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

police had not. Then, as she’d lost hope, she found she didn’t have the energy to scour the pages. But she couldn’t simply get rid of them. There could be a clue.

But still. Some stuff must go. ‘You can take the bottles,’ she told Richard, feeling decisive. ‘Just the ones you’re holding. Will there be room for old post too?’

‘Of course,’ said Richard. ‘Whatever you need.’ He smiled at her. ‘You know, you’re brave in more ways than one, Amy Ashton.’

Amy frowned at him. ‘Take those bottles before I change my mind,’ she said, confident that she still had plenty more left. He took the bottles and Amy closed the door behind him.

Amy looked around, and chose the bottom step as the best sorting location. She grabbed the mail that still sat on the doormat and the letters that had spilled off from her pile, like the bubbles overflowing from freshly poured Prosecco. She’d start there.

She put anything that had a marketing message on the cover straight into a pile for recycling. Printed envelopes got a cursory open and check, before being condemned to the same fate. She saw that Leah was right, there were a few letters here from the council, getting increasingly aggressive in tone. She put them in the recycling too.

Progress was quick, and soon Amy’s recycling pile reached her knees, the papers gently caressing her legs. She thought about what would happen to the paper next. What would it be turned into? A book perhaps, she decided. She looked at the envelopes. Several books probably. That would be a nice second life for junk mail. She got up to go to the loo and had to wade through paper to move. She’d put the first load out now, she decided. Gathering it up in her arms in a giant hug, Amy opened the door and made her way to the recycling wheelie bin that sat outside Richard’s house. She struggled to lift the lid, pulled a face at the smell that came out, of mouldy baked beans and not completely clean cartons of yogurt. She tried not to look at the bottles, then dumped the papers inside. She went back into the house.

The hallway felt different already. Spacious. The floor was clear, at least by the doormat. Amy took a deep breath. It was lovely.

She almost felt like opening her door to show the world, but then recoiled at the thought.

Was it lovely? Amy looked at the dirty floor. She’d forgotten how ugly the lino had been. Maybe the bottles were better after all. She felt a draught. At least the post had provided some insulation.

It was Wednesday. The rubbish wouldn’t be collected again till Monday. She had until then to change her mind. Nothing was gone for ever.

Amy heard her phone beep and grabbed it from her pocket.

Spike.

And he wanted to meet.

June 2004

‘It’s like Little House on the Prairie.’ Chantel was practically skipping up the garden path.

‘It’s a tiny two-bed house in a grotty suburb,’ replied Tim. ‘With bad lino and horrible green carpets.’

‘It’s a clean start,’ said Amy. ‘I think that’s what Chantel meant.’

‘No drugs in the house,’ said Chantel, smiling. ‘No crazy parties and no rum at three a.m. Tea and biscuits and the occasional sophisticated glass of wine.’

‘I’ve always been a sophisticated wine sort of guy,’ said Tim, giving Amy a little kiss. ‘You remember the night we met?’

‘Always,’ said Amy, leaning in to return the kiss. ‘Screw tops and roundabouts,’ she whispered to him.

‘I’ll do the honours,’ said Chantel, ignoring them. She put the key in the lock. ‘New life, here we come.’

‘Wait,’ said Amy. ‘Let’s get a photo.’ She balanced her camera on the wall, set the timer, and the three of them stood and posed, grinning like maniacs. She and Tim were clutching backpacks full of their possessions, Chantel had two large wheelie suitcases. ‘Say cheese,’ said Amy.

‘Cheesy,’ said Chantel. She opened the door and breathed in. She turned to Amy. ‘Thank you for this,’ she said, giving her friend a hug. ‘Sometimes I just feel like I want to shed my skin and start all over again. And now I can.’

Amy hugged her friend back. ‘Fresh start,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait.’ She was excited. True, the higher rent meant she was stuck full time at Trapper, Lemon and Hughes for the foreseeable future, but she could still spend evenings and weekends painting.

‘It’s a pity there’s no garage,’ said Tim.

‘You don’t have a car,’ said Chantel.

‘For rehearsals,’ explained Tim. ‘We’ll have to do it in the living room.’

‘We won’t be popular with the new neighbours,’ said Chantel. ‘That couple next door already look pretty sour.’

‘Mr and Mrs Hill? I met them when I came to take the mattress delivery. They seem very nice; I bet they’ll love Tim’s music,’ said Amy, loyally.

‘It’s a more mellow sound these days,’ agreed Tim.

Chantel opened up one of her suitcases and removed a small kettle and three chipped mugs. ‘Tea?’ she said. ‘We should christen the new house.’

‘You’re the perfect flatmate,’ said Amy. ‘I never would have thought to bring a kettle.’

‘We’ll need to shop for all the other bits and pieces we need tomorrow,’ said Chantel. ‘I left everything else at Spike’s place. Pretty tragic, isn’t it? All we’ve got to show for ourselves is in these suitcases. And those hideous backpacks.’

‘I’ve got my music,’ said Tim defensively. ‘And Amy has all the gorgeous art in her studio. You have . . . ’ He paused. ‘Does a criminal record count?’

‘It’s just a caution,’ said Chantel. ‘And you’re an arsehole.’

‘Ignore him,’ said Amy. ‘He’s very protective of those backpacks.’

Chantel laughed. ‘I’ve dealt with worse,’ she said. ‘Right. I’m going out to buy milk and biscuits. And I’ll get more keys cut.’

Chantel left and Amy and Tim stood looking at each other. ‘I forgot to carry you over the threshold,’ he said, regretfully. ‘Shall we