In Case You Missed It

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘It wasn’t just a physical thing,’ I said, twisting a strand of hair between my fingers. ‘His writing was beautiful and he was passionate and confident and—’

  ‘He was horny and arrogant and up his own arse,’ Sumi corrected. ‘But then that’s always been your type.’

  ‘Patrick isn’t why I’d go back to being twenty-eight, anyway,’ I said, not wanting to argue about it. She wasn’t necessarily wrong, I did have a type and that type was terrible. ‘Twenty-eight is the perfect age. People stop treating you like you’re too young to be taken seriously but you’re not too old either, there’s still so much potential to do things. Or undo things.’

  ‘Like terrible romantic decisions,’ Adrian suggested brightly. ‘And liver damage.’

  ‘It wasn’t terrible with Patrick,’ I said, my voice cracking just a little. ‘Until the end.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s the past,’ Sumi held up her hands to wrap up that conversation. ‘You can’t go back, even if you wanted to.’

  ‘Who would want to? We’re all killing it,’ Adrian replied. Me and the girls exchanged a look. All of us? ‘Well bloody done on getting a new job so soon.’

  ‘I knew she’d find something right away, she’s brilliant,’ Sumi said proudly before she leaned across the table to smile at my oldest friend. ‘But what about you, Adrian, had any more thoughts about getting one of those job-type jobs like the rest of us?’

  ‘Lucy hasn’t got a job!’ he protested.

  ‘I’m on maternity leave,’ she exclaimed, clutching her belly to protect it from his accusations. ‘You try giving people a facial when you’ve got a belly bigger than Santa’s and you have to go for a wee every fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Good try, Adrian,’ I said with a smile. ‘When was the last time you had a job?’

  ‘I work!’ he insisted. ‘I drove for Uber last year, remember?’

  A shiver ran down my spine as I imagined Adrian pulling up as my Uber driver. He was the worst driver on the face of the Earth. It would be like getting into a taxi driven by Mr Bean after he’d taken a Glastonbury’s worth of Molly.

  ‘And I’m working on my screenplay again.’

  We all groaned as one.

  ‘My baby is going to be doing its GCSEs before you get that thing finished,’ Lucy predicted. ‘If not its degree.’

  ‘As if your kid is getting into university,’ he replied with a snippy grin.

  Lucy shrugged and carried on stroking her stomach. Lucy never rose to anything. Lucy was an actual saint.

  I listened as they bickered back and forth, laughing and poking and prodding at each other, just like they always did. Lucy beamed as she cradled her belly and, for a moment, I felt a glow of familiar, old happiness. A tug back to a time I thought had gone by. Starting Over, much like Sumi, said you should never go back, that your old life was the past and the past was over, but I wasn’t so sure. My old life was sitting right around this table and it looked pretty good to me.

  ‘Before I forget, Mum and Dad are having a wedding anniversary thing on Saturday night,’ Adrian said, inhaling deeply on a Marlboro Gold outside the bar as soon as Lucy and Sumi were out of sight. There was every chance he was the last person I knew who still smoked actual cigarettes. ‘Will you come? They’ve been asking after you.’

  ‘Are Lucy and Sumi coming?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Lucy has a Creepy Dave thing and Sumi has a Jemima thing. She’s off to Madrid to build a cathedral or something so they’re going to visit for the weekend.’

  Sumi’s girlfriend was an architect, which meant she was very clever, very rich and an endless source of exciting minibreaks. I was sure there were many wonderful things about being in a relationship but having a lifetime-long reason to get out of doing things you really didn’t want to do had to be right up there with the best of them.

  ‘Come on, Ros, it’ll be a laugh,’ Adrian said with a wheedling whine.

  ‘No offence to your parents but it absolutely will not,’ I said, rummaging around in my bag for chewing gum. The hake crepe that Lucy had demanded had left a very unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth, which wasn’t too surprising since it had tasted very unpleasant. Fish finger sandwiches were definitely better. ‘Surely you’d rather take someone who might actually have sex with you afterwards?’

  ‘Yes, of course I would,’ he replied without so much as blinking. ‘But I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m the new Adrian, I don’t do that any more.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, suspicious.

  ‘Because I’m only interested in forming a deep and meaningful relationship with someone I care about,’ he said, pouting. ‘I’m a reformed character, Ros, I haven’t had a shag in ages.’

  I gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Fine, it’s been a slow summer and I haven’t had any offers,’ he admitted. ‘But please come, it’s their ruby wedding anniversary, it’s a big deal. There’s going to be an ungodly amount of food and drink and you know you want to.’

  I really didn’t want to but I couldn’t say no. It wasn’t as if I had anything else to do and Adrian would cross hot coals for me if I asked.

  ‘Ros?’ he wheedled. He took one last draw on his cigarette, stamping it out as a black Prius with a glowing Uber badge pulled up beside us. I let out a very heavy sigh and nodded. ‘Fantastic,’ he said as he opened the car door and hopped inside. ‘Come any time after seven, can’t wait. See you Saturday.’

  Without the money for a taxi, I wandered back down the street towards the tube station. It had been so good to see my friends but I couldn’t help but feel a little empty as I took myself off home instead of linking arms with the others and laughing all the way back to our shared house. The late-night milk runs, doing our makeup in each other’s rooms, snuggling up together on the sofa to watch a film. I couldn’t think of a time that I’d been happier. Now they had new homes to go to, new partners to snuggle up with. But not me.

  Just like everyone else who happened to be walking alone down a busy city street at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, I automatically slid my hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I was still getting replies to my texts: my great-aunt who hadn’t realized I’d been away, my university friend Alison who wanted to know if I’d accepted Jesus as my Lord and Saviour since the last time she’d seen me (at our ten-year reunion with me hugging one of the student union toilets after a regrettable pint of snakebite and black). I wondered what new messages might have arrived since I’d last checked.

  And then I saw it.

  My heart pounded, my stomach lurched and I started to sweat, a horrible conviction that I was about to see the hake pancake again washing over me. I stuttered out of the flow of people on the street and leaned against a cold stone wall, staring at my phone, quite sure I was seeing things, quite sure it would disappear. But it didn’t. It stayed right where it was, shining up at me and willing me to open it.

  I held my breath.

  I opened the message.

  Two words.

  Hello, stranger

  The text was from Patrick.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Everyone has a Patrick.

  Adrian’s words echoed in my ears all the way home to my shed. Was it true? Did everyone have someone who made them feel this way? Light-headed and loose-limbed and like they might have forgotten their own name? Because if they did, someone should have warned me before things got as bad as they did. No matter how many songs I heard or books I read or films I watched, no one had ever quite managed to put into words how I’d felt about Patrick Parker. The whole time we were together, I melted at the thought of him even as I seized up with fear that I would somehow breathe the wrong way and ruin it all. He made the sun shine, the moon glow, I had a secret smile that was just for him and there was nothing I wouldn’t have done if he’d asked. He took my breath from the moment we met and I didn’t get it back for nine whole months.

  And then it was over.

  I turned the music
up in my earphones as I rounded the corner of my parents’ road, trying to drown out the memories.

  Sumi once told me everything in life was an equation, that everything had a value and could all be worked out with maths. With relationships, you took the length of time you were together, added how desperately in love you were, then multiplied it by the degree of pain of the ending to find out how badly it would affect you. There were other variables: the amount of time you’d been crushing on someone before you got together (add ten), how good the sex had been (multiply by a hundred), unforgiving habits or unappealing fetishes (subtract accordingly) and, eventually, divide by the amount of time since the end of the relationship. That was how long it would take you to get over someone.

  It was a straightforward solution for Sumi; her friend was the happiest she’d ever been and then, in a matter of moments, became the most heartbroken human alive, meaning there was only one conclusion: my ex was evil. But for me, it was more complicated. I needed more than just maths to figure out Patrick and me. Maybe one of those fancy calculators they’d made us buy in Year Eight but literally never showed us how to use. Was this what the ‘sine’ button was for?

  All that was left now was a bittersweet aching, tender at the heart but warm around the edges. It was the kind of pain that felt good to press on from time to time. When I looked at my phone I was anxious and excited and sad and scared but also, there was no point lying to myself, incredibly turned on.

  Instead of walking down the driveway directly to my shed, I pulled out the key to my parents’ front door and skipped up the steps. There were no lights on inside, my parents were probably asleep already, but I’d left all my old diaries in the loft when I went away and I needed them. The written word was more reliable than memories.

  The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the hallway clock and the occasional clack of the boiler in the understairs cupboard. It didn’t matter that it was July, a day did not go by when my mother did not have the heating on. What if the queen was driving past, her car broke down and she wanted a bath and we didn’t have any hot water? It just wouldn’t do. What would the neighbours think?

  I was rifling through the post in the hall when I heard a sound coming from the living room.

  ‘Bugger me, that’s cold.’

  Clearly my dad, clearly complaining. Even though all I wanted to do was get my diaries and retreat to my shed with my memories and the enormous bar of chocolate I’d bought at the train station, I couldn’t imagine a version of events where I didn’t get an almighty bollocking for not coming in to say hello before I started creeping around in the loft.

  ‘Only me,’ I called, as breezy as I could manage, pushing open the living room door. ‘I’m going to pop into the loft and – oh my God.’

  My parents were sitting at the dinner table, or, to be more specific, my mum was sitting at the dinner table, a pair of chopsticks in her hand, and my dad was on top of it, his eyes wide open, mouth clamped shut and his naked body covered in sushi.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Mum said calmly, standing to reveal she was wearing nothing other than a full-length apron featuring a blacksmith’s body on the front, which I remembered Jo bringing back from a school trip to Ironbridge. She leaned across the table and puffed out a candle burning awfully close to a sensitive part of my father’s anatomy, which thankfully had been covered with a napkin.

  ‘We thought you’d already gone to bed,’ she said, her face fixed in a tense smile.

  ‘And I thought you’d put the chain on the door,’ Dad muttered through a clenched jaw, not moving so much as a muscle.

  Horrified, I was stuck to the spot. Why did this keep happening to me? Why couldn’t I have walked in on something civil, like some nice armed robbers, instead?

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Mum asked, smiling at me with manic eyes.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again,’ I replied. ‘I mean, no. I’m fine, thank you. This is all fine.’

  ‘You said you’re going into the loft?’

  I nodded, holding onto the door handle as though it were the only thing keeping me upright.

  ‘Be careful with the ladder,’ Mum cautioned lightly as a salmon roll slid slowly off Dad’s chest and fell onto the carpet. ‘Your dad oiled it when we put Jo’s stuff up there and it sometimes comes down a bit fast.’

  ‘OK, thanks, good to know,’ I said, walking backwards out of the living room and closing the door firmly behind me. ‘Perhaps it’ll hit me in the head and I’ll get amnesia and forget everything I just saw.’

  When I got upstairs, I looked at my hand and saw I was still shaking. Did I need to start wearing a bell around my neck? What was wrong with people? I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the tuna rolls that had been covering my dad’s nipples.

  ‘Get the diaries,’ I mumbled to myself, using the torch on my phone to light up at least four lifetimes’ worth of cardboard boxes. ‘Get the diaries, go back to the shed, bleach your eyes and go to sleep.’

  Ignoring the boxes marked ‘Books’, ‘Ornaments’ and ‘Kitchen stuff’ in my block lettering, I reached for a smaller box labelled ‘Ros’s Shit’. It was nice of my sister to help me pack up, I thought, frowning at her looping handwriting. Holding it tightly under one arm, I made my way carefully back down the ladder.

  ‘Night Mum, night Dad,’ I shouted as I dashed past the living room and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the back door.

  ‘Christ almighty, Gwen,’ I heard my dad screech. ‘Careful with the bloody wasabi.’

  Once I was showered, scoured and tucked up in bed, I opened up the box. It wasn’t just my diaries I’d kept, there were all manner of mementos, including one special shoebox dedicated to all things Ros and Patrick. A beer mat from the bar we went to on our first date, an Indian takeaway menu he’d scrawled his number on, the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign I’d nicked from the hotel when we’d gone on a minibreak to Dublin.

  Dublin …

  I turned the flimsy cardboard sign over in my fingers, remembering the thrill of first-time hotel sex, tearing each other’s clothes off as soon as we walked in the room, not even making it to the bed. But there was also the terrible afternoon we’d spent traipsing around the city in the rain, looking for the house from Dubliners, only to discover it had been knocked down years before. He’d been so annoyed, I’d tried to assuage him with a trip to a whisky distillery and given myself my worst hangover of the decade, which only annoyed him further. It was impossible to vomit subtly in a hotel bathroom. But those parts were easy to forget when I remembered the first day, spinning through the streets hand in hand, eyes only for each other, laughing and breathing and feeling so free. And did I mention the hotel sex? I would never be the same woman again.

  This diary still felt new compared to some of the others in the box, the ones covered in stickers and scribbles, postcards of bands stuck to the front, whose songs I could barely remember now, but had meant everything to me once upon a time. The creamy pages were thick and lush between my fingers – total stationery porn – and my illegible handwriting looped and sloped all over the place, ballooning off the lines on some pages, slanted with the speed of my script on others. The first few entries were full to bursting, words running into each other as I documented my every thought and feeling, from meeting Patrick at some ridiculous party I’d been dragged to by my parents, to the first date, the first touch, the first kiss, the first everything else. It was all written down, the things I couldn’t say out loud, not even to Sumi or Lucy. It felt alien to me now: had I ever felt this strongly about anything? I certainly hadn’t felt even a fraction of this since we broke up. My love bled through the page with blistering vulnerability and it was almost too painful to read. Cool, composed, sophisticated, intellectual, passionate, gorgeous, bold, brave, adventurous Patrick was mine and I was ecstatic.

  And then the anxiety crept in. The concerns, the worrying, the second-guessing. He cancelled a date, was he over m
e? He forgot we made plans, did he not care? Was I ever even good enough for him? It was a side of myself I didn’t care to be reminded of.

  By the time we got to the end of the nine months, twenty-two days and fourteen hours, my writing didn’t flow quite so freely and I’d eased up considerably on the adjectives. Just the facts, ma’am. I told him about the job offer in DC, he said I should take it, he wanted to go travelling anyway. A clean break is always for the best. No hard feelings, let’s stay in touch, yeah? And then nothing. I’d left this diary behind and given up keeping one altogether. The only record of my time in America was in photo form, tiny digital squares of memories saved on my laptop and not nearly as affecting.

  A handful of photographs fell into my lap, blurry, overexposed candids, a million miles away from the pictures we took on our phones. Every photograph I took now was ruthlessly cropped, filtered and edited, and anything less than deeply flattering was immediately discarded into the digital wasteland. These were different. I leafed through them, smiling. It wasn’t that long ago but we all looked so much younger, sharper angles but softer edges. We took disposable cameras everywhere that summer, me, Sumi and Lucy, determined to break free of our phones, an ahead-of-the-curve digital detox. It lasted exactly one month until Sumi balked at the price of film development and I ran the camera we’d taken to Lucy’s hen do through the wash.

  There was a rush in these photos you couldn’t get in phone pics, I realized, tracing the curve of my arm in another photo: it was slung carelessly around Patrick’s neck, my head thrown back, him holding a hand out towards the camera to wave the photographer away but still laughing. So much genuine emotion packed into one frame that I suddenly had to wonder if our ancestors had been right all along. Did the flash steal your soul? Did we give a piece of ourselves away with every selfie?

  There was one photo in particular, curled at the edges and sticky on the back from a time it had taken pride of place on my wall, one photo that hit me right in the heart. It was me and Patrick at Lucy’s wedding. Lucy had given it to me, rather than keeping it for the album, it felt too personal, too intimate, to share with strangers. The sun was behind us, a bright white light sharply lining our features, and we were holding hands, eyes on each other, as though we were the only two people on earth. Our faces were inches apart, either pre- or post-kiss, I couldn’t recall, but we looked so happy. So, so happy. And three weeks after it was taken, we broke up.