What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  “Well, hence the term ‘loosely.’ They’re only the inspiration. It’s not their biography.”

  She sips her wine again. “Did you get in touch with that guy yet, about joining that writing group?”

  I stare at her. “Oh, you actually hated it.”

  Her eyes widen. “No, that isn’t what I meant! I just remembered you were going to try a session with that group, that’s all.”

  Self-doubt and dismay spread through my chest like a bruise.

  There have definitely been times over the years when the world’s seemed to be telling me to jack writing in. Like when that pipe leaked above my bedroom at uni and destroyed all my writing notebooks. And when I had that short story accepted for publication in an anthology just before I left, only for the small press to fold before it could ever get printed. The handful of submissions I made to magazines, all returned with form rejections.

  I feel humiliated suddenly, exposed. My biggest fear has been that my novel isn’t good enough to share, or even exist—and this lukewarm response has proved me right.

  Why, why, did I send it to Caleb?

  “You encouraged me to do this, Tash,” I remind her, childishly defensive suddenly.

  My sister’s eyes get even wider. “Lucy, it was excellent—honestly.” She elbows Simon next to her. “Wasn’t it?”

  He looks up. “To be fair, I’m not much of a reader, but . . . yeah. It was good.”

  Hardly a resounding endorsement.

  Tash rolls her eyes. “Lucy, I swear, I loved all the back and forth between Jack and Hattie, and you do tell it so beautifully . . .” She trails off, seeming to sense the need to pick her words carefully. “I just remembered that writing group and thought, you know . . . it might be useful. Only because you’re a beginner. You’ve never had any formal training.”

  I scoop up the glass containing what’s left of my fake margarita. If I can’t even show my work to my own sister without feeling this way, what chance would I have in front of strangers?

  Lifting the iPad close to Simon’s face, Dylan starts describing his preferred scooter from a short list of three, which thankfully saves us all from having to sit through the world’s most awkward silence.

  “That came out all wrong, Luce,” Tash says, once Dylan’s finished his sales pitch. “We honestly loved it.”

  I meet her eye. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Dylan squeals with delight at something Simon has said and dashes from the room, iPad abandoned. Simon takes the opportunity to top up Tash’s glass, then his own. “So, how’s it going with your new bloke?” he asks, clearly sensing a need to change the subject.

  Tash looks relieved. “Yes, come on—what’s the gossip?”

  I smile. “No gossip,” I say primly, which is actually sort of true.

  “Come on,” Tash says. “We love gory details.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve known him—what—two weeks?”

  “But you like him, right?”

  I can’t help smiling. “Yeah, I do. But . . .” I trail off, unsure as to whether my fears are even real at this stage.

  Tash leans forward. “But what?”

  “I’m not sure . . . I mean, he said the reason he and his wife broke up was because they were different people, by the end.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And, there’s a lot about him I like, but . . . he wants to go traveling, and he’s just . . . very different to anyone I’ve dated before.”

  In the past, I’ve mostly been drawn to guys who were very driven and focused and goal-oriented. That’s not to say Caleb isn’t any of those things—but it’s certainly not what would spring to mind if I were asked to describe him. Still, him not being my usual type actually feels like a good thing.

  But I still can’t figure out if we’re holding back on the physical front because Caleb’s not planning to hang around. We’ve lost hours over the past couple of weeks to getting cozy on his sofa. But we’ve not taken it beyond that yet, and maybe it’s because we both know that this is something that can’t last.

  “Him being different isn’t bad, though, is it?” Simon says. “I mean, those relationships ended, so—”

  “Yeah, definitely. No, it’s more that . . . I really like him, and I don’t want to get too involved if—”

  “He’s going to up and disappear?” guesses Tash.

  I nod.

  “You could just ask him,” Simon says, with a shrug.

  “It’s early days.” I smile. “I don’t want to scare him off.”

  “You want to know what I think you should do?” Tash says.

  “No, what?”

  “Have fun. Just go with it. Who says you have to get serious?”

  I swallow, and nod. “No, I know.” But what I don’t say to either of them—because how can I possibly know this yet?—is that I have a feeling, deep down, that I already feel serious about Caleb.

  I already know that I don’t want to let him go.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, Caleb invites me to his place for supper. I head over to the cottage at six o’clock, my mind gently rippling with anticipation.

  I already love Spyglass Cottage and its two hundred years of history, its tiny winding staircase, the bijou bathroom. Yes, it’s shabby—the paint is peeling on the window frames, the electrics are temperamental, and some of the floorboards are warping—but it’s got character, a personality. There are past lives and memories buried within its walls.

  “Something smells good,” I say, after he’s let me in and I’m following him through to the kitchen.

  He’s wearing faded jeans and a lightly crumpled T-shirt, his feet bare and hair fluffed up like it’s freshly washed. “Thanks, but . . . you should definitely reserve your judgment till you’ve tried it.”

  I smile and pass him the dish containing the apple crumble I’ve knocked up, dessert being my standard dinner party gift in lieu of wine. “Ditto. So, what’s on the menu?” I peer over at the bubbling contents of the Le Creuset on top of the Aga, the pot’s orange enamel stained brown from years of use.

  “Well, it started out as a veggie curry, but all my spices were out of date, so . . . I think we’d better just call it a stew.” His expression is halfway between a grimace and a smile. “But all the veg is from the garden, so I’m hoping you’ll give me points for that.”

  I smile. “Don’t worry. My crumble was going to be a pie until I realized I can’t actually make pastry. The apples are from my sister’s tree, though.”

  “I really don’t fancy our chances if the apocalypse comes, Lambert.”

  I laugh, flattered by the sudden and affectionate use of my surname.

  He throws me a sideways smile. “Sorry. No idea where that came from.”

  “No, I like it.”

  He lets out a breath. “I’m being literally the most awkward host ever. Must be nervous, or something.”

  “I don’t think you get nervous.”

  He smiles and meets my eye. “Sometimes I do.”

  * * *

  —

  Since it’s a warm evening, we eat outside on the back patio, perched on plastic chairs coated in lichen. The garden is long, narrow, and wildly overgrown, as though it hasn’t been tended to in about a decade—though Caleb has cleared a path to the veg patch through the jungle of brambles and nettles. The burgeoning greenery is daubed with the butter-yellow splash of dandelions, violet clouds of forget-me-nots, the creamy foam of cow parsley. At the far end of the garden, I can just about make out an unruly hawthorn hedge, woven through with honeysuckle and flanked by a line of lime trees, their leaves gently twitching in the breeze. Behind them, the sinking sun is bleeding into a cocktail-colored sky, the clouds becoming watercolor brushstrokes.

  Caleb’s been showing me the
images from a job he was working on this week—taking photographs for the fish bar and grill on the promenade, which has just received a rave review in one of the broadsheets. The shots are impressive, capturing precisely the grill’s rustic, down-to-earth vibe while showcasing bits of fish as if they’re works of art.

  Once we’ve finished the stew, which was pretty good, we portion the crumble into bowls, drowning it in custard. “I take it back, by the way,” Caleb says, examining his spoon after a couple of mouthfuls. “About the apocalypse. I reckon we’d do all right.”

  “My sister should really take the credit for this,” I admit. “She had to talk me through it. She’s a lot more accomplished than me at most things.”

  “You’re accomplished.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Don’t people always feel that way about their older siblings?”

  I lick my spoon thoughtfully. “Maybe. Do you, about yours?” I ask, meaning his stepsiblings.

  “Yeah. Which is stupid, really, because I’ve never been into money and fast cars and . . .” He glances over at me before elaborating. “My stepbrothers on my dad’s side are older, and they both work in property, and making everyone else feel like abject failures is kind of their hobby. Or maybe it’s just me. I think they see me as the black sheep of the family. Insofar as I am family.”

  I think back to when I’d just returned from Australia and had withdrawn almost completely from my own family. I don’t think even Tash quite knew how to reach me. There was a time when we were only speaking every few weeks. I think, deep down, I felt jealous of how smoothly life seemed to have panned out for her. How easy she appeared to find things. The strength of her relationship with Simon.

  But when Dylan was born, everything changed. Suddenly, there was a brand-new little life linking me to my sister. Day by day, Dylan started bringing us closer—and since we’ve been living under the same roof, we’ve more or less re-created the strong bond we had as kids. Improved on it, even.

  “So,” Caleb says, meeting my eye with a smile. “I read your pages.”

  Reflexively, I put a hand to my face, still a tiny bit crushed by Tash and Simon’s slightly tepid response last night to my writing. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  He spoons up more dessert. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why don’t you want to know?”

  I smile, then take a long swig of water, trying to wash my vulnerability away. “I let my sister and her husband read the same pages I sent to you.”

  “And?”

  I shrug lightly. “They were expecting something different, I think. Maybe it just wasn’t to their taste.”

  As we talk, I can just about hear the faint murmur of waves on the shoreline dancing through the air. It mingles with the whoops and hoots of revelers winding through the town, and the folksy sound of live music drifting over from The Smugglers’ beer garden. Shoreley is gearing up now for the tourist season, and though I love how people flock to it like migrating birds in the summer months—it arouses my sense of local pride—I think on balance I prefer it out of season, when the cobblestones are quiet and the beach is a blank canvas and you can always hear the sea.

  “Lucy.” His gaze hooks onto mine. “I loved it.”

  A warm breeze lifts the hair from my face. I flatten it back with one hand, then wrinkle my nose self-consciously. “Really?”

  He leans forward. “Really. God, when you told me about all that Margate-in-the-twenties stuff and we were talking about The Great Gatsby and all the hedonism and hope . . . I mean, it sounded great. And you completely and utterly nailed it, one hundred percent. I felt like I was there. I felt . . . transported, just completely absorbed. And the chemistry with Jack and Hattie is something else.”

  I feel a blush of flattery rise up my neck. “Wow. Thank you.”

  “I’m serious. Your writing’s beautiful. Honestly, Lucy. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but . . . you’ve got a gift.”

  I let his gaze sink into me, pleasure budding in my belly. “You’re not just humoring me?”

  “Believe me, I’m a terrible liar.” He smiles slightly helplessly. “Look, I get it: I’ve been putting my work out there for God knows how long. I do understand what it takes to show people your stuff for the first time. So I would never patronize anyone who does. I respect you way more than that, Lucy.”

  I realize I’m shaking slightly, and for the first time in years, I find myself craving a long swig of chilled white wine. I take a steadying breath, drawing the scent of honeysuckle into my lungs.

  “If I’m honest, I had everything crossed it would be good, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to fake being impressed. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to.”

  “Thank you,” I say, finally relaxing enough to be able to smile. “That means a lot. Writing . . . It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “Lucy,” he says, leaning across the table like he really wants me to hear this, “it’s really good. You should keep going.”

  I bite my lip. “Tash got me a flyer for a writing group, in Shoreley.”

  “You going to go?”

  “I might.”

  “Can’t hurt.” He meets my eye, like he understands my reticence, even without me spelling it out. “That’s one of the reasons I wish I hadn’t dropped out of college, actually. Having that . . . group support goes a long way.”

  “Have you ever doubted yourself? With your work, I mean?”

  “Only pretty much every day,” he says, a soft smile on his face. “Look—you do anything creative, you spend your life questioning your choices and doubting your ability. It’s part of the deal. But the payback, when it comes . . . That feeling when someone else likes your work, and you manage to pay the rent for another month off the back of something you’ve dreamed up . . . There’s nothing like it, Luce.”

  “I’m really glad I met you.” The words leave my mouth entirely without permission. I chase them down with a self-conscious laugh.

  But Caleb isn’t laughing. He’s looking me right in the eyes. “I’m really glad I met you, too.”

  From over at The Smugglers drifts an acoustic song I can’t quite place but sounds like it might be Jack Johnson.

  “I’ve never . . .” I start, then falter. “This feels really—”

  “Yeah. It does, doesn’t it?” And then he leans forward and kisses me, lips sinking against mine, tender pressure that makes me melt inside. His mouth teases mine open, and I have to actively hold back how hungry I am for this, for this amazing man who knows just what it is to be human, whose heart seems to beat exactly in time with mine.

  After a couple of minutes, we draw gently apart. Caleb still has one hand at the back of my head. “Want to go inside?”

  I can only make a sort of happy murmur in response, but luckily he understands what it means, so we abandon our bowls and glasses and he leads me back indoors, gripping my hand like a promise. My body is buzzing, almost shivering, with want.

  In the living room, he turns to face me, kissing me again. This time, the intensity ratchets quickly up, our movements becoming faster and deeper, greedier. Our mouths are heated and damp, our breath loud and heavy. I grab the hem of his T-shirt and tug it roughly over his head, and as I do, we stumble backward onto the sofa. I pull him on top of me, he pushes up my dress. A sharp groan flees my throat at the delicious torment of his fingers against my thighs. I sink into his touch, giddy from the weight of him against me, from the feeling of his hand roaming the skin beneath my dress.

  We explore every inch of each other’s dips and curves and grooves, fingers skating over flesh, the tease of limbs pressing then releasing. I discover that Caleb is not muscular exactly, but toned and lean. He has the physique not of someone who goes to the gym, but someone who’s never needed to.

  I flick open his belt, delighting in the hot dance
of his breath against my neck. And then all I can hear is the rush of my own blood and the throaty sound of him gasping my name as he moves inside me at last and I let go completely, pulsing and shuddering and intoxicated with pleasure.

  Go

  While Max is away in Leeds, I determine to make the most of my final week of freedom—reassured by the prospect of my forthcoming salary—before my start at Supernova on Monday. I set out to explore London in springtime, as though I’m emerging from the chrysalis of my old life. The trees are twitching with greenery, their branches growing heavy with confetti, as vapor trails carve scars into a blue-skinned sky. Families and tourists and office workers—distinguishable by their varying gaits, curiosity, impatience—are shedding winter clothing like molting birds. I spend a few days checking out Jools’s recommendations for favorite brunch cafés, the best spots for rye brownies, warm croissants, whole-milk flat whites. I browse charity shops, bookshops, and markets, pick up artisan doughnuts and freshly baked sausage rolls and armfuls of flowers for the house. And when Jools isn’t working nights, we brave the still-chilly water at the lido before filling our bellies on Lebanese mezze at the Common, watching children career haphazardly across the newly mown grass—the tang of it heady as freshly picked mint—delighting in the freedom afforded them by the firming ground, the warmth of the hatching spring.

  I go shopping too, update my summer work wardrobe, spend hours on Instagram trying to figure out how the advertising world dresses. I mean, I’ve worked in advertising before, of course, but only in a hideous brutalist office building abutting a multistory car park in Shoreley. Nylon featured heavily. Soho—and Supernova—it was not.

  In the evenings Jools and I head out for drinks, sourdough pizza, late-night treats in dessert bars. Sometimes we meet Reuben, and sometimes Sal, who I decide I would definitely want as my midwife if I were ever to fall pregnant.

  Originally from South Africa, Sal is one of those people with a story to tell about everywhere she goes, each person she encounters: this pub, where she once had a very long and involved conversation with Jack Dee. That waiter, with his heavy addiction to chemsex and S&M. Those lads over there, who look like football hooligans but are in fact all very high up at a well-known tech giant.