The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria
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Done and dusted.
Meanwhile, George and Ness… love’s young dream.
Allegedly.
The phone rings and who knows why I do, but I pick up.
I’m awake before the alarm, a ball of morning energy. While Ness stretches luxuriously, her hair cascading over the pillows like some fairy-tale princess, I leap out of bed and zip downstairs to make the coffee, singing out loud as I take the steps two at a time.
‘Morning, darling,’ I say, bounding back upstairs, presenting the cup to Ness like a trophy. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Oh wow,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did someone win the lottery?’
‘Nothing! I just felt like spoiling my lovely wife. What’s wrong with that?’ I lean down and kiss her forehead. In the bathroom, I take a sip of my coffee and look at my reflection in the mirror: not bad for thirty-three – I regularly get mistaken for much younger. I like to think the boyish light is still in my eyes, and that the lines that are slowly starting to appear add character rather than age. I smile at myself, pleased with the decision I made to get my teeth professionally whitened. It really does make a difference. I run a hand through the hair on my temples, turning so the light catches it: there’s no grey there yet, but I’m not scared of the day it does start to appear: I’ve always fancied being a silver fox; a bit of a George Clooney. I rub the bristles on my jawline – even though I haven’t shaved for a couple of days, there’s no grey there, either – then I gently massage a few drops of shaving oil all over my face, to pep up the circulation and plump up my skin.
I can’t stop whistling in the shower, then, with the towel slung around my hips, I pull out my best suit and newest shirt. I match my cufflinks to my shirt and agonise over my tie: bold and bright, or classic? I hold each up in turn, turning this way and that to see which best brings out the light in my eyes. I suppose it’s not surprising that Ness looks up from her own mirror.
‘Important meeting?’ she asks, head cocked to one side, hairdryer in hand.
‘Yep. Which tie?’
She points to the bright one. ‘Need me for lunch?’
‘Oh – thanks, but no. It’s pretty much in the bag.’
‘OK.’ She shrugs and turns back to her hair but I can tell from the jerkiness in her movements that she’s thinking; irked perhaps. She usually comes to these lunches: I joke that she’s my client-magnet, though we both know she’s really just an ornament at the table. I tut silently to myself, my head in the wardrobe as I look for my belt: Didn’t think that one through, did you, George? I slide my belt through its loops and fasten it, then I go over to Ness and put my hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror. She puts down the hairdryer and her eyes meet the reflection of mine.
‘It’s a cert. I didn’t want to bore you with it.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yep.’ She fiddles with a pot on the dressing table, unscrewing and screwing its cap. Then she sucks her teeth. ‘Will you be late tonight?’
I turn and cross the room, my back to her as I pick up my suit jacket and slip it on, find my wallet and slide it into my trouser pocket.
‘’Fraid so. Didn’t I mention it?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
At the door, I pause and turn to look at her. ‘Yeah. Potential new client. Drinks in the West End.’ I shrug. ‘Sorry, hon. He chose the location. But it’s not dinner. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cooking,’ I add. ‘I’ll pick up something on my way.’
‘OK,’ she says.
Our eyes meet across the bed and hang together for a weighted moment – a moment in which I wonder if she’s on to me – how could she be? – then I smile.
‘I’ll be home as soon as I can. Have a good day, babe.’
It’s jeans again. So shoot me: they look good. I take a final look in the mirror, pick up my handbag and leave the apartment. While I’m walking to the pub, I wonder how long it’ll take George to come up from Richmond; what he’s told Ness he’s doing tonight. My steps ring out as I stride down the road, sounding more confident than I feel. With every strike of heel on pavement, I ask myself, What are you doing? What exactly are you hoping to achieve with this?
I’m usually very clear on my motives. It’s my USP; who I am. From buying a sandwich to launching a new menu, I never do anything without knowing exactly what it is and why I’m doing it. Informed. Decisive.
But today I’m confused. How has this man from whom I haven’t heard for fifteen years persuaded me to meet him in a pub? Am I really such a pushover? Have I seriously been waiting fifteen years to receive a call from George Wolsey? I don’t think so, yet one week ago he was nothing to me and now I’m walking to the pub to meet him: go figure.
But there’s more to my unease than feeling disconcerted by how easily George has blasted his way through my defences: he’s married, and there’s a part of me that senses his intentions are not entirely pure.
When it comes to George, my sixth sense always used to be right.
I stop and pretend to look in the window of an estate agent, my eyes roaming over the properties for sale until they focus on my own reflection in the glass. It’s the pull of the past, I tell myself. That’s all it is. Yes, he may have been not just ‘the one’ but ‘the one and only’ fifteen years ago (I cringe as I see in my mind’s eye the page of ‘Stella Wolsey’ signatures), but a decade and a half has passed. I’ve moved on: I’m a successful woman in my own right.
Yes, I nod to myself in the glass: all this is about is a shared past; an understandable desire to link with a person who knew me years ago – nothing more. I have so much history with George. He used to know me better than anyone else on the planet. He still knows that part of me; you can’t take that away. We saw each other every day of our childhoods. It’s got to be worth something.
It’s got to be worth an hour in the pub with a glass of wine. Hasn’t it?
I used the word ‘desire’ back there. I noticed that.
I turn and walk on.
*
The pub is popular, well known for its food. Up a creaky staircase, six quirky bedrooms turn it into a boutique hotel. George is there before me, a bottle of wine on the table, and a whisky in his hand. He looks smart in a suit with a garish tie and he’s picked – as I knew he would – one of the discreet alcoves at the back of the bar; a place where we’re least likely to be disturbed. He doesn’t stand up to greet me. I slide onto the bench seat opposite him and he reaches for my hand across the table.
‘Hey. Thanks for coming.’
I let him squeeze my hand for a moment before withdrawing it. His skin feels cool, softer than I remember. Hands that don’t do dishes.
‘You’re welcome.’
George looks at me. Takes me all in, and I watch him. His thirties really do suit him.
‘You look amazing,’ he says eventually. I’m glad to hear it but I’m not going to tell him that.
‘Thanks.’ I look pointedly