Rosie Nixon - Amber Green Takes Manhattan

‘You okay?’

‘Hey?’ He almost jumped. ‘Sorry, just sorting Pinky out then I’ll get dinner on. We’re having fish. Okay with you?’

‘Sounds great. Do you have any wine in here?’

‘There’s a bottle in my bag in the hallway, should still be slightly cold.’ He seemed nervous and it wasn’t like him not to open a bottle straight after a stressful day at work.

He was making me feel jittery too. I found the wine and returned to find Rob scrolling through emails on his phone. He was lost in thought as I unscrewed the top and poured us each a glass.

‘Shall I get the oven on then?’ I asked.

Finally, after dinner on our laps in front of some terrible sci-fi film Ben refused to turn off, Rob opened up. We were in his bedroom and I was reading an email from my boss, Joseph, who wanted a load of changes to the clothes I’d chosen for our latest window display at Selfridges.

‘How was I supposed to know he wanted muted candy colours rather than brights?’ I moaned. ‘He could have mentioned the fact two weeks ago when I started pulling it all together. It’s so frustrating.’ Rob was miles away. ‘ And he’s asked me to come into work naked tomorrow.’

‘Eh?’ He’d spent the last ten minutes fiddling with the iPod dock, but there was still no sound coming out.

‘He’s asked me to… nothing. Perhaps you can tell me what happened at work? You’re clearly not listening to me.’

He turned and sat on the bed next to me. Then he looked at me earnestly. ‘Louise, the series producer, had a chat with me about a pitch the company’s just won for a shoot in New York,’ he began.

‘New York, wow,’ I uttered, though I felt my stomach knot as I sensed what was coming.

‘It’s to make a fly-on-the-wall series about Angel Wear.’

‘As in, Angel Wear, the underwear company?’ I asked.

‘Right,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. The knot in my stomach was pulled tighter. ‘She’s asked if I want to produce it – there’ll be directing involved too.’

‘In New York?’ I repeated, just to check I’d heard correctly. A mental image of the Angel Wear lingerie models popped into my head, all tanned, long-limbed perfection.

‘Yes, it would mean moving out there – for at least three months, maybe longer.’

I took a moment to process this. ‘Do you want to do it?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked truly pained.

‘Well, when do you have to let her know?’

‘As soon as possible, they’re keen to get visas in place and a team out there in the next few weeks.’

I knew I must look as if I was desperately trying not to cry, every muscle in my face straining to retain its composure. I ached for him to pull me into a big bear hug and kiss my forehead reassuringly. But he didn’t. I’m not even sure he noticed my strange facial expression because he just lay back on the bed and sighed.

‘Listen Amber, I’m not sure about all the details yet, maybe I won’t take it, I thought I wanted to move away from this kind of telly. But it’s an opportunity to direct. I’m going to talk to Lou properly in the morning. I just wanted you to be in the loop.’

I managed to utter the words, ‘Yes, great, just got something in my eye,’ and escaped to the bathroom where I locked the door behind me. I sat on the side of the bath and held my head in my hands as I tried to imagine what this meant for us. Finally, I find someone I really like – someone I think I love; someone I can imagine building a life with – and now he’s going to move to New York. Maybe I’m destined to be single forever, after all.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, Rob was already in bed looking at his phone again. Self-consciously I undressed, pulling on one of his T-shirts and awkwardly undoing my bra and wriggling out of it without showing any flesh. Instead of finding my usual sleep position: legs entwined with his, face buried in his chest, I stayed on my side. My feet were freezing.

And now, here I was, lying in bed awake at five in the morning, thinking too much, sniffing him and stalking his tattoo.

The events of last spring were still raw in my mind, nine months later. A fateful trip to Hawaii had changed the course of my life: I had finally realised Rob did have feelings for me; my then boss, Mona, completely lost the plot; and my best friend Vicky ended up shagging Trey Jones, the Trey Jones, the famous film director and man who we were meant to be watching get married. You couldn’t have made it up.

Vicky moved in with Trey in LA almost immediately, but it had taken Rob and me a whole four months after that to finally get together, when he tracked me down at work in London. I’ve been starring in my own rom-com ever since – Vicky providing the ‘com’, even from the other side of the globe.

Rob had said he needed to be out of the house extra early in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, but this morning I was happy to pretend to be still asleep while he tip-toed around the room, gathering his clothes before going off to shower. I stirred as he gently kissed my cheek goodbye but waited for the front door to slam before I got out of bed and dragged myself to the bathroom.

I’d gone to sleep trying to convince myself that things are never so bad in the cold light of day, but why did I still have the same feeling of impending doom? I tried to tell myself that three months was nothing – it would be over in a flash. But when you’ve only been dating for five months, it feels like forever. As a waterfall of hot water cascaded onto my head, I was lurched out of my despondency by the even more horrific realisation that there was no shampoo or conditioner in this shower. And soon after that, I realised there was none anywhere in the bathroom, so I went to work with hair washed in Lynx Deep Space shower gel. The day could only get better.

I called Vicky as I walked to work from Oxford Circus tube. ‘He’s going to be filming underwear models.’ Saying it aloud made it sting even more.

‘Man, that’s tough,’ said Vicky, confirming what I already knew.

‘Underwear models!’ I exclaimed again, thinking that making them sound faintly ridiculous might make them less threatening.

‘I heard you. The Icons all have legs up to their armpits, washboard stomachs, perfect racks, peachy—’

‘Yes, yes, okay, I think I know what an underwear model looks like, Vicky. I feel crap as it is, no need to rub it in.’

She paused, before replying, measuredly, ‘What I was going to say was peachy bottoms – and air for brains . Amber, stop doing the paranoid girlfriend thing and rise above this. It’s you who Rob’s going out with, and that’s not going to change. Well, unless you start acting all insecure and paranoid about the underwear models and their peachy bottoms that he will be filming. Not dating or having sex with – just filming. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ She didn’t have to spell it out quite so bluntly. Although she had hit the nail on the head.

‘Anyway, when are you coming out to see me?’ She changed the subject. ‘Not being funny but it’s been nearly a year, and you still haven’t got on a plane. We’ve got tons of space. I’m even naming a suite after you – the Green Suite. Come on Am, book it! Bring Rob too if you want. I’m going nuts out here in this huge mansion. And I need some English humour, desperately. I also need digestive biscuits dunked in Earl Grey tea. But most of all, I need us !’

She was right. I needed ‘us’ too. I missed Vicky so much – her wry sense of humour and the hilarious escapades we’d got up to when we shared a home.

‘Anyway, how’s things with you?’ I asked