The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria
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George Wolsey before he became successful – before the celebrity lifestyle and the gorgeous Richmond house, the magazine spreads and the paparazzi shots. We’re a select group that knows his secrets.
Some of us, more than others.
I wonder if he’s there already.
George.
On the pavement, the sound of unsteady heels makes me turn and I see two women, clutching each other’s arm and sheltering under one umbrella, approach the door. I know them. They were close at school – like me, they hung on the outer peripherals of cool, but they didn’t seem to care – they stuck together. Tonight they’re noticeably heavier, tarted up, and they look happy; excited. They’re giggling, and I picture them half an hour ago in the cluttered family kitchen of one of their homes, generous glasses of white wine in their hands as they down a bottle for Dutch courage. Am I jealous?
Oh please.
The women wrench open the heavy door and step inside the bar. I hear a snatch of music, laughter, but not George’s voice. My thoughts slide towards Ness – also officially ‘going’. Perhaps it’s because of her, not George, that butterflies are dancing in my stomach. But it’s all history now, water under the bridge, and I need to make a stand.
‘OK,’ I say to the driver. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Sure?’
I pass over some notes, slither out of the cab and pull open the door to the bar before I have time to change my mind.
I’m up at the bar, my back to the room, listening to a woman I used to sit next to in French class tell me about the successes of her three marvellous children when George and Ness arrive. I suppose I’ve been there for forty-five minutes – an hour tops. I hear the door open and the bar seems to stop, to pause, as everyone turns to see the golden couple walk in. My peers may deny it, but they’ve all googled him; everyone in the room knows who George is these days. There’s a collective intake of breath as my classmates absorb the fact that George and Ness are actually here: that George Wolsey really did click on the ‘going’ button and that he and his picture-perfect teenage sweetheart wife really have come to see them. I know what every single one of them is thinking: OMG, I have to get a selfie with him.
George breaks the pause. His voice rings around the wine bar, somehow drowning out the music which, up to this point, has been abrasive. I turn to face the room.
‘Hey! Long time!’ he says in that affable voice I remember from the sixth form, and I see his smile, the way it envelops everyone in the bar, making them feel wanted, included, valuable: a missing part of George’s wonderful life. He rubs his hands together and his voice takes on the tone of a game-show host. ‘So how’s everyone tonight?’ Seeing what happens next reminds me of the day we placed a little pile of iron filings next to a magnet at school. Vroom. George is surrounded.
I turn back to my companion.
‘So tell me again about the music lessons. How exactly did you decide on clarinet instead of oboe?’ She’s only too happy to explain the process of choosing the right instrument for your child and the lesser known benefits of learning music at a young age but I notice that, as she answers, she keeps a keen eye on George and Ness, and it makes me want to kick her in the shin. We get through a few more minutes of football and ballet and how the eldest son’s in the top maths set then my companion suddenly whispers, ‘OMG. He’s coming over!’
For a second, I actually think she means her son.
‘No!’ she giggles, giving me a nudge. She flicks back her hair. ‘George Wolsey!’
‘Stella Simons?’ George’s voice is right behind me so I take a breath and turn to face him, a pleasant smile on my face as I absorb the sight of George Wolsey aged thirty-three. His teeth are straightened and whitened; his skin tanned, possibly from an Indian Ocean hideaway, or maybe from a bottle. Either way, it’s clear he’s a rich man in his prime; a man who knows he looks good.
‘Hello, George,’ I say.
‘Stella! It is you! I’m so glad you’re here!’ George leans in with a waft of cologne, and I close my eyes and tilt my cheekbone to touch his in the most impersonal of air kisses but, as his mouth comes into the proximity of my ear, he whispers, ‘I’d know that arse anywhere.’ His hand touches the small of my back and I feel the heat of his breath in my ear.
Now, there are many ways this reunion could have gone; many ways in which George could have behaved with me after an absence of fifteen years but, given the fact that he hasn’t seen me for a decade and a half – not to mention the terms on which we last parted – a comment about my backside is not what I’m expecting and, honest to God, it throws me.
‘Lovely to see you,’ I say. ‘But, if you’ll excuse me—’ I nod vaguely at the room ‘—I was just about to…’
I skirt past George and launch myself into the bar. It’s not a wise move: I end up face to face with Ness. At first glance, she looks like an even better, glossier version of her beautiful self – the best possible Ness there could be – but there’s something slightly out of kilter from how I remember her face looking and I realise in an instant that it’s Botox, and quite possibly some fillers, too, that’s changed her contours. Ness’s teeth gleam like a row of Japanese pearls and I clock, too, her perfect nails. Ness’s complexion is glowing but, up close, I see how much make-up she’s wearing and there’s a brittleness about her eyes. It’s not this, though, that everyone notices: it’s her hair. Ness’s magnificent hair has a life of its own and I see now that it’s even more impressive than it used to be. In another world, I’d ask her what her secret is.
She looks me up and down, this vision of perfection that is Ness Wolsey, then she speaks.
‘Stella! How lovely!’
She leans in for one of those girlie hugs around the neck and I get a whiff of some rose-based perfume as her cheek brushes mine. The scent is nauseatingly sweet.
‘It’s been – what? Fifteen years?’
I don’t grace this with a reply: it’s the fifteen-year reunion, after all, and the bar is full of banners and silver balloons proclaiming the fact. ‘So how’s life treating you?’ she continues. ‘You always were going to run the world. Did you succeed?’ Her voice is smooth, but I see a vein pulsing in her neck. She knows what happened – of course she knows.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m in catering.’
‘You always were baking cakes,’ she laughs. ‘Lucky you to do something you enjoy.’
‘Yes. I’m doing fine. No complaints.’ I don’t tell her the name of my company – a name she’ll definitely recognise. Neither do I mention that it’s the largest private catering company in London; that its annual turnover could wipe out the debt of a small country. ‘And, well – congratulations to you,’ I say. ‘You’ve… done well.’ I force a little laugh to detract from the fact that we both know the only thing she did well was to marry George.
Ness takes a swig from her wine glass and I notice two things: first, that it’s a small glass and, second, that she’s nearly halfway through it. She’s barely swallowed her mouthful when George swoops, grabs the glass out of her hand, and replaces it with a glass of sparkling water, making me think ‘alcohol problem? Interesting.’ George heads back to the bar without saying a word and Ness, unfazed, gives a little shrug.
‘I’m good, thanks.’ She smiles, and her pretty dimples blink at me, taking me straight back to those dark days in the sixth form. I smell medical disinfectant, see the shine of steel, feel the stiffness of a green gown against my skin. ‘It’s all good.’ She nods towards George, back at the bar, and gives a little sigh. ‘Been married fourteen years now. You know how it is.’ She pauses, glances at my left hand. ‘So, how about you?