The Other Us. Fiona Harper
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me for a quiet word in the pub garden. Even though it was July, we’d had the place to ourselves because it had been hammering down. I still remember the scent of warm soil when I think of that moment.
He’d stared at me in the glow of the security light, more serious than I’d ever seen him. ‘Don’t …’ he’d said.
I’d frowned. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t marry him.’
I’d stared at him then, wondering what on earth was going through his head. Didn’t he remember that he’d been the one who’d pulled back and cooled off? ‘What? And marry you instead?’
‘Yes! I mean, no …’ He’d scrubbed his hand through his floppy dark hair and looked at me with unguarded honesty, a strange look on him, because he’d always been so careful to develop an air of knowingness.
My heart had begun to pound hard, just as it had when Dan had pulled a small velvet box from his pocket down by the river earlier the same evening.
Jude had cleared his throat and started again. ‘I mean … what I’m trying to say is that I think I made a horrible mistake.’
He’d looked at me, willing me to fill in the gaps, but I’d held my ground. Not this time. If he had something to say he was going to have to be clear about it. I had to know for sure. He’d taken in my silence and nodded.
‘I think I love you,’ he’d said. ‘And I think it might destroy me if you marry him.’ He’d screwed up his face and I’d known him well enough to know he was wrestling with whether to say something else. Finally, he’d added, ‘And I think it might destroy you too.’
As fast as my pulse had been skipping, I’d raised my eyebrows, waiting for more.
He’d shaken his head. ‘You’re right. Destroy is much too dramatic. What I mean is – ’ He’d broken off to capture both my hands in his. ‘I don’t think he’s what you need, Meg.’
Meg. He was the only person who’d called me that. I pause for a moment just to run my mind over that fact, like fingers reading braille.
‘And you are?’ I’d asked him.
He’d given me that look again. ‘I’d like to try to be.’
I’d shaken my head, more in disbelief than because I was refusing him. ‘But you’re supposed to be going off to France next – ’
‘Come with me.’
I’d frozen then, brain on overload, unable to process anything more. ‘I can’t,’ I’d said, pulling my hands from his, and I’d backed away. It would be more romantic, I suppose, to say that I’d stumbled away from him, overcome by emotion, but I don’t remember it that way at all. I remember my steps being quite precise and deliberate.
That was the last time I saw Jude Hansen. I’d left him there in the rain. I’d had to.
I close my eyes and concentrate on pausing the memory, like hitting a button on a TV remote, and then I file it away carefully again behind lock and key.
Jude had always had the potential to do well, but that had only been one side of the coin. He could also be a little bit arrogant, thinking his way was the only way, and he hadn’t responded well to authority. There had been a restless energy about him. I’m glad he’s harnessed it, made it work for him.
We’d got together the first year I was at uni, in the spring. I’d known Dan, too, but back then he’d been firmly in the ‘friend zone’, as Sophie would say.
Jude and I had a wild and romantic couple of months, where we’d hardly left each other’s side, then the three-month summer break had happened. Dominic, his best mate at uni, had parents who owned a villa in the south of France but I’d come home to Swanham and spent my summer working as a barmaid. I should have known then things weren’t going to work out. While Jude’s family weren’t too different from mine – his dad was a builder too – he’d always wanted more. The rest of his college girlfriends had been leggy and gorgeous, part of the rich crowd.
I was utterly devoted to him, and time apart only cemented those feelings. When I’d spotted him across the Student’s Union the first day of autumn term, I’d had one of those moments that you see in the movies, where I’d been suddenly sure that I loved him, but it seemed the separation hadn’t had the same effect on Jude. We’d continued to see each other, but it had felt … different. More casual. I wondered if there was someone else. Or several someone elses. Dominic had a rather attractive sister … But I’d never found any evidence of infidelity, so I’d continued to follow him round like an adoring puppy.
I think he’d liked the adulation. He probably should have weaned himself off it and cut me loose long before he did, but eventually he sat me down and explained he thought we were too young to tie ourselves down.
I’d agreed. We were. It was stupid to get attached, to think I’d found the person I’d be happy with for the rest of my life. I’d told myself I’d needed to grow up, be a little bit more sophisticated.
But then six months later, I’d got together with Dan. He’d liked me since Freshers’ Week, he’d said. You’d have thought I’d be gun-shy after Jude, that I wouldn’t have wanted to throw myself into something serious so soon, but I wasn’t. Somehow I’d just known Dan was a safe bet.
Dan.
I look up at the clock on the kitchen wall. Flip! Where has the time gone? He’ll be home soon. I quickly turn my laptop off and shove it on the Welsh dresser, covering it with a cookery book and some takeaway leaflets that came through the door. I start washing up, just to keep myself occupied and I don’t even notice what I’m cleaning because I’m staring out of the window.
Dan, a safe bet?
After twenty-four years of marriage, I’m just starting to realise I might have been wrong about that.
The door slams about half an hour later, when I’m upstairs in the bathroom, and I come down to see Dan’s coat thrown in the direction of the rack and his shoes kicked off, clogging up the hallway. I’ve been nagging him about that for as long as we’ve lived together. I don’t know how many times I’ve almost broken a bone tripping over them. I pick them up and tuck them into the Ikea unit I bought specifically for them, which is populated by lots of my shoes and none of his, and then I go into the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ he says and plants a kiss on my cheek.
It’s a nice thing to do, I suppose, and for a long time I knew he did it because he was happy to see me at the end of the day; now I suspect it’s just habit.
‘You’ll never guess what?’ I say. ‘Oaklands is having a reunion. I saw it on Facebook.’ I shut my mouth quickly. I hadn’t intended to say that. I was going to tell him about Sophie.
Dan raises his eyebrows in interest as he fills the kettle, and I realise that now I’ve opened this can of worms I’m just going to have to carry on. I reel off the names of people in the Facebook group I remember. Jude’s name is on the tip of my tongue and I have to keep leapfrogging over it.
I’m usually a nice person. I try to get along with everyone, not to be bitchy or mean-spirited, but I’m aware there’s a part of me that actually wants to blurt Jude’s name out, just to see how Dan reacts. But I don’t. I keep the words inside my head.
It’s getting a bit crowded in there now with all the things I want to say but never do. I worry that one day my brain will get too full and all the things I’ve thought but don’t want Dan to know will come tumbling out.
Thinking of things I don’t want Dan to know, I feel my cheeks growing hot. I closed my laptop ages ago, but I’ve been thinking about Jude all afternoon. Not that last time we spoke, but other things: the way he used to