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out of reach.
    ‘That’s what I think of that idea,’ I said.
    ‘What the  . . . Ambe r!’ Greg whimpered in open-mouthed shock, staring at the gutter. ‘What are you doing?!’
    ‘What am I doing?’ I said, my voice getting louder with each word. ‘What am I doing?! Did you even notice she was wearing a WEDDING ring!’
    Greg paused, thought about it, shook his head.
    ‘NO,’ I shouted as I stormed off to the taxi, which had pulled up in front of us, ‘YOU WOULDN’T, WOULD YOU?’
    And this was the man I’d slept with. A man to whom I was probably another entry on his ‘Must “Do” Before I’m Forty’ list. But I’d done it anyway.
    That was the real issue. I knew what Greg was like and I’d done it anyway. It frightened me that I could be like that. That I could sleep with him in the first place, and when I did that I could leave his body covered in bites and scratches, and deep nail impressions. We’d only stopped because we ran out of condoms. He didn’t have any more, and I didn’t have any at all. I could have carried on all night if he hadn’t frantically searched through his clothes, then looked at me with anguish in his eyes as we realised that was it. No more sex. No more intense, filthy sex.
    I’d rolled away from him as he’d climbed back into bed, closed my eyes, forced myself to sleep in case I decided to do it anyway and worry about the consequences later.
    It was as if I’d worn a mask and done those things, as if I’d become Nectar, as Greg branded me (yes, Amber Nectar, he was quick like that, Greg) because I was usually too sensible for such behaviours. I was Good Amber. The steady one.
    When we were growing up, it was always Eric, my brother, who got into trouble for not concentrating in class; for not doing his homework; for sneaking out of the house at night. Me? I worked hard, got good marks, went to my first party when I got to university.
    In college, it was always Jen who was up in front of tutors for not doing coursework, for not turning up to class; Jen who needed to take the morning-after pill; who I’d bought more than one pregnancy test for. Me? I’d had one-night stands, but I was sensible about them. I had boyfriends, but I was sensible about them too. I went to class; I had safe sex; I’d never needed to wee on any type of stick.
    I stopped outside The Conservatory, where I was meeting the others, my body resting against the iron railings. My feet were whining about the shoes: ‘Like walking on razor blades’ was the message they sent my brain in the international language of pain. I lifted one foot and rested it flat against the railings behind me to alleviate the torture.
    The thing that scared me most about Friday was how much I’d enjoyed it. How much I’d wanted to do it again and again.
    Something had been unleashed in me. Something wild, unpredictable, unknown. I was acting crazy, according to Martha. I’d spent £ stupid on a dress after actually going – alone – into one of those shops where they frisk you on the way in to check you’re not wearing anything that cost less than a tenner.
    I switched feet, rested my left foot against the railings behind me to give it momentary relief.
    I was different. How, I couldn’t put my finger on, or hold in my head long enough to examine. It went beyond antagonising Renée and decimating my bank account . . . It was . . . I launched myself off the railings, pushed a cold hand through my hair to flatten the locks the wind had whipped up.
    I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to overanalyse things, I was going to enjoy myself.

chapter five
    mr toffee man
    Warmth, sweet-smelling smoke and sounds of a good time surrounded me, drew me in, as I opened the door of The Conservatory, a cellar bar in the middle of town. It had an area with large overstuffed dark leather seats and bookcases filled with real books that made it look like an old-fashioned conservatory.
    I clocked my friends straight