Still is.
Amber looks down the beach. She hates being alone with herself when she has these thoughts.
‘Come on,’ she whispers to herself as she forces herself out. ‘This hut won’t paint itself.’
As she paints over the next few hours, she tries to keep her mind on the job in hand but can’t help but notice there aren’t any customers. She’d not sold a jot the past week apart from the blanket, and her aunt and mother had done that. What was she doing wrong? She’d focused on the bestsellers, mainly the items she renovated: the small stools she’d picked up from charity shops, turned into side tables. The antique framed mirrors cleaned and spruced up. It was all on-trend: distressed look with pastels. So why were sales down this winter?
Deep down she knows why: she simply can’t produce stuff quick enough. If she had two good hands, it might be a different story. She did this a lot, thought about the what-ifs. A guaranteed way to distract herself. She’d had a talent for renovating items, even at a young age. She lost her fingers a few months after starting school and her mother talked about how her teachers marvelled at how skilled Amber was before her accident; she’d had a knack of turning cardboard boxes and plastic bottles into something pretty, even at just four. She’d overheard Viv once saying to a friend: ‘Amber could’ve done great things if she’d not lost those fingers of hers.’
Amber looks down at the stumps on her hand in frustration. One stupid moment going out in the snow when she wasn’t supposed to, and the course of her life had been altered.
Well, there’s nothing she can do about it now, is there?
Maybe she needs to think about reducing her opening hours, finding a job in town? She takes in a sharp breath. Does she really want to do that? Her mortgage is small, the apartment she lives in tiny. She has minimal outgoings. It isn’t necessary. And anyway, what the hell can she do with her useless hand? It takes her what feels like treble the amount of time to do everyday things – including painting.
‘Argh!’ she shouts in frustration. She throws her paintbrush down, red paint splattering on the pebbles. She makes herself a hot chocolate with the small kettle she has in the hut and walks out onto the sand, blowing on her drink to cool it down. As she does that, she tries to blow her worries away too.
She looks towards the hospital again and imagines her little Katy there, alone, scared, confused. Amber and Jasper had been with her to the end, holding her hands and whispering in her ear, trying not to look at all the wires coming out of her tiny body. Amber had that, at least. The knowledge her daughter hadn’t had to endure it alone.
But this poor girl, in hospital with no idea of who she was and where she came from.
‘For God’s sake. Now I’m going to have to go to her, aren’t I?’ She quickly places her paints inside before closing the hut and rushing towards town.
As Amber strides up the road and into town, the skies are gloomy, so gloomy the shop owners have turned on their Christmas lights. They sparkle red, blue and green in the shop windows, Christmas music tinkling out. People pass, many smiling in greeting at Amber.
Soon the town square will be filled with festive market stalls. Some of them will be selling produce Amber had sourced, handed over in exchange for promises to send customers down to the beach.
The hospital comes into sight. Amber walks in.
‘There was a girl who came in this morning,’ she says when she gets to the reception area. ‘The one found on the beach?’
A glum-looking receptionist wearing an elf hat looks Amber up and down. ‘Yes. And how can I help you?’
‘I was the one who found her. I’d like to see her, if possible?’
The receptionist narrows her eyes at Amber. ‘How do I know that?’
Amber rolls her eyes in exasperation. ‘Seriously?’ She peers into the ward. ‘Is Doctor Fiore on duty?’
The receptionist’s eyes flicker with confusion. ‘He is.’
‘Can you tell him Amber’s here? He can vouch for me.’
The receptionist picks up her phone, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Amber. As she pages Jasper, Amber leans against the counter, taking in the hobbling patients and sullen-looking children. Winter means ice-related falls and viruses galore. Jasper was always his busiest at this time of year. She well remembers the nights huddled up in front of the fire alone, then the joy of him returning and the hot baths they’d share as she scrubbed away his day.
A moment later he appears, striding down the corridor, his holly-and-ivy tie tucked into his shirt. ‘Is everything okay, Amber?’ he asks.
‘This woman won’t let me see the girl,’ Amber explains.
Jasper turns his smile onto the receptionist. ‘It’s all right, Kathleen. Amber was the one who found her. I’ll take her to the ward.’
‘So sorry, Doctor Fiore,’ the receptionist says, her face flushing.
Jasper shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, really, you were only doing your job.’
The woman beams.
‘Looks like you still have a way with the ladies,’ Amber says as Jasper leads her towards the lifts.
Jasper shoots her a look. It had always been a joke between them, how the staff had little crushes on Jasper. It was even funnier as Jasper didn’t seem to notice it at all. But it was obvious to Amber, especially when she attended any of his work get-togethers and saw the way the young girls, some men too, would blush when Jasper talked to them. She didn’t feel she could compete really, not with her deformed hand. That was always her problem. She supposed she was attractive enough with her curves and rosy freckled cheeks; in fact, she knew it from the way men would chat her up. But she was always so aware of her hand. It made her so insecure. Jasper said she was imagining it but he didn’t see things through her eyes, the flickering change in expression whenever she met new people, the sudden pretending that they hadn’t noticed. When she told him that, he’d counter that of course they’d noticed. But so what, it didn’t make her any less attractive to them.
‘I checked on her earlier,’ Jasper says now as they step into the lift. As the doors close, Amber is suddenly aware of their proximity, the subtle scent of the shower gel he always used filling her head with memories: his lips on her neck, the feel of her wedding ring slipping onto her finger as he smiled into her eyes, the sight of him holding their newborn, examining every part of Katy’s tiny little face.
As Jasper looks at her now, she knows he is thinking the same. All those memories, the good and the bad.
‘Is she okay then?’ Amber says stiffly. ‘The girl?’
He nods. ‘They did a CT scan. She has some damage to her temporal lobe,’ he adds, gesturing to the side of his head just behind his ear. ‘That will explain the memory loss.’
‘Is