The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  Alex is the only person I trust, and the only person who matters to me, and I need to see him now.

  It rang. No answer. Come on, Al, pick up, I prayed silently. I let it ring out, then I tried again.

  Still no answer.

  My eyes welled up with frustration. He’d never not answered before. He once told me that, if he knew I was out, he moved the phone right next to his ear so that he’d definitely hear it ring if he was asleep.

  Kev! I figured he must be with him, and Kev had just got a mobile too, thank God. I scrolled through my numbers and hit call.

  ‘Hello,’ came the groggy reply.

  ‘Hey, it’s Holly.’

  ‘Holly?’ He didn’t conceal his surprise at me calling him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Is Alex with you?’

  ‘Ah ha,’ he said, almost happily. ‘Nope, ’fraid not.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ My voice broke. ‘I really need him, Kev.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you pissed?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ I sobbed into the phone. ‘Something’s happened and I . . . I just really need Alex.’

  ‘Jesus, Holly. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve just left Ellie’s – I’m on the corner of her road. But I can’t go back in and . . . I just need Alex.’

  ‘Right, stay where you are, I’m coming to get you. I know where Ellie lives – I can be there in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘I need to tell him how I feel,’ I repeat.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ Kev shakes his head. ‘And your head is messed up after what happened tonight.’

  ‘I’m not – I’ve puked up every last drop I drank, and my head’s never been clearer. There’s no one I’d rather spend time with, or who I look forward to seeing as much, or who I’d rather tell stuff to. I’ve felt this way for ages.’

  ‘Then why are you going out with Dean?’

  I flinch at the sound of his name.

  The truth is, he made me feel special. Like Ellie says, he could have anyone, and he chose me. I felt lucky.

  ‘I thought he was cool,’ I whisper croakily, shrugging, feeling ashamed.

  Kev shakes his head and looks out of his window.

  ‘Please don’t say anything about this to Alex,’ I beg. ‘I need to tell it to him in my own way. Kev? Please promise me you’ll never tell Alex we had this conversation?’

  ‘Why don’t you let me tell him?’ he says, turning back round to look at me. ‘It’ll be less embarrassing for everyone. Then if he wants to call you and reciprocate he can, but if he doesn’t—’

  Kev doesn’t finish but his unsaid words hang in the air. Does he know Alex isn’t interested? Is that why he doesn’t want me to make a fool of myself?

  ‘Thanks, Kev,’ I say, more decisively than I feel. ‘But I really think I need to tell him myself.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says grumpily, starting the engine. ‘But don’t try calling him again tonight because if he does feel the same you’ll only go and break the little fucker’s heart if you wake up tomorrow and realize you just want to be friends.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, leaning back into the seat and letting my eyelids flutter sleepily shut. ‘I promise. But I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He purses his lips doubtfully. ‘Right, let me take you home.’

  When I wake up the next morning, I feel different.

  Admittedly not the kind of different I was planning for. Not the happy/spring-in-my-step/seeing-the-world-through-new-eyes type different.

  But I know what I need to do.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ALEX

  September 2010

  I wait on platform one at Mothston Station. The cafe hasn’t opened yet and the shutters are still down at the ticket kiosk. For about ten minutes I am totally alone, with only the words that Kev uttered last night for company.

  At first I was angry. How could he have kept something like that from me all these years? But later, as I tried and failed to find sleep on his sofa, I realized he was just doing what was right by Holly. The real nobhead was me for not being there for her when she needed me the most. Me and Dean fucking Jones. Fury swells inside me at the thought of what he did. No wonder she never came back to Mothston; no wonder the adult Holly I met when I first moved to London wasn’t the same carefree one I knew back at school.

  After about ten minutes of waiting alone, an overweight pigeon executes a clumsy landing onto the concrete, and a memory that had faded becomes vivid once more: waiting for my first and only date with Fiona the vegetarian right here at the station a few months ago.

  Remembering what I saw back then, I walk along the platform towards the entrance area. I don’t know why I care but I do. Once inside, I look up to the glass ceiling and the faecal universe that I noticed for the first time nine months ago, but it is not there. The ceiling has been cleaned. I stand there, staring through the glass at the clear morning sky, thinking about the day Holly came to see me before university, about how I blew the chance for us to be together.

  At York I board a train to King’s Cross and find a seat with no one else around. Tiredness creeps up on me as the train begins to roll down the country, and after a stop at Doncaster I find a toilet where I splash water on my face before examining my dripping skin in the mirror. How different would my life have been if I’d known back then how Holly felt? If I had not taken Kev’s advice to ‘get absent’ and not ignored the phone when it rang that night? Would Holly and I be like Rothers and Megs, still sickeningly happy? Would there be a collection of little Alex and Hollys?

  It doesn’t matter now. That’s all in the past and today is about my future. Our future.

  She’ll be confused at first, of course. But the look on my face will tell her why I’m there. And if it doesn’t I’ll tell her straight: I love you, Holly Gordon. We’ll hold one another, right there on her doorstep, and then we’ll go inside and talk, and I’ll apologize for everything, for trying to make her jealous of Jane when she came to tell me how she felt, for not listening when she needed me to listen, and for making exactly the same mistakes again a week ago. I construct a monologue in my mind, tweaking and deleting and starting over as the blurred greens and browns of the countryside pass by my window.

  I’m not sure how much time has elapsed when I’m startled by a hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes and realize that I’d fallen asleep. The train is stationary and the only person left in my carriage is a pencil-shaped man wearing a blue uniform. I examine his name badge and see that he is Michael, the train manager.

  ‘Our destination,’ says Michael, tilting his head and looking out of the window onto the platform.

  I apologize and collect my bag, and then rub the sleep from my eyes as I make my way through King’s Cross. Although it’s still relatively early, there are so many people around, here in London, on a Saturday morning, and none of them knows who I am or what I’m about to do. As I take a seat on the Northern Line, part of me is desperate for someone to make eye contact, to initiate a conversation, so that I can confide everything. But of course no one does. This isn’t Mothston. Things are different down here.

  An overground train takes me the final leg to Black-heath, where I swipe my Oyster card against the yellow circle and begin to make my way down the high street. It’s a nice area – a little village within London with a huge heath at its heart that means it doesn’t feel as clogged as most of the city. I can see why Holly likes living here.

  Spotting a bucket of sunflowers for sale on the pavement, I act on instinct and hand over a tenner to the man in the shop before resuming my walk, feeling my heart thump. I take a deep breath as I wait to cross the road, reminding myself of what Kev told me last night. Holly loves me. She always has. It doesn’t make me any less nervous.

  The days that change everything usually pass you by. You don’t realize they changed everything until afterwards. Like that day in The Lion when Dad revealed he was buying a boat, or when Holly came around to see m
e before leaving for uni. But right now, as I’m living this day, I know it is going to change my life for ever.

  I wait for a black cab to pass and cross the road before making my way onto Montpellier Row. Holly’s road. To my right is a hotel with letters missing from its sign. The Clarend n Ho el. That’s kind of what this is. I’ve come to find my missing letters.

  My hands are trembling as I leave the pavement and step onto the pathway that leads to Holly’s flat. I stop for a second, take another deep breath and place my finger on the doorbell. No going back now.

  The heat of the morning sun on my back is a reminder that winter is still a month or two away. Though it is warmer than yesterday, my teeth chatter, and my mind has emptied of any coherent thoughts. Suddenly I’m not able to summon all the sentences I’d constructed during the journey, and though my heart is thumping and my hands are shaking and my teeth are chattering and a sweat has started to consume my body, it doesn’t matter. I know everything is going to be OK.

  I hear footsteps and a hand on the door. I lift the sunflowers from my side ready to hand over in case I cannot find any words. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this nervous in my life, even though it’s Holly. The lovely, kind, beautiful, free spirit that is . . .

  The door opens. It is not Holly.

  Standing before me is a man wearing a sleeveless jumper and shirt. Like me, he seems confused. We stare at one another for a few seconds.

  ‘Alex . . .’

  ‘Mr Gordon . . .’

  I realize that Mr Gordon has been holding out his hand for me to shake since he opened the door. I offer a limp shake, looking behind him for a sight of Holly.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Alex, but if it’s Holly you’ve come to see then I’m afraid you’ve just this second missed her.’ Mrs Gordon comes to the door, smears of mascara around her eyes. Mr Gordon puts a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘She left in a black cab a few minutes ago,’ he says. ‘We’re about to leave ourselves, once we’ve got Harold in her cat box.’

  My mind struggles to compute what is going, and all I can think to say is: ‘Where are you taking Harold?’

  Mrs Gordon releases a heavy sob, burying her face into her husband’s shoulder.

  ‘Did Holly not tell you she was going travelling?’ says Mr Gordon.

  The excitement and the anxiety that I have felt since I found out Holly loved me last night is suddenly replaced by total panic. It never even crossed my mind that she would be setting off so soon.

  ‘Which airport?’ I say, retreating back from the doorstep.

  I am not sure whether I thank Mr Gordon for his help or not. I’m back on Montpellier Row, looking around for a black cab to take me to Heathrow, and when one pulls up a few minutes later and I take my seat in the back, I say a silent thank-you to the sky.

  ‘Which terminal, pal?’

  The driver adjusts the volume on his radio to a low thrum, sets the meter and begins to accelerate in first gear. After a few seconds he looks in his rear-view mirror, requiring an answer. A smile hatches from my lips at the ridiculousness of the situation, at my life becoming a romantic comedy.

  ‘I’ll find out on the way.’

  I realize what this means: I’m going to have to call Holly to ask what terminal she is flying from, and although this falls more into comedy than romantic, it’s OK. I can tell her I’m coming to the airport and that I’ll explain everything when I get there.

  I clutch my mobile, hand still trembling, and force myself to do it. I press my thumb against her name and the line is quiet for what seems like a month as the satellites and masts do their bit. The driver changes gear and the engine relaxes. My heart is pounding. Finally the call engages.

  It has not been possible to connect your call, please try again later.

  I end the call and resolve to try again once we’re nearer the airport. There’s plenty of time.

  The driver’s eyes alternate between the road and his mirror once again.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ he says, and I’m grateful for the distraction from the excitement and anxiety that have returned.

  ‘Just meeting someone, actually,’ I answer, placing the phone back in my pocket.

  ‘The missus, is it?’

  I smile at the thought. ‘Not yet, but I’m optimistic.’

  We join a bridge flanked by the slate-grey flow of the Thames. To our right is the Palace of Westminster. At the end of the bridge we take a left towards South Kensington.

  ‘So,’ the driver resumes, ‘this girl worth all the trouble, is she?’

  I think again of the last five months, of our hands touching in the pub, of her singing in the park, of her foot sliding across the sofa. But I don’t get a chance to answer.

  ‘My ex-wife wasn’t,’ he says, then uses his tongue to amputate a bit of food from between his front teeth. ‘I smelt men’s aftershave on her one time and you know what she said? She said it was because she’d popped into Boots.’

  I try to maintain an appearance of mild interest while remembering how it felt to finally kiss her. I call Holly again.

  ‘Can you believe that? She tried to tell me that she was looking to buy me some new aftershave. It would have been the first time in twenty years.’

  It has not been possible to connect your call, please try again later.

  ‘Like I say, you’re often best off without them.’ The driver accelerates along a slip road and onto the motorway, but no sooner have we picked up speed than we have to slow to a near halt because of traffic. ‘You know the biggest difference between men and women?’ The taxi is now at a standstill, allowing the driver to stare into his mirror in anticipation of a reply.

  ‘Why aren’t we moving?’

  ‘Folded towels.’ The driver’s reflected eyes home in on mine, expecting curiosity. ‘Women want all the towels in the house to be folded, and men don’t give a toss.’

  I imagine living with Holly. It would probably be me complaining about the unfolded towels.

  Pulling the phone from my pocket once again, I compose a text to Holly.

  ‘Is traffic usually like this?’

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t mention it on the divorce papers – distress caused from unfolded towels.’

  I force myself to sit back. ‘Do you think there has been some kind of accident? Why else would we not be moving at this time on a Saturday morning?’

  Another chortle. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

  I glance at the sky, where a dark cumulonimbus is prowling like a playground bully. Fifteen minutes go by and still there is no reply from Holly.

  ‘How far is the nearest train station?’ I say, worried that Holly will soon be checking in.

  ‘Southall, probably.’ The driver sniffs, pointing at a line of oak trees that border the carriageway. ‘About a mile and a half, as the crow flies. But you’re a human, not a crow, so you’re going to have to walk to the next junction and then go back on yourself. Take you about forty-five minutes, I’d say.’

  Forty-five minutes to get to the station, less if I run, plus another fifteen on the train – and that’s if it comes straight away. But I don’t even know what terminal I need. Why isn’t she replying? Even if this isn’t what she wants, surely she’d respond, telling me not to come? I decide to wait it out in the cab, praying that Holly is stuck in traffic too.

  I close my eyes and rest my face in my hands, resolving not to look up until I feel the car in motion again. I’m not sure how long has passed when I become aware of a traffic report on the radio.

  ‘Turn it up, please,’ I say, opening my eyes.

  The driver adjusts the volume. Something about a lorry shedding its load. Reports of frozen vegetables strewn across both carriageways. Police hoping to reopen the motorway in approximately an hour. I suppress a scream of frustration and get out of the cab to see for myself the line of static traffic stretching as far as my eyes can see. I examine the colours and the shapes of the cars in each of the thr
ee lanes but nowhere can I see another black cab that might be taking Holly to the airport.

  In the sky to my right I notice a passenger plane in ascent. It vanishes behind a tower block, reappearing a second later trailed by a worm of white smog, its progress appearing laboured from this distance. I tell myself that Heathrow is one of the busiest airports in the world, that hundreds of flights take off from its runways every day, that the chances of Holly being on board this plane are negligible, but it still feels as though the pilot and his crew are taking a part of me with them into the clouds: hope.

  I get the urge to smash something, to let out all my frustration at having fucked everything up again, and the only thing to hand is the sunflowers. When I’m done I sink to my knees on the hard shoulder and realize that everyone in the traffic jam will go home tonight and tell their husbands and wives about the crazy man who obliterated a bunch of flowers against the tarmac. Then I well up because while they’re doing that I’ll be alone when I should be with Holly. I try one more desperate time to call her but the cold, officious voice confirms what I already know: that life is not like a romantic comedy; that I am too late and it’s all my own fault; and that this, after all, is not going to be the day that changes everything.

  Text from Alex to Holly

  I’m on my way to the airport. I love you and I’m sorry. Will explain everything when I get there xx

  Text from Alex to Holly

  PS what terminal are you at? xx

  Text from Alex to Holly

  Stuck in a jam on M4. What time is your flight? xx

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  HOLLY

  I like children. A lot. That said, if the toddler sitting behind me continues to kick my chair for the entire duration of the flight, she’s getting sold to child traffickers during the stop-off in Abu Dhabi.

  I should embrace the distraction, really. Because as long as I’m focusing on that, then I’m not focusing on the fact I’m about to embark on a voyage, on my own, with no concrete plan, for an undetermined amount of time.