kept my mouth shut; I’ve always had a problem with being too forthright with my opinions. And this time, I should have realised that Amber was besotted, and that for the very first time, if it came to a choice between me and a guy, the guy might just win. And, to cut a long story short, that’s exactly what happened. We fell out, big time, over Theodore. I told her she was wasting her time on a dullard like him, and she told me I was jealous and needed to get a life.
‘You hardly ever date. You’re too damn fussy, that’s your problem. You think you’re something special, Heather, and you’re not. You’re a jealous, superior little cow!’ she spat at me, during one particularly heated exchange.
So stupid, in retrospect, throwing away so many years of friendship over a man. We’d argued before – many times over the years, in fact. Despite being so close, we were very different people. I’m feisty and fiery; Amber’s more sensitive and easily hurt. They’d always been brief spats before, but this time was different. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a bit jealous. Maybe I should have made more effort to get out there and find someone for myself, and butted out of her love life. Anyway, we just couldn’t seem to get past it, and in the end we were arguing so much that living together simply stopped working. Amber decided to move out of our shabby little two-bed, and into Theodore’s only slightly less shabby one-bed in Hammersmith, and that was that.
We saw each other a handful of times over the next few months, but the damage had been done, and the meetings slowly fizzled out. Then, about a year later, Amber emailed me to say she and Theodore had parted ways, and that she’d found a job in Liverpool and would be leaving London. She wished me well, but she didn’t ask if we could meet up again before she went. I cried for hours, surprised by how hurt I felt, but what could I do? Our friendship was over, reduced to the occasional text on birthdays and at Christmas, and so we both just got on with our lives. After reading English literature at university, I’d started my career in publishing, working as an editorial assistant, aiming one day to become an editor of bestselling crime novels. But my job wasn’t well paid, and when Amber left I couldn’t afford the rent on our flat alone. I had to move, ending up in a grotty little studio and feeling, for a while, utterly miserable.
Then my aunt – my dad’s sister who’d never married or had children and who’d always treated me like a surrogate daughter – died quite suddenly and left me her house in Nottingham. With my parents’ blessing, I sold it, and suddenly for the first time in my life I had money in the bank – enough to buy a one-bedroom flat in Chiswick outright. Mortgage-free, I quickly realised that although my heart lay in the book world, what I really wanted to do was talk about them and sell them, not help to create them. And so, on the day I turned twenty-nine, I quit my publishing job and started working in the beautiful bookshop just a short walk from my new home.
For a while, everything was great. I had a solid group of friends. I finally truly loved my job. I even dated. Amber had been right; I was too fussy, always seeking a perfection I’d never been able to find, and so I chilled out a bit, took some chances, and had some fun. And then—
Well, for now I’m going to gloss over this bit. I met a guy called Jack Shannon, and for a while I actually thought he might be the mythical ‘one’, the one I’d been waiting for. Christ! How wrong can you be? Suffice it to say we dated for a while, it got freaky – and ‘freaky’, I can assure you, is an understatement – and I got out, fast. It took me a long time to get my head straight and then, out of the blue, Amber got in touch again. She was moving back to London, and she wanted to see me – and my heart leapt in my chest.
By then we were both thirty-two, and it had been more than six years since we’d last been in a room together. My chest felt tight as I walked into our old favourite bar that night, but it was… OK. Nice, even. A little strained, a bit awkward, the conversation a tad stilted as we shared a bottle of wine and, both too nervous to eat much, a few tapas, but nice. And I think we both felt the same as we gave each other a hesitant hug on the street outside before heading home: that this friendship could be resurrected; that we’d been foolish to let it drift; that we should never have let it fall apart in the first place. It might take some time, a period of getting to know each other again, but we could get it back. We could get us back.
Except, we didn’t. What actually happened, in an incredible twist of fate, was that just three days later Amber was out with her new work mates and she met a man. A man called Jack Shannon. Yes, that Jack Shannon. My ex. By the time she got round to telling me about it, she’d already been on four dates with him, and she was besotted, again.
It was like history repeating itself. When she told me, when I heard his name and saw his photo on her phone and realised it really was the same Jack, I tried to warn her. I tried so hard. Tried to tell her what he was really like. And she lost it. She told me to keep my bloody nose out of her life. She told me it was like Theodore all over again and that she must have been mad to think we might be able to rekindle our friendship.
‘I’m sorry I’m seeing your ex, Heather, but I didn’t know he was your ex, did I, when I got together with him? And it’s not like you dated for long. But here you go again, single and jealous. I give up. Piss off, OK?’
And that’s it; a potted history of me and Amber.
Although there’s a postscript, of course. I tried to forget about her after that final row, all hope of rebuilding our friendship dashed. And then, a few months later, she popped up again, but this time on the news. Amber had done something so extraordinary, and so out of character, that at first I couldn’t believe it. And then I was forced to accept that it was true, and that was when I really started trying to forget about her. It all hurt too much to even think about. Did I ever really know her at all? And now, this total stranger sitting across the table from me wants to talk about it? About Amber?
No. Just no.
‘She is not my friend,’ I say again. ‘And I have absolutely no desire to discuss her with you. What are you, a reporter or something? I’m out of here.’
I stand up, reaching for my coat with one hand and picking up my bag with the other. The expression on Felicity’s face turns from concern to alarm.
‘No! Please, I’m not a reporter. This is so important. Please, please hear me out. Just give me five minutes, and if I can’t convince you, then fine, go. But I’m begging you, Heather. It’s life or death. Literally.’
‘Two lattes! Here you go, ladies.’
The waiter’s back, carrying two tall glass mugs of coffee on a tray.
‘Thanks,’ I say, and he smiles and nods and deposits the drinks on the table then bustles off. I wait until he’s far enough away to be out of earshot again then sit back down and turn to Felicity. She looks as if she might be about to burst into tears. Her hands are clasped so tightly together the knuckles are white.
‘Fine. Five minutes,’ I say. ‘Go.’
She shifts in her seat.
‘Thank you so much. OK, well, it’s about Amber Ryan, as I said. About her, and about Jack Shannon, and what really happened—’
‘We all know what happened.’
I interrupt her sharply, and she winces, and then shakes her head.
‘That’s just it. I believe – I’m almost certain – that it didn’t play out like that at all. Just let me explain. You dated Jack first, right? You know what he’s like.’
‘Yes, I do. I dated him, then I left him, then Amber dated him, and we fell out, and then she did what she did and went to prison. Look, I don’t care anymore, OK? This is nothing to do with me. I want nothing to do with either of them. This is pointless. I don’t get what you want from me.’
I half rise from my seat again, but Felicity reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.
‘Please, please. Maybe you don’t care about Amber anymore, but you did once, right? And I know she still cares about you.’
I shrug her hand off and sit down again, glaring at her, but my stomach flips.
‘How would you know that?’ I ask.
‘Through my brother, Nathan. He knows Jack, and he met Amber several times. They got on, you know? And she talked about you. She told him how much she missed you. How she wished you were still friends.’
‘Humph. She was the one who told me to piss off. All I was trying to do was help her,’ I say. I’m aware I sound like a sulky teenager, so I sigh and add: ‘OK. Go on. You said this is “life or death”?’
‘I need you to speak to Nathan,’ she says. ‘He can explain properly. He believes – we both do – that nothing was what it seemed, with Amber and Jack. With what happened. And it’s Nathan’s life that’s potentially in danger, and his little girl’s. He’s moved away – he lives in Spain now – but I can arrange a phone call? Because we think you’re the only one who might be able to help. To expose the truth. To clear Amber’s name.’
I frown, not understanding. What’s she talking about?
‘What do you mean, expose the truth? Felicity, the jury was unanimous. Amber never even tried to appeal the guilty verdict. You’re not making any sense.’
Felicity’s gaze flits around the café for a few seconds, then she leans towards me again.
‘No,’ she says. Her tone is low but her voice is steady and there’s a steely, determined look in her eyes.
‘You’re wrong. The jury got it wrong. The police got it wrong. We believe Amber Ryan is innocent. And she’s not just in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, Heather. She’s in prison for a crime that never even happened.’