The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  ‘How long ago did he break up with Rachel?’ Jemma continues. ‘Must be a good six months, right?’

  Bleeuuurrrrggggghhhhhh. His ex.

  ‘Nine months.’ Those two words remind me of the box wrapped in a chemist’s bag in my top drawer. With something halfway between fear and excitement I gulp down half my tea.

  ‘Wow, you didnae even need to think about that,’ Jemma smirks. ‘Someone’s monitoring the situation.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I protest. ‘I only know because it was around the time of my three-month probation.’ And a week before our first kiss.

  I’d stayed late to help him on a presentation and when we finally aced it at 9.15 p.m. he got over-excited, grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me on the lips. Then we had this weird movie moment where we looked at each other for what felt like ten minutes (in reality about four seconds) then slowly came together for a proper snog. Richard is what you would call An Excellent Kisser. I told him that once but there was no hint of surprise in the smile he responded with, so I assume it wasn’t new information.

  ‘You fancy him, though, right?’ Jemma demands. ‘You work hard because your boss is hot. That’s the only way I can justify that I don’t.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lie defensively.

  ‘So how come you’re single? You’re a fittie. We’re the unluckiest people in love ever. If we’re still single at forty let’s become lezzers.’

  ‘I thought you were seeing someone?’ I deflect.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s over.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He texted me saying “It’s over”. I’m fine, though,’ she adds, before I can administer sympathy. ‘I got the phone number of a cyclist who nearly knocked me into the path of a moving bus this morning and I’m definitely gonnae marry him.’

  ‘Really? That time we agreed that men on bikes were sexy, you pissed yourself laughing when you realized I was talking about bicycles and not motor bikes.’

  ‘Yes, but his business card says he’s an investment banker, so his other wheels are probably a BMW.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay single for a while?’ I ask, not for the first time. ‘Focus on yourself. Prove you don’t need a man to be happy.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ she whines. ‘Preferably a rich one so I can give up work and just have babies.’

  ‘You go, sister!’ I reach out for a sarcastic fist bump but Jemma whacks my hand with her ruler instead.

  ‘You feminists do my head in. Don’t get me started on those bra-burning sixties wifies – they thought they were doing us all a favour proving we’re men’s equals, but all they did was create a society where those of us who just WANT to raise a family and keep a perfect home aren’t allowed to admit it.’

  Before I have a chance to ask how she intends to keep a perfect home when there are still remnants of cake on her desk from my birthday, Melissa is at my desk.

  ‘Holly, hi. I need a word with Richard – is he in his office?’

  ‘Sure, go on . . .’ She marches off without waiting for me to finish. ‘. . . in,’ I mutter, rolling my eyes.

  ‘There’s someone who’d be pleased to know you’re no’ into Richard. Less competition.’

  ‘Melissa?’ I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. I’m far from the crazy jealous type, but the thought of Melissa flirting with Richard makes me feel a bit sick. She’s one of those knows-what-she-wants-and-doesn’t-stop-until-she-gets-it sorts.

  ‘Oh aye, totally fancies him. Whenever she has a meeting with him she nips to the loo first and reapplies her make-up. Look, she’s about to come back out. Watch her.’

  ‘I’m so excited about this project,’ she’s saying, with a look conveying a level of excitement most people reserve for queuing for the ATM, while touching Richard’s bicep.

  Damning evidence.

  Not that I’m threatened by Melissa. She’s blonde and tanned (both from a bottle) and relatively pretty, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing. She’s also as much fun as dental surgery. ‘See?’ Jemma lowers her voice. ‘I’m telling you, if you threw her knickers against the wall they’d stick.’

  ‘Right,’ I laugh and swig the last of my tea. ‘If you’ve finished speculating whether or not my boss has a girlfriend, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Oh, I dinnae think he’s got a girlfriend. I just think he’s getting his end away.’

  Two hours later I still don’t need a pee. How is that even possible? I feel sick with anticipation. Or is it morning sickness? Can you get morning sickness in the afternoon?

  ‘EARTH TO HOLLY.’

  ‘Sorry, Jem, what?’

  ‘Would you rather marry someone really clever but well ugly or gorgeous but thick as two short planks?’

  I don’t overthink these dilemmas ordinarily, but this feels pertinent. I glance at Richard, standing in Martin Cooper’s doorway gesticulating animatedly with his hands. Looks are genetic. Is intelligence? I don’t think it is, is it?

  ‘Clever and ugly,’ I say anyway, because it feels like the only acceptable response to that question.

  ‘Oh, get your head out your arse. I’d go for the stupid fitty. I’m going to email Danny and see what he thinks.’

  I’m about to get up and buy peanut M&Ms from the vending machine (effing hell – a craving!) when an email pops into my inbox.

  From:

 

  To:

 

  Subject:

  Hello

  Hello Holly,

  Remember me? Your mum passed on your email address. I’m a teacher now and just got a new job in London. I guess your mum thought it’d be good for us to meet up. Where exactly are you living? I’ll be in Greenwich.

  I can’t believe it has been so long. We’re nearly 30! I hope you’re doing all the things you wanted to. It really would be nice to have a catch-up some time. Anyway, best crack on – loads to do with the move and everything. Hope to hear from you soon.

  Alex x

  Oh my God – Alex!

  ‘Who?’ Jemma looks around and I realize I said it out loud.

  ‘A guy I went to school with in Yorkshire – he’s just emailed to say he’s moving to London.’

  I read the email again, my heart pounding. He wants to meet up? I haven’t heard from him in eleven years. It would be nice to see him. Or would it be weird? Why did he choose today of all days to get in touch – I can’t think straight.

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Yorkshire.’

  ‘We moved up there when I was eleven, and I moved away again when I was eighteen so I never really—’

  ‘That’s nice. So, is he single?’

  I shrug. We haven’t spoken since I left Mothston. He probably married that Jane girl he met just before I left. Right after they bought their house and just before she bore his first child. He was the sort to do things in the right order.

  ‘Aren’t you Facebook friends? Oh, I forgot. You’re the only person on the planet not on Facebook.’

  ‘Richard’s not on Facebook.’ What am I doing? Shut up, Holly. I carry on before Jemma asks how I know that. ‘What’s the point? It’s just a way for people to stalk each other.’

  ‘That is the point. Just think – without Facebook I would never have known that guy I met was a member of the group PEOPLE WHO LIGHT THEIR FARTS, and I probably would have gone out with him. It’s also great for getting back in touch with people.’

  ‘I’m in touch with everyone I want to be.’

  ‘And you get to see which girls you went to school with got fat. Anyway, what’s his surname?’

  I tell her.

  ‘There’s shit loads of Alex Tylers,’ she complains after she’s typed it. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Um, skinny. Badly cut hair.’

  ‘And you weren’t interested? Shocking.’

  I laugh. There was much more to Alex than that. He was a good mate, even though my
other mates thought he was dull and studious, because he didn’t bunk school, disrupt lessons or smoke behind the gym, as was the cool kids’ way. He’d also analyse things to death, but he was a good listener. I could tell him anything. Until that time I really needed to tell him something, and he was a bit of a knob. So, I couldn’t tell him everything it turns out.

  ‘Can you search by location?’ I venture. ‘Maybe try Mothston.’

  ‘Oh, you lost me at badly cut hair. I’m playing Online Scrabble now.’

  Fair enough.

  I tap out a quick reply to Alex’s email, hastily changing my suggestion of a beer to a coffee when a tug at my bladder reminds me of my potential situation, then within a minute and a half I’m sitting on the loo.

  With the lid down.

  And my pants up.

  I can’t do it. Not the actual act of peeing – that would be easy. Too easy. I’m in danger of having an accident if I leave it much longer. But I can’t have this moment here, like this.

  If it’s positive, I’ll remember it for ever. Do I want to tell little Jeremy or Jemima (note to self: check if Richard was also a big Chitty Chitty Bang Bang fan growing up) that I was alone in a disabled toilet? Richard should be here. Is it irresponsible to tell him before I know for sure? We might not have talked about kids yet, but he must have thought about it. That’s what you do when you get involved with someone – think about the future.

  I can’t stay here much longer thinking about it because if there’s someone outside in a wheelchair I’ll hate myself, so I pee without taking the test out of my bag and then head for his office.

  Come Sunday, still no period and I still haven’t told him. When I walked into his office he got in there first with some exciting work news: Hexagon are in talks with an American marketing firm about a potential merger.

  I’m playing fast and loose with the word ‘exciting’ there, but it excited the pants off Richard – it could mean a promotion, heading up a new department dealing with American clients.

  Today’s the first time since then that I’ll be alone with him, and I’m stuffing a lemon into the backside of a chicken when the apple of my eye calls.

  ‘Hiya, handsome!’

  ‘Hey, gorgeous. I’ve good news and bad news.’

  The good news being that the company we’re potentially merging with want to fly him to their New York office tomorrow to meet him.

  The bad news being that he needs to prepare, so won’t be round for me or my roast chicken.

  I tell him it’s fine. It isn’t, but he wasn’t to know what I had planned for him: a romantic unveiling of a stick covered with my wee.

  ‘Thanks, babe. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll . . . What is that racket? Are you in a church?’

  ‘Songs of Praise. I was just flicking through the channels.’

  I don’t know why I said I was flicking – it’s a lie. I like Songs of Praise. I like how the words are on the screen so you can sing along. It’s like religious karaoke.

  He laughs. ‘I’d better go.’

  I won’t see him until Tuesday now. I can’t wait that long to take the test – I’ll go crazy.

  ‘Looks like it’s just me and you, Harold.’

  Oh really? she asks, all beady eyed. Am I supposed to be grateful? Just because you’ve got no one else here? Well, screw you, she says, and storms off.

  She’ll be back once the chicken’s done.

  Sat on the loo with ‘How Great Thou Art’ blaring in the background, my mobile rings next to me, scaring the bejesus out of me.

  Richard calling to tell me how he’s going to make it up to me?

  I check the screen.

  ‘Hi, Mum. It’s not a good time – can I call you—’

  ‘Hey, honey. So, there was a woman on Jeremy Kyle who found out her daughter, who visits every weekend, not only steals money from her, but sleeps with her husband. And you know what I thought?’

  ‘That you should get out more?’

  ‘Very funny. No, I thought how lucky she is she sees her daughter every weekend.’

  Most mothers would just ASK when you’re coming to see them. Mine likes to dress it up and disguise it as a topic of conversation.

  At least she got to it quickly this time. It’s worse when we talk for ages first, and I don’t know which subject will turn out to be a prelude to this. A bit like when someone is hiding and you know they’re going to jump out on you any minute – it’s the anticipation that gets you.

  ‘I’ll come up soon, Mum. I really have to go, though—’

  ‘Anyway, the real reason I called,’ she interrupts excitedly, ‘is to tell you Alex Tyler has moved to London.’

  It must be the talk of the town – nothing this big has happened in Mothston since the post office got a greetings card section. I got a phone call from Mum about that, too.

  ‘I know, he emailed me about meeting up. Thanks for handing out my address willy-nilly, by the way.’

  She ignores that last bit. ‘So, have you met up?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘I’d have thought you’d be dying to see him.’

  ‘It’s been eleven years,’ I point out. And I’m a little distracted by the potential imminent existence of your first grandchild, I don’t point out.

  ‘Then you’ve a lot to catch up on. And he probably doesn’t know anyone in London.’

  I assure her I’ll sort something and hang up.

  Once the test is finally underway, I distract myself from clock-watching by singing ‘Shine Jesus Shine’. I’m just getting to the bit where I’m telling him to flood the nations with grace and mercy when my phone goes again. Richard . . .?

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ The only explanation I can think of as to why I bother answering is that there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want to be alone for this moment.

  ‘It wasn’t her dad, by the way.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The girl sleeping with her mum’s husband. Her parents are divorced and it was her mum’s new husband. Just in case that wasn’t clear. Though on that show you never know what to expect.’

  I’m barely listening. I’m too busy staring at the little white stick.

  Chapter Six

  ALEX

  ‘AHCHOOO!’

  Carl rises from his armchair, eyes damp and swollen, while I scan the immediate area to establish which items have been contaminated. Most of the coffee table’s a write-off: a charcoal pencil that rests on an A2 drawing pad, remote control, small rectangular tin that I suspect contains weed.

  ‘Bloody hay fever.’ He sighs, using his right foot to locate a pair of loafers beneath the sofa. ‘I’m gonna pop out for some antihistamines. You want anything, buddy?’

  Antibacterial wipes? A handkerchief? A shotgun?

  ‘I’m good, ta.’

  I finished unpacking an hour ago and already I’m unsure whether I’m cut out for flat sharing. I ended up tossing a coin between Carl (bacteria) and Russell (Pink Floyd), figuring I could always find somewhere more suitable once I’m settled. But then Carl requested an £800 deposit, non-refundable if I vacated within six months, so now I’m trapped in his viral pit, watching Songs of Praise on 52 inches of plasma because I’m worried what I’ll contract if I try to flick channels.

  I forget the TV and switch on my laptop. I haven’t had a chance to check my emails all weekend, what with the move, and it takes me a few seconds to spot it among the teacher newsletters, Amazon receipts and messages from the Nigerian opposition leader asking for my assistance in the war against his oppressors. When I finally do, my chest constricts.

  It’s surreal reading her name in Courier New. No one in Mothston had heard of emails last time we saw each other. We still knocked on people’s doors if we had something to tell them. I click on her message and am unexpectedly overcome by a familiar feeling. The same feeling I got whenever Mum or Dad would call up to my room informing me Holly was at the door. I’d tiptoe to the bath
room mirror, my heartbeat accelerating as I checked my breath against my palm. One final gulp of air at the top of the stairs and then . . .

  From:

 

  To:

 

  Subject:

  re: Hello

  Hi Alex,

  Hope all’s well.

  That’s great that you’re teaching now, just like you always wanted – good for you. I live in Blackheath, which is actually right next to Greenwich. I should be able to fit in a coffee in a couple of weeks – drop me a line when you’re settled and I’ll check my diary.

  Good luck with the move,

  H

  I read her email again for clues, something to tell me whether she was pleased to hear from me. It all depends where you put the emphasis: the ‘should’ or the ‘coffee’.

  Maybe it’s the coffee thing that has left me feeling deflated. Like she can only spare five minutes or whatever. I envisaged an evening reminiscing about old times over a few proper drinks, chatting until the early hours like we used to. I don’t know – I was probably expecting too much. Some things never change.

  After fifteen minutes I decide there’s at least a slight chance I’m being an imbecile, so I make her ‘coffee’ jaunty and enthusiastic as I reply, asking when she’s free and supplying my mobile number. Then I shut my laptop and fall back onto the sofa, allowing nerves and excitement to do their worst as I ponder what’s ahead tomorrow.

  A right turn from Deptford station sends me along a high street where a halal butcher’s and an Afro-Caribbean food store are opening for trade. I smile at one of the shop owners; he doesn’t appear to see me.

  The spring air is still, the temperature hinting at summer. I remove my jacket and sling it over my shoulder as I follow the road until reaching a block of council flats where satellite dishes are suspended on different-coloured balconies. I begin to spy pupils: year sevens with untucked shirts and rucksacks hanging low; older girls wearing hooped earrings and stern expressions. There’s far more bling than I’d imagined. During the last few weeks I’ve had visions of a Polish boy with holes in his shoes and no money for books. In the daydream I hand him my personal copy of Michael Robartes and the Dancer by W.B. Yeats and smile selflessly as he thanks me in broken English. The narrative then advances fifty years and the boy, now Poet Laureate, is guiding me around his personal library dressed in a burgundy smoking jacket. He places into my hands a book masked by thick wrapping paper, and later I realize it’s the same Yeats collection I bequeathed to him all those years earlier.