Second Chance

by Jane Green

  ‘Oh Olivia,’ Jen says, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘That was Elizabeth Gregory, she’s one of my friends from school. She knows… well, her husband knows your friend Tom. I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know how to tell you, but Tom was on that train.’

  ‘What train? What are you talking about?’

  ‘He was on the Acela. In America. He didn’t make it.’

  ‘What do you mean Tom was on the Acela? What are you talking about?’ And then slowly it starts to dawn. ‘Tom? You mean my Tom? He’s dead?’ And without realizing it, Olivia sinks down to the floor, her body trembling like a leaf.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Thank you so much, darling.’ Holly reaches up to give Marcus a kiss on the cheek as he hustles Oliver and Daisy out through the door. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’

  ‘You just remember this at the weekend when I want a lie-in,’ Marcus says. ‘Any message for your mum?’

  ‘No, just tell her thank you and I’ll call her tomorrow.’

  The kids are going to stay at Holly’s mum’s house for the night, and Marcus is going back to the office to work, leaving Holly to get dinner ready for the people she once felt she knew better than anyone else in the world, people she hasn’t seen for years.

  Twenty-one years, to be precise. And tonight this is not only their reunion, it is their private memorial service, their chance to support one another, to remember the Tom they all knew and loved. Continue to love.

  Saffron has flown in from New York where she was meeting with a film producer. She had been staying at the Soho Grand, had been right there when the train exploded. She, like many other New Yorkers who were instantly transported back to 9/11, had fled the city, thinking that this was just the first of a series of terrorist attacks. She had jumped in a friend’s car heading out to their house in Bedford, crawling along the West Side Highway, shaking the entire journey, all of them stunned that New York was a target yet again.

  Olivia had been at home, leafing through the Guardian as the dogs begged for food at her feet, not reading, mindlessly flicking pages as she tried to comprehend the tragedy, when Holly phoned her.

  She had barely thought about Holly for years. She’d spoken to her only once since the summer after they all left school, when Olivia went off to Greece for a year and came back deciding to reinvent herself as a grown-up.

  They had bumped into each other a year or so after university, and both of them had laughed at how different they were. Olivia’s hair had been waist-length at the time, and Holly’s curly mouse-brown locks had become a sweep of straightened gloss with mahogany lights.

  Olivia would have stayed longer to chat, wanted, if not to become friends again, at least to find out more about Holly, but she had just started seeing Andrew, jealous, insecure Andrew, and he had hovered behind Olivia, nodding disdainfully at Holly when introduced, had created an atmosphere so tense that Olivia had allowed herself to be pulled away from Holly at the earliest opportunity.

  And years later here was someone on the phone asking for Olivia, and how odd that the voice sounded just like Holly’s.

  ‘Holly?’ Olivia found herself saying incredulously.

  ‘It is you!’ Holly said. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Oh Holly,’ Olivia said, as the tears started. ‘Isn’t it just awful? Have you spoken to everyone? Have you been in touch with Saffron? And Paul?’

  ‘I have,’ Holly said, finding her voice suddenly choking up. ‘I’ve spoken to everyone.’

  And speak to everyone she has.

  All Holly wanted to do, leading up to the memorial service, was talk about Tom. All anyone talked about was this latest attack. She couldn’t get away from it, and talking about Tom was a way for her to keep him alive. Even though strangers weren’t interested in knowing anything other than here was someone who actually had a personal connection to the tragedy, Holly found herself talking and talking and talking.

  Perhaps people were interested in the details, perhaps not. Nobody stopped her from talking, though; everyone wanted to share in Holly’s personal tragedy, wanted to be able to go home and say they had met someone today who had lost someone in the Acela attack, as if they too were connected, had a different, deeper understanding of the pain and grief, the fallout from a tragedy such as this.

  Marcus has been fantastic. Supportive when she needed it, giving her the space and time to cry when she needed that too. Since Tom’s death, Marcus’s behaviour has reminded Holly of all that is good about him, and during those few moments when her grief subsides, she has been grateful for that. He was, she thought one day as she looked up at him, her pillar of strength, and immediately she knew that that was why she married him.

  Everything about Marcus spells strength. From the set of his jaw to his quiet but firm insistence that his way is the right way. The first time Holly saw Marcus she’d known she had never met anyone like him before in her life.

  And it helped that he was the diametric opposite of her father. She’d known he was loyal. She’d known he wasn’t the sort of man who would have an affair, wasn’t the sort of man who would leave his wife and daughter, to disappear into the ether leaving just a faint whiff of false promises. He wouldn’t have an affair with one of her friends, as her last boyfriend, Russ, had ended up doing.

  She had been at a friend’s house in Sydney, having a cookout, when she met Marcus. Sitting on the grass in frayed denim shorts and a T-shirt, she was as brown as a berry from the travelling, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose so plentiful, they almost created the tan themselves.

  There had been tons of people there. Surfers mostly, and neighbours and friends, everyone arriving cheerfully bearing more food, more beer. Marcus had stood out, even then, with his odd formality. He’d looked like a stuffy English lawyer in his Ralph Lauren polo shirt, tucked into chino shorts belted with a plaited brown belt. Holly had watched him uncomfortably sipping his beer, not bothering to make small talk, and she had felt sorry for him. She had felt sorry for him as the only other English person there, as being a man who so clearly did not fit in.

  ‘I’m Holly,’ she had said, clambering up and going over to him, extending a hand. ‘You must be Marcus,’ for she had heard one of the neighbours had a stuffy English lawyer staying with them, and he couldn’t be anyone else.

  His face had lit up. ‘You’re English!’ It had been a statement, not a question, and his gratitude at having been rescued had been sweet and endearing, and Holly had found she didn’t mind spending the evening talking to him. And she hadn’t minded when he phoned the next day to ask her for lunch, and she hadn’t minded a couple of nights later when he kissed her as he was saying goodbye and dropping her off at her house.

  He wasn’t her normal type, but perhaps, she’d thought then, that wasn’t such a bad thing. And where had her type got her, anyway? A series of destructive, disappointing relationships in which Holly had always seemed to be the one who got hurt. Maybe it was a good thing Marcus wasn’t her type. And it wasn’t as if he were awful. He certainly looked the part. He was tallish, not bad-looking, clearly successful, and he seemed to adore her. Frankly it was bloody nice having a bit of adoration in her life.

  I’ll just enjoy it, Holly had thought to herself. I know he’s not the man of my dreams, but he’s so different from everyone else I’ve been involved with, maybe this is better for me, maybe this is what a real relationship looks like. Maybe I was the one who was wrong, maybe I shouldn’t have looked for a soulmate, a perfect partner, maybe this is what I am supposed to be looking for instead.

  Holly had been looking for safety. She had been looking for security at a time when she didn’t feel secure. Her heart had been broken one too many times, and she didn’t think she could do better, she didn’t think she deserved a happy ending. She told herself that happy endings existed only in Hollywood films. That friendship, security, and shared hopes and dreams were far more sensible, far more likely to result in a
long and happy marriage.

  She’d told herself that it was okay to settle. That she could be a grown-up for once and make a grown-up decision. That it would be enough.

  But during her entire marriage, when Holly’s thoughts have turned to Tom, Tom has always there as the symbol of what might have been. He wasn’t just the one that got away, the road not taken, the love she didn’t choose.

  Tom was the one Holly knows, deep down, she should have been with. And so the loss is double. She is grieving for her best friend, a man she loves, and she is grieving for the life she was never able to have.

  Tonight, at this pre-service dinner, Holly is hoping for something of a catharsis, is hoping that somehow they will be able to share their grief, and move beyond it onto a path of healing.

  She is nervous about seeing the others. Is excited but apprehensive. Olivia had been bristly that one time she bumped into her at the cinema with an awful boyfriend who seemed arrogant and rude.

  ‘I can’t believe I ran into Olivia and she was with this awful, awful man,’ she said to Tom one night soon afterwards, when they were sitting in a small Greek restaurant in Bayswater. ‘All these years of not seeing each other, and you’d think we’d have a fantastic reunion, but he basically dragged her away. You ought to say something to her about her taste in men.’

  Tom laughed. ‘It’s none of my business, Holly. She likes him, isn’t that all that matters?’

  Holly sighed. ‘I suppose so, it’s just that Olivia was always so sweet and so naive around men and she doesn’t seem to have changed. What’s Saffron up to? Have you spoken to her recently?’

  ‘You should ask her yourself. She’d love to hear from you.’

  ‘It’s been too many years. I love hearing about her, but we’ve all drifted apart, and I doubt she’d want to hear from me anyway.’

  ‘I think she would,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure she would. You all ask about everyone else but none of you will actually pick up the phone.’

  ‘It’s because I honestly don’t think any of us have anything in common any more,’ Holly said. ‘Other than a shared history, and frankly how many times can you reminisce about slow dancing in church halls, wearing donkey jackets and monkey boots?’

  ‘Oh God.’ Tom laughed. ‘I’d forgotten that. You looked terrible.’

  ‘Yes, well. You with your bad impression of Suggs weren’t so hot either.’

  ‘Ah yes. I try to forget. But I do think you would have things in common with everyone, of course you would. There was a reason we were all friends.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Holly said doubtfully. ‘I think it was just being forced together for so long. You are funny, though,’ Holly said. ‘I can’t believe that you’re still in touch with everyone. How in the hell do you do it? I barely have time to answer the calls on my answerphone at night, let alone make time to phone a ton of people from my past. You’re amazing, you know.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t that why you love me?’

  ‘Speaking of love…’ Holly felt a familiar flutter. Here it was again. Like a constant merry-go-round, she was sitting across the table, aged twenty-five, looking at the face she knew better than any other in the world, her best friend’s, and all she could think of was what it would feel like to kiss him. ‘… are you… seeing anyone?’ She fidgeted on her seat. Nervous.

  ‘Why? Do you fancy me again?’

  It had become a standing joke between them, this falling in and out of love with each other, but to Holly’s embarrassment she found herself lost for words, a deep blush spreading across her face.

  ‘Oh God,’ Tom was mortified, ‘I didn’t mean that.

  Oh God, Holly. If you’d told me two months ago.’

  ‘Two months ago I was with Jake.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom smiled. ‘I was horribly jealous.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because you were with Jake. What difference would it have made?’

  ‘I might have dumped him for you.’

  ‘Holly, Holly, Holly.’ Tom put his head in his hands. ‘We’re not destined to be together, you know that.’

  Holly’s blush faded as quickly as it had come. ‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘But what about if we’re both still single at thirty? How about we make a pact that we get married if we’re both still single at thirty?’

  ‘Thirty?’ Tom sounded slightly alarmed. ‘That’s only five years away. Can we make it thirty-five?’

  ‘Okay.’ Holly extended her hand across the table and Tom shook it firmly. ‘Thirty-five and we get married.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘So go on,’ Holly said after a few minutes, mouth full of pitta and tzatziki. ‘Who is she, then?’

  And on it went.

  Holly has not had the heart to cook, but has made a salad, has picked up a gourmet pasta dish, a couple of baguettes and a tiramisu from the Italian deli down the road. Several bottles of wine are chilling in the fridge.

  Holly sets the table for four, everything taking five times as long as it usually does because she loses herself in a constant stream of memories about Tom.

  She finishes getting the table ready, then goes to the bathroom to attempt to mask the pain her face has been carrying the last few weeks. Murine eyedrops to wash the redness from her eyes, tinted moisturizer to even out her skin, now blotchy from the streams of tears. Eyeshadow to make her eyes bigger, blusher to bring colour to her face, recently an unbecoming shade of grey.

  Not gorgeous. Not now. But presentable. That’s the best she can hope for. As the doorbell rings, Holly sighs and smooths her hair behind her ears, then she walks down the stairs.

  She has often thought about a school reunion, but never thought it would be under circumstances such as these.

  Chapter Five

  Olivia is first. Standing awkwardly on the doorstep proffering a bottle of wine, Olivia is surprised at how naturally she and Holly fall into each other’s arms, and when they pull apart, both wipe their eyes and smile, shaking their heads, too overcome with emotion to speak.

  A Saab crawls slowly up the road, and they turn, Holly squinting at the car, a man and a woman peering out of the window. She waves furiously as they pull into a spot, and Paul and Saffron make their way up the path, all of them smiling sorrowfully at one another, before wrapping each other up, one by one, in huge tear-filled hugs, unable to believe they are together again after all these years, unable to believe what has brought them back together.

  Holly is suddenly enormously relieved that the clattering group has made its way into her kitchen in her home. Olivia had suggested going out, didn’t want Holly to go to the trouble of cooking, preparing a meal, but Holly had known she couldn’t deal with this in a public space, needs intimate surroundings to talk about Tom, needs the warmth and comfort of a home.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘You look fantastic!’

  ‘Look at you!’

  ‘Our friend the film star!’

  ‘Oh my God! How long has it been?’

  Their voices echo around the kitchen as they smile at one another, Olivia grinning at Saffron, Paul squeezing Holly’s shoulders, Saffron feeling, for the first time in years, that she doesn’t have to be Saffron Armitage, movie star, that she can finally be Saff. Just Saff.

  ‘It’s good to be here.’ Paul sinks into a kitchen chair, gulping from a glass of wine. ‘Horrible, awful circumstances but, Christ, it’s good to see all of you.’

  ‘Forgive the movie cliché,’ says Saffron, emotion choking her voice, ‘but I feel like I’ve come home.’

  Olivia breaks the sudden silence by prodding Paul. ‘You’ve obviously eaten well all these years,’ she says with a grin.

  ‘Oh charming,’ Paul says. ‘I don’t see you for, what, twenty years? And the first thing to come out of your mouth is an insult. I see you haven’t changed a bit.’

  Olivia puts her arm around Paul’s shoulders and squeezes, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You look grea
t. I’m just teasing. Anyway, you should be happy I still feel so comfortable with you.’

  Saffron wanders into the living room, looking at the photographs dotted around. She picks one up – Holly and Marcus grinning at the camera as they perch on a wooden gate in the country.

  ‘Holly,’ Saffron calls, ‘is this your husband?’ She holds up the photograph.

  ‘Yup,’ Holly peers around the doorway, ‘and those are my kids over there.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Saffron shakes her head. ‘Holly Mac married. With children, no less.’

  Holly comes back in from the kitchen with a smile. ‘Hey, Paul. Speaking of married, I saw some spread you did in Vogue when you got married. Mr bloody Prada. I almost phoned you then just to laugh at you.’

  Paul dips his head sheepishly. ‘Ah yes. Did feel a bit of a poseur. Had the piss taken out of me for weeks, and only did it because Anna thought it would be great publicity.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘God, I love Fashionista!’ Holly says. ‘I used to spend a fortune with that other clothes website, but the service was crap. Everything always used to arrive about two weeks late because it was always out of stock, and they never apologized, which drove me bonkers. So now I only use Fashionista and it’s amazing. Seriously, the packaging, the speed. Tell your wife I’m a huge fan and she’s doing an incredible job.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your wife would give us mates’ rates?’ Saffron attempts.

  ‘Sure. You’d have to meet her first, and she’d have to like you, which is obviously a problem, but I’ll work on it.’ Paul smiles.

  ‘Why do you buy so much stuff from them?’ Olivia asks.

  Holly shrugs. ‘Two reasons. First, whoever is buying for the website has the most spectacular taste imaginable–’

  Paul nods smugly. ‘That’d be the wife.’

  ‘–and,’ continues Holly, ‘it seems that one of my vices as I have grown older is compulsive shopping.’