The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  As if on cue, Richard Croft walks out of his office.

  ‘Morning, ladies. You look nice, Jemma – have you done something different with your hair?’

  ‘Actually, I’m trying a new shampoo and conditioner,’ she gushes, whipping her highlighted locks over her shoulder. ‘How lovely of you to notice.’

  ‘No problem. Holly, do you want to come in for a catch-up?’

  Richard is nearly back at his door when Jemma calls out: ‘It’s Holly’s birthday, by the way. If you want to give her a wee birthday kiss or something.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Er, happy birthday, Holly.’ Richard pauses for a split second then strides back to my desk and gives me history’s quickest peck on the cheek, before heading off again.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ I mumble to his disappearing back.

  ‘Hols, you’re blushing,’ Jemma giggles, as soon as he’s gone. ‘Man, I’m so pretending it’s my birthday tomorrow and getting a kiss from Richard Croft.’

  ‘I hope you choke on your croissant,’ I tell her fondly, and follow Richard in.

  ‘Well, that was awkward,’ he says as I shut the door.

  ‘God, I know – I’m sorry about Jemma. Also, lamest birthday kiss ever. Can I have my real one now, please?’

  Richard stands up, laughing as he grabs me by the waist with one hand, and places the other on the back of my head. He starts with small, soft grazes at the sides of my mouth. His lips get fuller and firmer when they reach mine, and that’s pretty much the point of no return – we’re shooting up the Richter scale of passionate abandon.

  I suddenly realize the kiss is over but I’m still standing here with my eyes shut, not saying anything. I’ve come over all unnecessary. I’d better say something, lest he thinks I’m dead.

  ‘Thanks again for my present – I love it,’ I tell him, resting my palms on his firm chest. He took me out for dinner last night and gave me a soft-leather, black Mulberry tote bag. It’s the most expensive bag I have ever owned. By a mile. Even if all my previous bags got together and ganged up on it, they still couldn’t take it in a fight. Part of me thinks I should keep it in my wardrobe in the drawstring bag it came in so it never gets ruined, such is its beauty, but I don’t want Richard to think I don’t like it.

  ‘You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anyway, I’m going to a client pitch meeting with Martin this afternoon so I just wanted to say happy birthday while I had the chance.’

  ‘Thanks. You should have woken me this morning, though – I would have come in with you.’

  ‘But you looked so beautiful sleeping there – I didn’t want to wake you.’ He tucks my hair behind my ear and kisses me on the forehead. ‘Besides, I checked with your boss and he agreed you deserved a lie-in on your birthday. You’ve been working so hard – we wouldn’t have a hope in hell with this pitch if it wasn’t for you. This place would fall apart without you, you know. I was telling Martin as much yesterday.’

  I wave a dismissive hand and smile bashfully.

  ‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I want him to keep you on his radar. Don’t let him pigeon-hole you as a PA.’

  Straightening his blue silk Hugo Boss tie, he sits back down at his desk.

  ‘You sure you can’t make it tonight?’ I ask casually, straightening my navy wrap dress.

  ‘Babe, I really wish I could. But I couldn’t say no yesterday when Martin asked me to work late with him – it’s not like I can explain why. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s only that Leah, Rob and Susie are dying to meet you – and Susie’s bringing her new man to meet us too.’ I don’t add that I’m not looking forward to playing gooseberry on my own birthday.

  ‘I know. I’m gutted I won’t be there.’

  ‘Really, it doesn’t matter. There’ll be other chances.’

  Nine months into our relationship and he still hasn’t met my two best friends. At least they know about us, though. No one else does. That’s the problem with keeping our relationship on the down-low. Still, I suppose the down-low is better than telling everyone and becoming one big clichéd boss-shagging PA in their eyes.

  It’s not like that at all. It’s not like he’s married and it’s not AN AFFAIR – we were both single when we got together.

  He’s not OLD or LETCHY. He’s thirty-five, in good shape and only touches me inappropriately when it’s appropriate.

  I am not trying to SLEEP MY WAY TO THE TOP. Even though Richard is always encouraging me to push myself within the company, I like being his PA – we’re a good team. The only reason we agreed to keep it a secret when we got together was because we didn’t want people misreading the situation in any way. And all the sneaking around has been kind of hot.

  So, if you think about it, it actually doesn’t have all the hallmarks of a big cliché at all. More all the hallmarks of a classic love story.

  Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy falls for girl even though he shouldn’t, and together they overcome life’s hurdles to be with one another against the odds.

  Just see if we don’t live happily ever after.

  Everyone has made it to their desk now and I walk back in to a chorus of ‘Happy birthday, Holly’ and ‘Happy birthday, Hols’ and ‘High-five, wrinkly!’ (Danny) and ‘Guys, quieten down’ (Melissa). I grab my pad and start my To Do list.

  I love a To Do list. Some people get their kicks from shoe shopping, or Krispy Kremes, or Facebook. I get mine from writing down the things I need to do, then crossing them out once they’re done. It’s been this way since university. Leah and Susie used to take the piss. They used to take it in turns to add things to my list when I wasn’t looking, like ‘Clean the toilet’ and ‘Make my flatmates’ tea’ and ‘Get a life’.

  I call the restaurant to change tonight’s dinner reservation from six people to five, then satisfyingly run my pen through CALL RESTAURANT, just as Martin Cooper’s six-feet-five frame casts a shadow over my and Jemma’s desks.

  ‘Ahoy, sailors,’ he booms. ‘Jemma, can I touch base with you in my office?’

  He disappears behind his wooden, name-plaqued door while Jemma locates a notepad amongst her piles of rubbish.

  ‘OK, I’m heading in,’ she says. ‘But if he even attempts to touch my base I’m calling HR.’

  I’ve crossed another three things off my list by the time Jemma reappears and Danny rolls himself over on his swivel chair.

  ‘Alwight, Essex?’ mocks Jemma.

  ‘Hello, Scotland,’ he replies, badly attempting Jemma’s accent. ‘I have a question for you, ladies. Would you rather have a missing finger or an extra toe?’

  ‘Too easy,’ says Jemma. ‘Extra toe. Your foot is hidden most of the time and your hands are on show almost always.’

  ‘Plus, where are you going to find a four-fingered glove?’ I add, not looking up from my computer. ‘Socks, on the other hand, don’t compartmentalize your toes so it makes no difference.’

  Danny nods, satisfied. ‘Fair enough. Good points, well made.’

  We like Danny, despite the fact he finishes every third sentence with ‘y’know what I mean?’, even though nothing he says is remotely ambiguous.

  ‘OK,’ Jemma says. ‘Would you rather never be able to have an orgasm again or never give an orgasm again?’

  ‘Have,’ I say.

  ‘Give,’ says Danny at the same time.

  ‘Selfish,’ I say.

  ‘Liar,’ he says at the same time.

  I’m not lying. Not that it’s something I need to worry about with Richard. He’ll keep trying until I get there, even if it takes all night. Sometimes it feels like it does. I used to be vocally averse to women who admit to faking orgasms but recently I’ve learnt that sometimes it’s just plain necessary. The truth is, I don’t always come. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. And Richard is the first bloke I’ve been with not to accept this, which is very sweet. Just a bit inconvenient at times.

  Of course, to tell Danny all that would be spectacularly oversharing,
and he’s wheeling himself back to his desk anyway, upon the simultaneous opening of Martin and Richard’s doors.

  ‘Time to swallow the frog,’ Martin explains, by way of a goodbye.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Holly,’ adds Richard, with a secret wink that gives me goose bumps. ‘Get off a bit early if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Richard,’ I reply in a tone that I hope is polite and friendly enough to display an appropriate amount of respect for my boss, but doesn’t in any way imply that I’ve ever let him tie me to his bedpost with that blue Hugo Boss tie.

  It’s a fine line.

  ‘Reason number ninety-four why your boss is better than mine,’ Jemma moans as she watches them leave.

  ‘Yeah – nice of him to let me go early.’

  ‘Sure, that too. I was talking about his arse.’

  I crack on with my list until about 4 p.m. when I see a few people gather around my desk with fake subtlety. They’re clearly waiting for a cake to appear so they can sing ‘Happy Birthday’. I hate this. It’s so embarrassing. Do I acknowledge them, and look like I’m expecting a cake, or do I pretend I haven’t noticed? Finally they burst into song, and I can blow out the candles.

  ‘Sorry it’s not up to our usual standard,’ Jemma says as she slides a chocolate sponge next to my keyboard. ‘But it would have felt wrong to ask you to bake your own so we had to settle for a Tesco Metro number.’

  I usually bake the cakes for colleagues’ birthdays. It was Danny’s twenty-third birthday just after I started at Hexagon Marketing and I learnt about the ridiculous tradition where people bring in cakes on their OWN birthday, so I offered to make his. And so I inadvertently became cake lady. Now people actually email me requests about what kind they want, then still act surprised when Jemma presents it to them.

  ‘Yum – that was a-mazing,’ states Melissa, dropping her napkin into the bin and wiping crumbs from her desk, looking about as amazed as one might look upon hearing the weatherman announce it might rain this winter. Jemma winces. I never noticed until Jemma pointed it out that Melissa only expresses emotion vocally, without it ever actually registering on her face.

  ‘More?’ Jemma asks, once I’ve polished off my slice.

  ‘No thanks, doll.’

  She cuts herself a second fat chunk. ‘Which is why you’re a size ten and I’m not.’

  That’s not true. It’s more to do with the thrice-weekly gym workouts. I never really exercised until I started university and it can’t be a coincidence that that’s when everything shrunk. Even my bum – gone are the days you could host a tea party on it. Anyway, the way Jemma talks you’d think she was a size twenty-two rather than a fourteen. She told me over lunch on my first day working here that her diet started tomorrow, and it’s been going to start tomorrow ever since.

  ‘Might as well treat myself today,’ she says, licking her fingers. ‘Diet starts tomorrow.’

  When the last of the cake-eating stragglers have dispersed, I get back to work and manage to finish everything that’s urgent by 5 p.m. on the dot, at which point Jemma jumps up.

  ‘Right. Get your coat – you’ve pulled. You havnae really. I could do better. But do get your coat – we’re going to the pub.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Course you can – your boss said so and mine never has to know.’

  ‘I have to feed Harold.’ Because Richard was meant to be coming, I didn’t tell Jemma about my birthday dinner even though I’d have liked to. We’ve been good buddies ever since my second week here, when I gave her an emergency make-over for a last-minute date using the portable hair straighteners and make-up I keep in my drawer. That relationship didn’t last the week but mine and hers was cemented, and these days she regularly helps herself to my beautification resources.

  ‘You’re running off home to feed your retarded cat?’

  ‘Harold’s partially blind, Jem, not retarded.’

  ‘And depressed.’

  ‘Yes. And I think possibly bulimic.’

  ‘Then what’s the point of feeding him?’

  ‘HER.’ When Harold first started turning up at my back door I thought she was a boy and the name I gave her stuck. ‘Good point. But I still should – sorry, Jem.’

  ‘Fine,’ she mumbles, not unhuffily. Then she groans and I think she’s dragging it out a bit, until I realize who’s approaching my desk.

  ‘You off, Holly?’ Melissa says nicely. ‘God, I envy you girls, being able to leave early. Not that I blame you. I wish I didn’t have so many responsibilities and could escape at this time. Enjoy!’

  Too dumbfounded to remind her I work late every single other night, I stare at her retreating back.

  Jemma just makes V-signs at it.

  I pop back and feed Harold – who is clearly pissed off that I’m going out again – before heading round the corner to meet my mates in Blackheath Village.

  I spot them when cheers erupt as soon as I walk into the tiny Italian trattoria. There’s a six-seater table in the corner – the girls on one side and the boys on the other. I drop my new handbag onto the seat opposite mine and kiss them all hello.

  Chapter Four

  ALEX

  Mr Henderson reaches across his desk to receive the envelope from my hand. He tears the seal with his index finger and reads, his expression not changing. Once finished, he arches his weight back into his chair.

  ‘London, eh?’ he says blithely.

  I remember my first morning as a Mothston Grammar teacher – a former pupil like Mr Henderson. ‘Look how far you’ve come,’ he pronounced without irony. Now I’m informing him I won’t be returning after spring break, and he seems ambivalent. It’s a pin to my ego.

  Looking back now over the last few weeks and months, it wasn’t Dad announcing he was selling the house that finally drove me to leave Mothston. It was my date with Fiona and her question: did I enjoy teaching? She inadvertently reminded me why I became a teacher in the first place and, over the next few days, it dawned on me that the nesting bird that couldn’t take off wasn’t just the story of our evening together – it was the story of my life. At school I was desperate for sixth form, but in sixth form it was all about university. Four years later I’d completed my teacher training and thought life would really begin. I’d meet the woman of my dreams and teach generations of kids to love Shakespeare. It was only during my cheerless date with Fiona that I realized I’d wasted years of my life waiting for something that I thought was just around the corner.

  Suddenly I knew I had to leave Mothston, the incubator of my unfulfilled dreams. So I started applying for jobs in Oxford and Leeds and London.

  ‘There was something about this other school,’ I explain to Mr Henderson. ‘It’s in a deprived area and . . .’

  ‘Your chance to change the world?’ Mr Henderson removes his spectacles, cleaning them with the inside of his blazer before replacing them on his face. ‘You remind me so much of your mother.’

  Neither of us fills the silence that ensues, and it’s as though someone has pressed pause on our conversation while we remember her; a quiet capable of condensing days or weeks or even years into a few seconds. Mum was Mr Henderson’s deputy until she was offered her own headship at a special-needs school near York. He often recalls how she set up a campaign fund and rescued her new school from closure when everyone told her it was hopeless. As if I need reminding. I swear I’ve still got blisters on my hands from manufacturing placards on the kitchen lino.

  I can’t help wondering what Mum would make of all this. My first memory is of her explaining that whenever our burglar alarm sensor flashed in the living room, it was Father Christmas checking if I was being good. And so as a kid I always had a sensation of being watched over, and this continued long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

  When Mum died she became the person watching over me, as silly as that sounds, and I know she’d urge me not to hesitate now, but I’d give anything to talk it all through with her. The thi
ng that makes me most sad when I think of her is that I knew her only as a child knows his mum, and not as an adult; not how Mr Henderson knew her. What was she like as a colleague? What was she like after a couple of drinks? I’ll never know.

  ‘I’m chuffed for you,’ says Mr Henderson. ‘I often wish I’d moved on myself.’

  I try to conceal my surprise. I suppose every generation presumes their elders never had real ambition, as if dreams were invented the day they were born.

  Before I can ask Mr Henderson what kept him in Mothston, the school secretary knocks to report an incident in the school library.

  ‘Take every chance you get in life,’ concludes Mr Henderson, rising to his feet. ‘Some things only happen once.’

  It’s not just Whitford High, my new school, I’m excited about. I’m excited about London itself: the Natural History Museum, Kew Gardens, the West End, Shakespeare at The Globe. I doubt I’ll be doing much online dating.

  Kev declared that I wouldn’t last two minutes outside of Mothston. His way of saying he’d miss me, I expect. I’m still establishing whether the feeling is mutual. I reckon you have two types of friends in life: first, those you hang around with because you enjoy the same things and have a similar outlook. I’m hopeful of meeting people like this in London. Then there are those friendships where the foundation is in history and circumstance. Kev is the latter, and while I love him to bits, I’m not sure I like him very much.

  Still, it was kind of him to help me find a house share, even if he soon became agitated as I vetoed people who’d posted online adverts for appearing too laddy, too messy or too bohemian.

  ‘Er, you do realize that whoever you live with is going to find you too OCD, too geeky and too analytical, don’t you?’ he surmised, once we’d arranged a third and final appointment in Deptford, right by my new school.

  And so here we are, boarding a tube at King’s Cross having decided against driving through the capital.

  ‘Oi,’ he says, concern burdening his face. ‘You’re not going to start saying “Gorblimey” and “Al’white, guv”, are you?’