The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria
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When he sees me, a smile washes over his face and he stands to greet me; gives me a hug, pulls back and kisses my cheek. Not an air kiss. A proper kiss. Lips on skin. My eyes close. Unintentionally.
I slide onto the bench opposite him and slip out of my suit jacket. Underneath, I’m wearing a sleeveless silk blouse.
‘Wow,’ says George. ‘You look… different.’ He’s not seen me in glasses before. I lower my gaze and look at him over the narrow tortoiseshell rims.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.’ I stretch my arms up over my head to release my hair, which has been in a bun all day, and shake it out over my shoulders. It’s a flirty move and it surprises me that I do it. ‘So, how are you?’ I say.
‘Comme ci, comme ça.’ George gives a Gallic shrug. I can feel his eyes on me, sliding over the bare skin of my arms and my throat.
We make small talk for a while, but below the words lies a subtext. The important discussion is non-verbal. Decisions are being made. When I can take it no more, I shift in my seat.
‘George,’ I say. ‘Why are you here with me?’
He leans back in his seat and exhales. ‘We’re… having a drink?’ His face lights up as he smiles.
‘No. I don’t mean that. I mean why are you here in Hampstead – miles from your home, from your wife – having a drink with me? I know you weren’t up here for work. Give me some credit.’ I see from his expression that I’m right. ‘What do you want from me?’
He has the grace to give me a coy look. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
I close my eyes, then open them again. I’m going to give decency one last shot. ‘But you have Ness,’ I say. ‘She’s beautiful. She always was the beautiful one.’
George’s face collapses. ‘Oh, Stell… is that what you think?’
I shrug. ‘This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what you’re doing here.’
‘I know. I know how it looks. “I’m a lucky man; why risk it?” and all that, but…’
‘But what? You chose. You had your choice, and you chose Ness.’
‘Stell. That’s unfair.’
‘Is it? Really?’
George closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he starts to speak. ‘I’m not happy, Stell. The marriage isn’t in a good place.’ He shakes his head. ‘Marriage!’ he snorts. ‘I say “marriage” as if what Ness and I have resembles that in any way, shape or form.’ He waits but I don’t say anything so he carries on. I’m running my finger along the grain of the table while he talks. ‘It used to be good, when it was just the two of us and we had nothing. But she changed the moment the money started rolling in. She has no career. She’s nothing but “Mrs George – Mrs Advertising”. She does nothing all day except pamper herself so she looks good. She’s like a footballer’s wife. What do you call them? A WAG. Totally vacant.’ He knocks his knuckles against his temple. ‘Nothing there. It’s taken over who she is, Stell; it’s all about her image, how she looks. I’ve forgotten what the real Ness even used to be like.’
I let his words settle, then I say, ‘I see.’ I’m not going to pass judgement on anyone else’s marriage, and I’m certainly not going to sit here criticising Ness with her husband, tempting as it is.
‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ George says when he realises I’m not going to say anything else, ‘that my success is only public? Everyone thinks I’m this huge success but, privately, I’m falling apart. If only they could see what goes on at home. It’s like the Cold War.’ George puts his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
The word ‘divorce’ springs to mind but it’s not my place to say it. I give George a weak smile. I will not get involved in other people’s marital spats.
‘I can’t leave her,’ says George. ‘What would she do without me? I’m her provider.’
I look at the table.
‘I know, I know,’ says George. ‘I’m too soft. Everyone tells me that.’ He sighs. ‘What I want from life has changed. I’m learning that sometimes things that look the best on the outside aren’t perhaps the best on the inside.’ George looks meaningfully at me and, despite the backhanded nature of this compliment, I can’t look away. He reaches for my hand across the table and the touch of his skin on mine fascinates me. Gently, he strokes the palm of my hand with his thumb. We stare at each other, communicating on a level that has no words. Then I pull my hand away and smile brightly.
‘So, how’s business?’ I ask. The conversation moves on. We finish the wine, drink another bottle; stick to safer topics. George flirts a little, and I don’t stop him. Around 10 p.m., he reaches for my hand again, and I let him take it. He leans towards me, his eyes searching my face.
‘Stell,’ he says, and I know what’s coming. I realise now that I’ve known all along why I picked this pub below the boutique hotel the first time; why I came here tonight, what I’ve known all along was inevitable. ‘Stell,’ he says again. ‘I want you. Come upstairs with me.’
Right words, wrong order, but I forgive him the slip – it’s been seventeen years since that night, after all. I look into George’s eyes, those hazel eyes I used to know so well. I search them and I see regret, desire, and, if I’m not mistaken, love.
‘Please?’ he asks.
I lower my eyes. Inhale. Exhale, then I look back up at him.
George slides a key card across the table. ‘Go now. I’ll come up in five.’
It’s not stealing if it should always have been yours. I take the key card and head for the stairs.
There’s no time for me to reflect on what happened with Stell: the very next day is my wedding anniversary and Ness, it turns out, has booked us a romantic dinner à deux sliding down the Thames on a luxury river cruiser. She’s even arranged a cake. It’s coming towards us now: a chocolate gateau held majestically aloft by a beaming waitress. Ness moves a candle out of the way and takes my hand across the table.
‘I hope you don’t mind.’ She smiles. ‘This is why I’ve been trying to stop you ordering dessert. I thought they’d never bring it out.’
I squeeze her hand. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ But I do. I hate showy, public displays of affection: the forced happiness. The hope – followed, inevitably, by the disappointment. It’s just so married; so ‘meh’.
‘I know you wanted a quiet dinner, but – well, it’s fourteen years!’ Ness is pleased with herself. Has she done this because she knows I’ll hate it, or do I just think that because I know I deserve to be punished?
The waitress arrives, places the cake reverentially in the centre of the table, arranges a knife, two plates, and there it is: ‘George & Ness’ entwined in dark chocolate italics across a slab of white chocolate atop the cake. Naff, naff, naff.
‘Congratulations,’ says the waitress. ‘Happy anniversary.’
Our fellow diners turn quietly back to their own dinners.
‘Shall I?’ I ask, picking up the knife.
‘Just a little.’
I cut two slices, one marginally smaller than the other, and pass one to Ness.
‘Happy anniversary, darling.’
‘Happy anniversary. Another year survived.’ Ness laughs.
‘It’s