Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

ago,’ said Amy, finding the volume of her voice rising beyond her control. ‘But we didn’t. You just left. Both of you.’ She leaned back against her door frame. She felt pain in her head, then discovered that her fingers were pulling at her own hair.

‘I don’t want to shout about this in the street,’ said Chantel, her voice quiet as she glanced around nervously. Amy found Chantel’s reluctance to make a public scene jarring. That wasn’t the Chantel she used to know.

Used to love.

But that Chantel had gone. She’d gone for ever when she’d betrayed Amy.

Amy shut the door and bolted it. Then she leaned against her hallway wall and closed her eyes.

‘Please,’ said Chantel, her voice muffled through the door. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Amy took a deep breath. She reached to the ring, still hanging from a chain around her neck. She needed the truth.

Amy stepped forwards and opened the door. Just a crack this time.

‘Thank you,’ said Chantel. The women stood in silence, watching each other through the sliver of space that Amy had allowed. Chantel was dressed simply but neatly in jeans and a pretty lilac shirt and she held herself straight. Straighter than she used to. Amy found herself staring at the white buttons on Chantel’s shirt. Nothing else seemed real.

Amy peeled her gaze from the buttons and looked into Chantel’s eyes. ‘What you did . . . ’ she began. Anger enveloped the rest of her sentence.

‘Let me explain.’

Amy’s fingers hovered on her door. Part of her wanted to close it shut again. To sit with Scarlett and her mirrors and her mugs and never have to hear the words spoken.

‘I want to tell you what happened,’ said Chantel. ‘Please, Amy.’

Amy hesitated. She put her hand to the ring again and squeezed it tightly. This was her opportunity to hear the truth. Afterwards she could shut the door again. For ever, if she wanted to.

‘Five minutes,’ she said, opening the door and stepping back.

‘Thank you,’ said Chantel.

Amy led Chantel to the living room and gestured for her to sit on the sofa. Amy ignored Chantel’s concerned face at the state of the room and remained standing, her arms firmly crossed.

‘Why now?’ asked Amy, feeling betrayed by the tears that were starting to sting her eyes at the sight of Chantel in her house again. ‘Why do you suddenly want to see me now?’

‘Aunt Laura called me,’ said Chantel. ‘She said that you wanted to speak to Mum, that my letter had been lost.’ Chantel looked up at Amy. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘When you didn’t reply to the letter, I thought it meant you didn’t want to see me. That you blamed me for what happened.’ She looked down again. ‘God knows I blamed myself.’

Amy found she didn’t want to hear Chantel say the words. She didn’t want to hear the confession. She picked up a green plastic lighter from an overflowing box full of them and squeezed it between her fingers. ‘Toyah wasn’t in Dubai, was she?’ she said.

‘Dubai was a cover story,’ confessed Chantel. ‘Mum’s been with me. She wanted to be near her grandchildren.’

‘Grandchildren?’ The word felt like a knife in Amy’s gut. Tim and Chantel had children.

It was too much.

Amy flung the lighter at Chantel. Chantel ducked, but there was no need. The lighter hit the wall far to Chantel’s right.

‘What the hell, Amy?’ exclaimed Chantel, looking at a deep chip on the wall from the lighter. ‘Good thing you’ve always had terrible aim.’

Amy ran to fetch the lighter. The plastic was cracked. ‘It’s broken,’ she gasped.

‘It’s just a lighter,’ said Chantel, looking at the open box. ‘You seem to have plenty. Do you even smoke?’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Amy. ‘After what you did . . . ’

‘You don’t know what happened,’ said Chantel. ‘Sit down. Let me tell you. Then if you want to, you can throw all the lighters in the box at me.’

Amy found herself sinking on to the sofa. She held the lighter in her hands, gently now. The crack caught the light and she ran her finger along it.

‘Your mum knew where you were,’ said Amy, without looking up from her hand. ‘And Laura.’

‘Aunt Laura didn’t know,’ replied Chantel. ‘She just knew what she had to say if anyone called.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Amy.

‘I did run away,’ said Chantel. ‘But not with Tim.’

‘But you left together,’ said Amy.

‘We disappeared at the same time,’ replied Chantel, her voice careful. ‘It’s not the same thing.

‘You haven’t been with him?’

‘No.’

Amy looked at Chantel, who met her gaze. She was telling the truth, Amy was sure of it. She hadn’t betrayed her. Neither had Tim. A weight lifted. Not from her shoulders.

From her heart.

Amy barely had a moment to feel relief. Worry flooded her. ‘Then where is he?’ asked Amy. ‘Where’s Tim?’

Chantel broke her gaze and looked to the floor. Then she turned back to Amy. Still no words.

‘Is he OK?’ pushed Amy.

‘No,’ replied Chantel, finally. ‘He’s not OK.’

Amy didn’t want to hear the words, but she needed to.

‘He’s not . . . ’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Chantel. ‘Tim is dead.’

Chantel went to take her hand, but Amy was gone. She rushed to the kitchen and vomited into the sink, the lighter still tightly clenched in her hand. Chantel must have followed her, because she felt her stroking her hair. ‘Get out,’ said Amy, her head still over the sink. Chantel obeyed.

Amy lifted her head and stared out of the window. Smudge was in the garden, assiduously cleaning his tail. He looked up from his work and looked at Amy for a moment, his gaze critical. Then he went back to his task. Amy opened her hand and looked at the lighter again, then she squeezed it tight.

Dead.

Amy ran the kitchen tap, then grabbed a mug, filled it with water and took a sip. It was the yellow one, the colour of butter, that she’d rescued from the neighbours only a few short weeks ago.

Amy