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people who care most about her in the world, although it should be three people. Her goddamn father should really be here and I’m upset for Amber that he isn’t. I’m willing her to open her eyes, because even if I don’t have time to say all the things I want to, she’ll be able to know exactly what I’m thinking if only, only she would look at me. Then they flicker open, just enough, so that her mother and I take our cue. We clasp a hand each and Amber looks nowhere in particular because she hasn’t even got enough energy to turn her head.
     
    “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Make the pain go away.”
     
    Once again, my eyes start to water. I don’t speak because I figure her mother should have the final say, but I squeeze her hand tightly, make little stroking movements with my thumb.
     
    “You’ll be fine darling,” Mrs Slater reassures. “I love you so much and will be waiting right here for you when you wake up. I promise you I’m not going anywhere.”
     
    We’ve reached the swing doors, the dreaded double swing doors. The nurse motions that we must stay here, because any further is out of bounds. The doors swing shut, swallowing Amber up behind them. I’m wearing black trainers, not Technicolor red shoes, but it’s the symbolism that counts. I pretend I’m Judy Garland. I close my eyes, tap my feet together three times, and make a wish. “Let Amber live; let Amber live, let Amber live.”
     

Chapter Six
     
     
     
    Why is it that whenever people wait around in a hospital they keep volunteering to get the drinks in? Mrs Slater has just gone to get me my fourth cup of coffee. I don’t really want it, but I know she’s only trying to keep occupied and don’t want to offend her. It feels like we’ve been waiting for ages and we have. It’s been four hours. Surely the longer it goes on the better the sign. I’m still reeling from the speed with which everything is happening. Twenty hours ago Hugo and I were guzzling champagne, eating bouillabaisse in Le Souquet, the old town of Cannes. Now I’m sitting in a grim, noisy, institutional corridor waiting expectantly for news, some news, any news, but please God make it good.
     
    I’m desperate for time to slow down so that I can take in what’s happening, but maybe it’s best if I don’t. Maybe it’s better to pretend this isn’t happening to me and definitely isn’t happening to Amber. Perhaps this is all some horrid, hateful nightmare that I’ll wake up from and breathe a huge sigh of relief that it was only a dream. Although I’ll never share this dream with Amber, because she might try to read some significance into it, and it would forever prey on her mind.
     
    Mrs Slater returns, confirming that I am indeed living this hellish nightmare. She hands me a plastic cupful of steaming, murky brown liquid. For the second time today I’m wondering where Mr Slater is and feel really sad, for Amber and for her mother. It must be a lonely business waiting by yourself, praying by yourself for your daughter to pull through. I know I’m here for support, but I’m sure she could do with some more. Hell, so could I.
     
    I had known Amber’s father. For the first two years of our friendship the three of them lived quite happily, or so it seemed, in their house down the road. But then when we were about ten years old he suddenly upped and left and went to live in Rio de Janeiro, following some Brazilian goddess who he claimed was the new love of his life and he couldn’t do without. Amber and her mother were distraught and begged him to stay, but he’d made up his mind. I hated this short, dark, stocky man for the misery he’d bestowed on my friend. Quietly I’d thought good riddance, they’re better off without you. But that’s not what Amber thought. She never stopped wanting him to come back, to be a proper family like mine. And whilst before he’d left we would spend an equal amount of time in each others’ homes, afterwards