Everything is Beautiful Eleanor Ray (best manga ereader .TXT) 📖

next room. He no longer made conversation or commented on her belongings. It was nice to rediscover things she’d forgotten, like picking up a conversation with a friend she hadn’t seen in years.

The thought sobered her, and the smile she’d barely noticed developing fell from her face. ‘We’re running out of room on the bed,’ said Richard. ‘Is there anywhere else . . . ?’

‘The bathroom,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve kept the shower free. Make sure it’s completely dry, though. We don’t want anything getting ruined.’

‘Indeed,’ said Richard. Amy chose to ignore the sarcasm in his tone. He was helping, after all.

‘Maybe you would like a tea break?’ she offered.

‘Let’s keep going,’ said Richard. ‘I don’t fancy going up and down those stairs more often than I need to.’

Amy assented, happy to get back to her boxes.

‘Argh!’ shouted Richard, all of a sudden. ‘What the hell was that?’

Amy looked up. ‘Did you tread on something?’ she asked. ‘Be careful.’

‘It moved,’ he said, pointing. Amy looked. She couldn’t see anything.

‘I think it was a mouse—’

‘It could have been a key ring,’ interrupted Amy, quickly. ‘I have a few fluffy ones.’

‘That was no key ring,’ said Richard. He sighed. ‘Amy, how do you live like this?’ he continued, the words escaping him fast, as if they’d been building since he entered her house. ‘It’s no way to be.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Amy.

‘It’s far from fine,’ he replied. ‘I have to admit, I thought that Rachel was exaggerating. Gossip, you know what people are like.’

‘Rachel has never been inside my house,’ said Amy, with dignity. ‘There’s not really room for her,’ said Richard. ‘There’s barely room for you.’

‘I’m fine,’ insisted Amy. ‘And it’s none of your business.’

‘Listen, I get it,’ said Richard. ‘You’ve been through a lot. You need your things. But to have so many, all in your house? You can barely get up the stairs!’

‘I manage fine,’ replied Amy.

‘Can’t you hire a storage room?’ he asked.

‘I need to keep everything here,’ said Amy. ‘Where it’s safe.’

‘But it’s not safe,’ said Richard. ‘It’s not safe for your things. Or for you. Amy, there is so much more to you than all this. But your belongings are suffocating you.’

Amy stopped what she was doing. She pulled herself up to her full height and turned to him. ‘You can leave now,’ replied Amy.

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘I can’t have you getting injured by a clock or a newspaper,’ she said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that didn’t suit her. ‘Or bitten by a key ring.’

‘We can get you help,’ said Richard. ‘Counselling? I found it so—’ ‘Leave now,’ said Amy. She needed to be alone with her things, away from his concern. And his judgement. Instead, Richard made to step towards her.

Before Amy realised what was happening, Richard was stumbling backwards. She’d pushed him. Quickly Amy put her hands behind her back, as if hiding a weapon.

Richard leaned hazardously against a mirror, which wobbled for a moment before both regained their balance.

‘I’m out,’ he said, turning to leave.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Amy, but she didn’t ask him to stay. It was probably for the best.

Richard strode out of the room, banging his head on the protruding cookbook again. He swore under his breath. Amy heard irregular footsteps as he stumbled down the stairs, then the reassuring thud of the front door shutting.

She sank to the floor, leaning her back against the cold mirror. It had been a terrible mistake, letting someone in. No one else understood. A lighter sat on the floor and Amy picked it up and flicked it on, watching the flame light up the air and feeling the heat on her fingers.

She flicked it off again. Fire was dangerous for her things. Instead, she leaned over and grabbed the nearest box, keen to see what beautiful treasures lay inside. Dried honeysuckle lined the box and Amy shifted it carefully to one side.

Then she froze.

The memory box. Scattered with flowers like a coffin about to be buried.

She’d found it.

September 2007

‘I’m not sure it’s going to look like the picture,’ said Amy doubtfully, as she stirred the base for the supposedly green Thai curry from one of her new recipe books. ‘It’s the wrong colour.’

‘Isn’t it meant to be a murky beige?’ asked Tim. ‘All the best food is.’ Amy put down the spoon and reopened the page in the book. They both looked at the picture.

‘I’m sure yours will taste good,’ said Tim.

‘The photo in this cookbook is like a piece of art,’ said Amy.

‘Those muted greens, the pink of the prawns, the red of the chillies. I could cut it out and use it as a collage, maybe with some swathes of yellow running across the top.’

Tim smiled at her. ‘I’d love to see you painting again,’ he said. ‘Actually . . . ’

‘What?’ asked Amy.

‘Nothing,’ said Tim. ‘I promised we’d wait.’

‘Wait for what?’

Tim didn’t answer. He picked up a whole king prawn instead and held it delicately between his fingers. ‘I don’t like the way this little guy is looking at me,’ he declared. ‘I told it I’m pescatarian and it counts as fish so I can eat it, but I’m not sure I can. Its eyes are so sad.’

‘You don’t have to eat it,’ said Amy. ‘But don’t we need to snap its head off before we cook it?’ She looked back to the recipe book. ‘No,’ she said, relieved. ‘Apparently we can cook it like this and then people do that at the table.’ She shuddered. ‘Maybe we’ll say we didn’t have enough and just give them all to Chantel and Jack.’

‘Jack looks like someone who’d have no qualms about snapping the head off a prawn,’ said Tim.

‘I’m glad they are coming over tonight,’ said Amy. ‘I’ve barely seen Chantel since they’ve been back together. Have you?’

‘Why would I?’ said Tim.

‘I just wondered,’ replied Amy. ‘You have, you know, things in common.’

‘We haven’t been