Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

got this cold at home. Then she thought about having a repair man in her house, and changed her mind.

‘I like your ring,’ said Charles, all of a sudden. ‘Are you married?’

‘No,’ replied Amy. She paused, trying to think of something else to say.

‘Good,’ said Charles. He paused too. ‘My dad isn’t married to Nina.’

Amy nodded, and took another sip of her juice.

‘The ring is a bit of a mystery,’ she confided. It felt weird to talk about it to this little boy, but once the words were out it was a relief. ‘I found it in my garden. After the cat knocked over the pots.’

‘Finders keepers,’ said Charles, approvingly.

‘I think it was meant for me,’ said Amy. ‘From my boyfriend.’

‘You have a boyfriend?’ Charles picked at a scab on his knee.

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘He left, a long time ago.’ She paused. ‘Disappeared,’ she said.

‘My mum’s gone,’ said Charles. ‘That’s pineapple juice and losing people that we have in common. And cranes.’ He paused. ‘So where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Amy.

‘Did you call the police?’ asked Charles, looking excited.

‘Of course I called the police,’ said Amy. ‘As soon as he went missing.’

‘Police cars are my seventh favourite vehicle,’ Charles told her. ‘After diggers, excavators, cranes, fire engines—’

‘They searched for months,’ interrupted Amy. ‘Nothing.’

Charles paused. ‘What do they think happened?’

Amy took a sip of juice. She didn’t like talking about their explanation, even to Scarlett. ‘Someone else left at the same time as he did,’ she said, slowly.

‘The murderer!’ said Charles. ‘It’s obvious.’

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘It was my best friend. The police thought that they’d run away together, and I thought that too, eventually. But now I’ve found the ring, and it makes me think that maybe they didn’t run away together after all . . . ’

‘Oh,’ said Charles. He frowned.

‘What’s going on in here?’ Richard stood in the kitchen doorway. His hair was even messier than usual, mirroring the shape of the couch cushions. Daniel stood next to him, thumb in mouth.

‘It’s private,’ said Charles. ‘Go away.’

‘No, I’ll go,’ said Amy. She hesitated. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Charles.

‘You should go back to the police,’ said Charles. ‘Tell them you’ve got a new clue.’

‘Police?’ asked Richard. ‘Amy, are you OK?’

‘Nee-nor nee-nor,’ contributed Daniel.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Amy. ‘I need to get going.’ She turned to Charles. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘The pineapple juice was lovely.’

July 2002

‘Great to have you on board, Amy. It’s nice to have a younger face around. Freshens the place up.’ Mr Trapper smiled at Amy and she felt her glorious summer slipping away.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s only for a month,’ she added, more for her benefit than his.

‘Of course. Fine arts student, your gran said. Maybe you can brighten up the office. In between photocopying, I mean.’ They both looked at the drab grey office, the only colour a framed photo of Mr Trapper’s baby daughter, her head encased in a candyfloss-pink hat as she stared accusingly into the camera.

‘I can try,’ said Amy. ‘But I’d better get going now.’ She bent down to pick up her bag, keen not to spend longer here than she needed to until she was being paid her seven pounds an hour.

‘I’ll introduce you to Margery,’ said Mr Trapper. ‘She can show you the ropes, that way you can hit the ground running on Monday.’ He stood up and Amy reluctantly followed him down a staircase to a drab-looking elderly woman sipping coffee and looking critically at her fingernails. ‘Margery, this is Amy. Her gran sings with Mrs Trapper in the church choir. Fine soprano.’

Margery looked up, seemingly unimpressed by the familial connection. ‘She’ll be helping you over the summer,’ continued Mr Trapper. ‘Photocopying, typing, deliveries and the like.’ He smiled benevolently, ignoring the fact that Margery was still scowling. ‘I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,’ he said, heading back into his office.

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said Amy, holding out her hand.

‘We’re very busy here,’ said Margery, taking another sip of coffee and ignoring the proffered hand. ‘You’ll hardly get a moment to yourself. Slave driver, that Mr Trapper.’

‘Really?’ said Amy, politely.

‘Oh yes,’ replied Margery. ‘Get yourself a coffee now, while you still can. Then you’ll need to load the photocopier. It’s out of paper. I’m rushed off my feet.’ She glanced at her shoe then back at Amy, as if to prove her point.

‘I don’t actually start till Monday,’ said Amy apologetically. ‘I think Mr Trapper just thought we could meet and, you know, tell me a bit about the job . . . ’

‘Monday it is,’ said Margery, turning back to her computer. ‘Coffee’s gone cold,’ she said, scowling again. ‘It’s a madhouse here.’

Amy took the mug of tea from Tim. They were sharing; it was Simon’s turn to do the washing-up and he was in his room sleeping off a hangover. The others, Tim included, and by proxy Amy, were refusing to clean a single item in protest.

Amy didn’t mind. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, she took a sip and passed it back, enjoying the simple intimacy. The painting she’d given him hung on the opposite wall, making the room feel as if it were in a constant state of sunset. ‘It was awful,’ she continued. ‘The room I’d be working in is in the basement so there’s not even any light. And the photocopiers make this weird whirr and blow out hot air and Mr Trapper said to watch out if I put my hand in there to unblock a jam because the last girl burned herself.’

‘Welcome to the world of work,’ said Tim. He’d taken some shifts stacking supermarket shelves to supplement his income from the band. ‘It’s shit.’ He raised the mug to her in a mock cheers. ‘At least you’ll be getting decent money.’

‘It will be worth it,’ said Amy.