by Maria Goodin
“Oh yeah, no, it’s not her,” I mutter, glancing at the doorway for the hundredth time.
“Really? ’Cause she seems to really like you. And, mate, that girl, she’s seriously…” he quickly checks around, presumably to make sure his girlfriend, Irena, is nowhere to be seen, “hot,” he mouths.
I nod, distractedly. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked Libby to meet me here. I’d said I would go to her, but when she insisted on coming to Timpton, this was the first place that popped into my head. Perhaps the familiarity of it seemed appealing at the time, but now I wonder if we should have met on more neutral ground. Stu and Irena are a great couple and I’ve known them a long time, but my meeting with an unknown woman is bound to set their gossip radars to high alert. Fortunately, the place has almost emptied following the lunchtime rush, but the chances of getting through the next hour without someone I know walking in are practically zero.
The Canal House is made up of two parts: an old, brick structure at the front, containing oak tables and an open fireplace, and an airy, high-ceilinged extension at the back, housing the bar, an assortment of leather sofas and a pool table. It’s the acoustics in this part of the building that make it a great venue for live music, as well as the fact that the glass doors fold open all along the back, allowing the crowds to flow outdoors onto the large terrace that overlooks the canal. Michael plays here a lot with his band, Halo, and that’s how I know so many of the regulars, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I feel at home here; Stu and Irena are always welcoming, and there’s usually someone to pass the time of day with if I feel in the mood. But while Timpton’s a fairly large old market town, it can be hard to walk through the centre without one of the Canal House locals stopping me for a chat, which can be a pain in the backside. I like talking to people in small doses, on my terms and when I choose.
“So, if it’s not Rachel,” Stu pipes up again, sounding intrigued, “then it’s…?”
“None of your business?”
“Oohh, what a slap in the face!” jokes Stu. “Well, whoever you’re meeting, it looks like she’s got well under your skin, for one reason or another.”
“What makes you think it’s even a woman?” I ask slightly irritably, taking a sip of my coffee and somehow managing to spill it in the process. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping the back of my hand across my chin and checking my T-shirt.
Stu laughs. “’Cause no bloke makes a guy look that jumpy. Not unless it’s your bank manager you’re meeting.”
I glance through the glass doors at the empty terrace. It’s a warm day, but there are grey clouds looming ominously overhead. Then I look back at Stu, smug smile on his face, eyebrow raised questioningly. I think I’ll take my drink outside and risk the rain.
But just as I’m standing up, in she walks, looking flustered and rosy-cheeked. My heart starts to race. I’m the first to admit that I can be pretty socially awkward at the best of times, but sit me down face-to-face with an ex-girlfriend whose heart I unintentionally broke and who I haven’t seen in over fifteen years and suddenly this seems like a nightmare scenario. This would actually be a good time for my feet to move towards her, but instead they decide to stay rooted to the wooden floor, letting her stand there alone, scanning the room, wide-eyed and lost.
She spies me but doesn’t move. Or smile. It’s like she’s in two minds about whether to turn around and bolt. But while every part of my body remains frozen, she visibly takes a deep breath, stands a little taller and heads towards me.
“Hi,” she says, already slipping her bag from her shoulder and starting to remove her jacket, meeting my eye for only the briefest moment. She’s wearing a blue V-neck T-shirt, and I notice her chest and throat are flushed. She fumbles to place her jacket over the back of a chair, while I spend way too long searching for something to say. But then we both speak at the same time.
“Did you find it—”
“It’s hot in—”
“Oh, we can go outside—”
“Yeah, I found it fine—”
I give an awkward laugh, while her lips struggle into a forced smile.
“Outside sounds like a good idea,” she says, gathering her jacket and bag back up.
“Can I get you a coffee?” I ask.
“I’ll just have a cold drink.”
I glance over at the menu above the bar, searching for a list of cold drinks. “I think they have—”
“It’s fine, I’ll get something and meet you outside.”
“Well, let me pay,” I say, quickly pulling my wallet from my back pocket.
“No, it’s fine, I’ll get it,” she says abruptly, walking away.
I stand there, wondering whether to go after her, but then I remember that Libby was always fiercely independent about money. She would never take cash from me, even when she had none – which was all the time. She’d been brought up to distain materialism, and I learned early on in our relationship that she didn’t accept gifts easily or comfortably.
As Libby orders her drink from Stu, he gives me a quick wink over the top of her head. I quickly grab my coffee and open the back door, gratefully stepping into the fresh air. I’ve just sat down at a table when Libby emerges with a glass and a bottle of Appletiser. I rush to stand up again, pull a chair out for her, offer to take something out of her hands; her jacket, her bag, her glass, her bottle…
“It’s fine,” she insists, struggling to set everything down.
When we’re settled opposite each other, the silence, which must be all of ten seconds long, seems to stretch forever.
“I was surprised to get your text,” I say, apprehensively.
“Um, yes, well,” she fumbles, quickly tucking her hair behind her ear and grabbing for her bottle of drink, “I decided I was maybe a bit rude when you came to see me, and I apologise because that wasn’t really necessary—”
“No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have—”
“—so I thought maybe I should just come and say sorry or something,” she ploughs on, “because, you know, I didn’t need to be so blunt, but you just caught me totally off guard, I mean, you were absolutely the last person I expected to see that day, and God, it’s been such a long time, and at first I hardly recognised you, but when I realised it was you, I was just so taken aback—”
She talks fast, waggling her bottle in such a way that I’m amazed she doesn’t spill any.
“—so I’m sorry I was so off that day. It hadn’t been a good day actually, and then, what with you and the rain and… anyway, I hope you didn’t mind me just texting you like that. I was hoping I had the right person, actually. I googled your name and it showed up under a trades directory with a Timpton number next to your mobile number, so I thought that must be you and… anyway. Here we are.”
She quickly splashes Appletiser on top of the ice in her glass, sending some of it slopping over the side and onto the tabletop. She stares at the settling fizz, her hands clasped together in her lap. I don’t dare reach for my coffee, fearful that I’ll spill it again.
“I still don’t understand why you came to see me,” she says suddenly, her eyes still on her glass, “after all this time.”
I stare at the table, trying to recall my rehearsed response. I’ve spent the last three days preparing for this question, in the hope of sounding slightly more coherent and slightly less like a stalker than I did last time. But the words have gone completely out of my head. There was something about trying to get closure, wanting to move on, feeling tied to the past… but all that just sounds so self-centred now. This isn’t just about me. I feel like I owe her something. An explanation, an apology.
“I always hated the way things were left,” I say, honestly, “and I suppose I’ve always wanted to say sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” she says, hastily.
“I feel like there is.”
“What?” she asks, looking me straight in the eye for the first time. “What is it you did that was
so wrong?” There’s an edge to her voice that makes the question sound like a challenge.
“I just… I know I put you through a lot and there were times when I behaved like an idiot—”
“Of course there were times when you behaved like an idiot. You were a fifteen-year-old boy who went through a pretty harrowing ordeal. I mean, I probably should have been more supportive.”
“God, no. You were supportive—”
“Well, I seem to remember I spilt up with you, so not that supportive really,” she scoffs.
“No, you were right to—”
“Actually, I don’t think I meant to split up with you,” she says, peering at the clouds as if she’s trying hard to recall. “I seem to remember just wanting a break from you, but I don’t think I really understood how relationships worked, which, you know, is probably normal at that age, especially given that my parents weren’t exactly the best examples. But anyway,” she waves her hand, dismissively, “it was all a long time ago.”
“I’ve just always felt that it ended in such a mess,” I tell her, “the way we got back together, and then having to tell you about the pregnancy, and then having to break it off and—”
“Oh, and I didn’t make that any easier!” she suddenly laughs, shaking her head as if she’s just remembered something embarrassing. “Didn’t I ask you if we could still make it work somehow? God, I was just so young and naïve! Well, I mean we were, weren’t we?”
“I’ve just always hated the fact that you got hurt and—”
“We were just kids, Jamie!” she frowns, as if this conversation is totally ludicrous. “Kids get hurt. First relationships and all that. I mean, yes, it was messy, but love is, isn’t it?”
For a moment we meet each other’s eye and I feel a tiny stab in my chest, the sense of loss all over again. Because that’s what it was: love. And, yes, we were kids, and, yes, it was a long time ago, but it mattered. Because it’s the only time I’ve ever been in love, and I know that now for sure. I’ve tried to find it again, tried to replicate what I once felt, but it’s always been like grasping at thin air. At times, I’ve told myself I’ve had it, only to acknowledge I’m kidding myself. At other times, I’ve told myself that the feeling never existed in the first place, that what I remember is nothing but a distorted memory intensified by the passing of time. But looking at Libby now – even though she’s so different and in many ways a stranger to me – I recognise enough of the girl I used to know to enable me to recall that feeling. And I know it was real. And I know I don’t want to go the rest of my life never finding it again. Which is why I needed to see her. So that I can make my peace with her and move on, leave her in the past where she belongs. Because I don’t want to be trapped by my best memories any more than my worst ones.
“You were a really important part of my life,” I tell her truthfully, “and the last thing I ever wanted was for you to get hurt.”
She shakes her head and looks as though she’s about to laugh again.
“And I know it was a long time ago,” I cut in quickly, “and I’m sorry that I came barging into your life again after all this time, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry about how things turned out. And I realise you moved on long ago, and maybe you don’t ever give it a second thought, but I do. Because I was the one who hurt you. And I regret that. I regret a lot of things. And I don’t want to go through the rest of my life with these regrets. Not if I can find a way to… I don’t know, to apologise, to—”
“And you’re honestly not sick or anything?” she interrupts.
This time, I’m the one to shake my head and laugh, realising how ridiculous this clearly all sounds to her.
“No, I’m not sick.”
She looks at me seriously. I feel horribly exposed.
“Okay,” she nods, “I don’t think you need to say sorry, but if it makes you feel better, if it helps you deal with whatever stuff you’ve got going on at the moment, then fine.”
She gives me the tiniest smile, and I want to feel something. Some kind of release. But I don’t feel anything, other than a sense that I’ve somehow missed the mark.
“You went through quite a trauma that year, Jamie,” she says, her tone softer now. “Then you got yourself in a difficult situation and you handled it the best way you knew how. You stepped up and there are a lot of boys who wouldn’t have.”
I look into her wide, brown eyes and for the first time I see something of the old Libby; the kind, compassionate girl who tried so hard to help me through those difficult months when I couldn’t sleep for fear, when I couldn’t take criticism without lashing out, when I couldn’t find a way to deal with life having so closely witnessed death. The girl who was always so much wiser than her years.
“Whatever happened, I’ve always known you didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I’ve never held it against you. So don’t feel bad. There’s really no need.”
And there it is; a shift, almost imperceptible, but I feel it in my core. That’s what I needed to hear, then. That she never held what happened against me.
“And you and me, we would have probably ended anyway, one way or another. I mean, all that talk about forever,” she pulls a doubting expression and shakes her head, “we were just children really.”
I nod and smile sadly. I know what she’s saying is right; we were just children, it was all so long ago, it’s all forgotten, in the past, of no consequence now. But that talk about forever; it had been real. At least for a while. But perhaps she doesn’t remember that now.
We sit in silence for a moment, and finally I feel calm enough to pick up my cold coffee and take a sip. I’ve said what I wanted – I think – and she’s heard me. This thing I wanted to do is done. Maybe it wasn’t the life-changing release I was hoping for, but I think perhaps it will make a difference. Maybe I can leave something here today that I should have left behind a long time ago.
Libby finally reaches out for her drink and takes several, long, slow gulps. She takes so long in fact that I wonder if she’s stalling. I don’t know what’s meant to happen now and presumably neither does she.
I watch her as discreetly as possible, composed enough now to really see her, to take in all of her altered features. She has tiny lines round the edges of her eyes, unnoticeable to me until now. The freckles on her nose are still there, but sparser and faded. Her face looks slightly rounder than I remember. In fact, everything about her is slightly softer. It suits her. When we were together, she was always on the skinny side, a little gangly. Perhaps it was her vegan diet, or the fact that there was never much food in the fridge, but she never seemed to quite catch up with the other girls her age with their new curves. I can still remember Libby’s flat stomach and jutting hips under my hands. Now here she is, no longer a girl but a grown woman with flesh on her bones, strong and healthy-looking, all the changes that were just starting to take place when I knew her now fully complete.
She sets her drink down and gives me a little smile while she taps her fingers against the side of her glass, her ring making a ching sound with every tap. Then she brings her hand up to her face, touches her lips, fiddles with her earring. And suddenly I notice the diamond ring sparkling in the light.
“You’re engaged?” I ask, nodding to her hand.
“Oh, yeah!” she smiles, flashing her hand at me proudly.
“Congratulations,” I smile, feeling both wistful and relieved. It’s another reminder that things have moved forward, that nothing I did to her mattered in the end. She’s found happiness. She’ll soon be married and having the family she always craved, albeit with someone else. And that’s fine, it’s how it should be. We’re in a different time and place.
“Yeah, I’m getting married later this year, so… yeah, I’m very excited. Um…Will, he works in London and… well, we’ve been together six years—”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I know! So… yes. Getting married, looking for a house… so much to organise!”
“Yes, that’s the plan,” she says, still fiddling with her ring, “the whole traditional thing.”
I’m not surprised. It could have gone either way with Libby. She could have been planning a barefoot wedding beneath the harvest moon just as much as a stiff white dress and hotel buffet. She was always so contrary and conflicted about her beliefs and desires. But I always knew that the future she guiltily whispered about when it was just the two of us, sharing our hopes and dreams, was the one she really wanted. Predictable. Stable. Ordinary.
“It’s possibly even going to be in a church. Harmonie’s not amused, as you can imagine.”
She looks at me and we both laugh a little.
“But then she’s living in an actual house now, so—”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, she’s finally on dry land. In Essex. All those years I wanted to live like other people and now she decides it’s a good idea. Can you believe it?”
“No, actually,” I smile.
“Yeah, and sometimes my dad even lives there with her, which is even weirder.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean, he still has his boat and he’s always on the move, but sometimes he stops for a couple of months with my mum and… I don’t know.” She shrugs and shakes her head. “You know what they were like.”
The intimacy of this statement throws me for a moment. Yes, I do know what her parents were like, just as I know that her favourite colour was yellow and that her favourite food was raspberry jam and that she always wanted a sister… but I’m sure all these things have changed.