Amber Green Takes Manhattan. Rosie Nixon

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

      ‘Not great, to be honest. Why do you think I’m still awake at two in the morning and not at a party? I’ll tell you, because I’m lying in bed – alone – trying to work out what I’m doing with my life.’

      ‘Oh, honey, sorry to hear this, and I’ve been banging on about me. What’s going on?’

      ‘Nothing really. And that’s half the problem. I’m so bored here, Amber. Trey’s out at the crack of dawn each day and back late, if he comes back at all. He’s working on a big feature film and although it’s filming in LA, I hardly see him. I know more about our pool cleaner’s life than my own boyfriend’s right now. I even made lunch for the hedge trimmer yesterday, I was so bored of cooking for myself. He was pretty hot, as it goes, I was starting to find his strimmer sexy. Honestly, if Trey hadn’t come back that evening… Amber, I don’t know what I’m doing out here.’

      ‘You found his strimmer sexy? That’s desperate. Have you told Trey how you’re feeling?’

      ‘If I had a chance I probably would, but, like I said, he’s barely here and I don’t want to do the whiney girlfriend on the phone thing. I never wanted to be that girlfriend, but I’m getting close to having no option. Be careful what you wish for, Amber, maybe there’s more spark living apart.’

      ‘But not living in separate continents. God, it’s never straightforward is it? What are we going to do?’

      ‘I wish we could go to the Chamberlayne and get drunk.’

      ‘Me too. I could murder a girlie drinking session with you.’

      ‘I miss you so much, honey. I keep thinking of my room in the flat. At this rate, I could be back before you know it.’

      ‘Listen, let’s keep each other posted, okay, and if it all goes wrong, of course you can just move back. We’ve still got the flat, your room is exactly as you left it, and we’ll just carry on like before. Our lives weren’t so bad, were they? Sainsbury’s must be suffering from a loss in revenue from hummus and Popchips since you’ve been away, I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms too.’

      Finally, she laughed. ‘You’re right. It will be fine. This film is meant to end in a couple of weeks and then Trey’s mentioned a holiday in Mexico, so I’m sure we’ll be back on track. And Rob does love you, Amber, I know it. He might not take the job anyway.’

      ‘I s’pose. Let me know if you speak to Trey. Love you, bestie.’

      ‘Love you more. Night night from here.’

      I had our Kensal Rise flat pretty much to myself these days. Trey, being loaded, was paying Vicky’s half of the rent so they had a London bolt-hole, but they were yet to use it; the one time they popped back for a premiere, he checked them into a suite at the Soho Hotel. Even so, she was definitely still there, haunting the place. Some of her belongings were still strewn around her room and many of her pictures still hung on the walls: the black-and-white framed print of Brigitte Bardot in the living room, cigarette casually hanging from her lips, wind-swept hair, black scarf tied loosely around her neck, to remind us how to be cool, like Brigitte; the collection of Instagram photos from various holidays, printed out and carefully framed, to remind us of our best moments, if ever we needed reminding – usually on the Saturday nights when we were in our PJs, having a living room picnic in front of Ant and Dec. It was all so carefree, silly – and single.

      And now here we were, coupled up in our late twenties. Much as I loved the days of being in a platonic relationship with Vicky, I was so happy about that fact I didn’t have to face the prospect of being a thirty-year-old spinster. While Vicky always had some guy on the go, whether it was ‘Sunday Simon’ or ‘Sexy Jim from the art desk’, I was a bona fide ‘car crash’ when it came to relationships; another traffic-based pun on my full name, Amber Green. Yes, after ten years in the single wilderness, it felt so good to have someone who would go to the twenty-four-hour garage for a family bag of Maltesers or run me a bath after a shitty day at work; someone who embraced the role of human hot water bottle, taking pleasure in warming my block-of-ice feet when I got into bed. Life was great. But now the thought of Rob taking off for New York was following me around like a shadow.

      The walk along Oxford Street from Marble Arch was very different in January compared with before Christmas. The strings of bright lights across the road were gone and, bar a few sad, forgotten decorations in some shops, the festive period had been packed away. The London sky was heavy with big, grey clouds.

      Christmas came and went in a bit of a blur, to be honest. Rob went to his mum’s big house in Holland Park and I went to the family pile (read: suburban semi) in deepest North London. As per usual, everything revolved around my sister’s six-year-old daughter, Nora: ‘Nora prepared the Brussels sprouts!’; ‘Nora nearly recited that song from Matilda by heart!’ The ‘Nora Show’ was in full effect. And it was every bit as grating as a pantomime – for three days solid. Urgh, listen to me. My New Year’s resolution is to be nicer to Nora.

      After polishing off a couple of morning glasses of dry sherry, moving on to prosecco and red wine with lunch, then on to port, by way of a Baileys, I was feeling very fluffy around the edges by nine o’clock. Instead of watching Big for the trillionth time with my sister and Nora, who was being allowed to stay up as long as she wanted, much to my horror, or allowing my dad to beat me at Trivial Pursuit circa 1990, again, I called it a night. Apart from booze, the only thing keeping me going through the day was texting Rob and later sexting with him until I fell into a port-induced coma in the tiny spare bedroom, because my old bedroom had been commandeered by – you guessed it – Nora. Rob seemed to be having a much more civilised day, his mother having decided to take him and his older brother, Dan, plus Dan’s fiancée, Florence, out for a champagne Christmas lunch in a trendy Notting Hill restaurant,