by Rosie Nixon
He looked at me pleadingly. ‘I would do anything – anything – to turn back the clock. I love you both so much,’ he wept. ‘I’ve tried to show you that. I know I struggled when you were pregnant and wasn’t there for you. But you and Joni are the most important people in the world to me. I’d be lost without you.’ He looked like a broken man.
We were soon both in floods of tears. I used the last of the tissues in my pockets.
We were interrupted when Joni woke. At the sound of her first cry Jason went to reach for the pram, but I instinctively knocked his arm away, accidentally sending my coffee cup, which had remained in the cup holder, falling out and onto the ground.
‘Get off!’ I snapped, finding some kind of other-worldly strength from within. I stood up and gripped the handlebars, releasing the brake. ‘Don’t touch my baby!’
A few people turned to look at us with concerned expressions. I didn’t care.
‘Please, Aish, wait. Can we talk?’ he said, moving towards us.
But my disbelief had turned to anger. ‘You lying shit! Just leave me alone.’
I didn’t want to hear any more right now and somehow I summoned the energy to get away from him, not noticing or caring in which direction I was travelling, my feet barely touching the ground. Anywhere to get him out of my sight. I felt so stupid – like a fool for not acting on the sixth sense I’d had that something wasn’t right; that he was keeping something from me. But I never expected this.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lucy
Thursday September 10th, last year
I’d always considered myself a person who disliked surprises – loathed them, in fact. From surprise birthday parties – my worst nightmare – to opening gifts I knew I’d never use, but was too polite to ask for the receipt for. I was much better if I could prepare for something. Only some carefully planned days could occasionally turn into extraordinary days, when you least expected it. And that is what had happened.
As if going through the IVF process as a single woman wasn’t gruelling enough, the element of surprise it had involved had made me anxious all month. I had pretty much cleared my calendar, aware that I might have needed to attend the clinic for a blood test at a moment’s notice, ready to undergo IVF at exactly the right time. I had one good-quality frozen embryo and had opted for a natural cycle.
My consultant was happy with my progress that month and I was ready for the embryo transfer. I decided to wait until the last minute to book the day off so there was less likelihood of anyone knowing what I was doing. I even turned down the opportunity to chat to the clinic’s in-house counsellor because I felt so in control of my emotions and had made peace with the knowledge that I was in the hands of fate now.
When the day drew near, I booked it off work, claiming a family matter had arisen.
The day before the transfer, I left work early to pick up some treats to keep me going after the procedure, so I could rest at home and hug my belly in peace, while eating cake and drinking herbal tea.
As I walked to the Tube, taking a detour through Green Park because it was such a nice evening, I noticed a couple kissing on a bench, their legs wrapped around each other, oblivious to the constant stream of commuters marching past them. They were young and looked so loved up, so fertile. I thought about how IVF couldn’t be further removed from love-making. What a clinical way to make a baby, stripping away the romance and leaving the stark reality of a scientific experiment in its place. The whole thing was about as unsexy as a wet espadrille. So I put in my AirPods, put on a relaxing playlist and decided to think about sex as a way to somehow beautify what was going to be happening between my legs the next day.
When thinking about sex, I always fantasized about the same person; in fact it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say I had thought about him at least once every day in the twenty years since we’d broken up. Jason Moore, my first love.
Sometimes, if I was in the right mood, I could drift off and, for a split second, be back in the past. I could remember exactly what he looked like – or rather, had looked like then. The way he had smiled, how he had closed his eyes when he kissed me – I could picture him clearly. For flashing, brief moments, I could feel the same skin-tingling, intoxicating sensation of being with him, and what it was like knowing that he wanted to be with me.
Jason was my university sweetheart. I was head-over-Timberlands for him then, and no one had lived up to him since, no matter how much I had wanted myself to fall in love. And believe me, I had really wanted to love like that again. Over the years, I had tried so hard to find someone to replace Jason. But no one came close. Oscar got warm, but when he told me he didn’t want any more children, I knew I had to move on; I had to take control of my desire to become a mother. So there I was, single and trying to make a baby on my own.
I’d read enough features in women’s magazines to know that nothing hurt as much as the first time you fell in love; I was not stupid – and I was not overemotional. I just thought I would have been over him by now; that the years would have blurred the depth of feeling, and that other people would have filled the void, ideally by being better than him. But the truth was, I hadn’t experienced the kind of madness that came with true love – the utter insanity when you would do anything for five minutes in the company of that person, even if it meant flying to the other side of the world – since Jason.
So when I saw him that Thursday, it was the shock of my life. I was snapped out of my daydream by an Evening Standard vendor pushing a copy of that evening’s paper into my palm. The sun was still high in the sky and I decided to buy myself a cupcake from Lola’s near the Tube station as a reward for tomorrow. Despite a little apprehension – because the appointment had the power to change my life forever – I was in a good mood. I had a strong feeling of hope in my heart, like it was going to be okay.
I was sat on the Tube reading the paper, the red velvet cupcake encased in a little box in a paper bag between my feet, with my beloved cross-body Gucci bag on my lap. At each stop there was the bustle of passengers coming and going, bobbing up and down as they moved in and out of seats around me. I couldn’t explain why I chose that moment, but I looked up from the paper for a second and that’s when I clocked him sitting directly opposite me. I knew that face. I knew it so well. A moment of recognition and then I averted my eyes, looking back down at the printed paper in front of me. My body reacted immediately, suddenly feeling very hot and tight around the chest, my breathing quickened and my heart rate sped up. Was I imagining this? I swallowed, but the thumping in my heart only grew stronger. I glanced up again, fleetingly, to double-check. He was engrossed in his laptop – he had become that guy who worked on his laptop on the Tube. But I’d have recognized his face anywhere: the angular, chiselled features but soft, green eyes. The thick mop of dark brown hair, although it was styled in a sensible neat crop then, rather than the longer, grungy look of 2000. He was still good-looking.
I panicked and moved the newspaper higher, hiding behind it like a comedy spy, lowering it occasionally, just to triple-check it wasn’t a dream. Perhaps I was having a sugar dip; sugar dips could do strange things to your vision. I reached for the Lola’s bag, pulling it on top of the Gucci, wondering if I could grab a piece of icing off the cake and eat it, to sort me out. I felt sick. This wasn’t a dream or a sugar dip. Maybe it wasn’t even a coincidence. Perhaps it was meant to be; maybe this was our moment.
As the Tube began to slow down, ready to approach the next station platform, my mind raced. Should I make eye contact? Perhaps I should get up, leave the train at the next stop? Maybe I could move seats? But I felt paralysed, as though I was glued to the fabric beneath me. The doors opened and closed at Kennington. A few people got off, emptying the carriage further, making it easier for him to spot me. I thought how I might wobble if I stood up, so I stayed put. So did he. He had barely looked up from his screen. He had to be well versed in this journey because he knew which station we were at instinctively
. As we gathered speed again, my breathing felt a little more under control; it must be his usual route. I stole another glance. It was 100 per cent Jason. He had his laptop screen down then, and was looking above me at some advert, probably about teeth whitening or dating. He seemed lost in thought. Maybe he had noticed me. I was both willing him to look down and praying he didn’t. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize me. My hair was much longer when we were at uni and I obviously looked older now. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was only ten minutes ago that I was imagining having sex with him. It was too much of a coincidence for us to be here now, not even a metre apart. Perhaps if you thought about someone enough, your mind played twisted tricks and made you believe you’d conjured them up, like a hologram. I slammed my eyes shut. I really should get a grip and say hello.
The Tube had slowed into Stockwell when I tentatively dared to open my eyes. My stop. Though my heart was desperate for him, I felt too nervous to approach him. I was too self-conscious to do it in a public place and fearful of what his reaction might be. I resisted the temptation to glance at him one last time – the face I hadn’t seen for two decades. I stood up, holding on to the handrail for support and quickly disembarked the train without looking back. Would I regret this forever? A part of me thought I might. But it was too late now.
The platform was mercifully quiet at that time, just ahead of rush hour, so I was able to make a quick dash through the walkway on to the adjacent Victoria line platform. I moved as fast as I could, without looking back. I found an empty bench-seat and sat down, relieved there were two minutes before the next train so I could steady my breath, get my head together. I was just thinking that a mouthful of cake would help get me back on to an even keel when I felt a light tap on my right shoulder. It was Jason.
I let out a startled little gasp as I turned and saw him.
‘It’s you, Lucy, isn’t it?’ he asked.
Any concern a nearby woman may have felt, was satiated by the fact that I quickly rose and greeted Jason like the long-lost friend he was.
I smiled, uncertain whether my voice was going to work. ‘Yes, Jason, it is.’ I said his name as boldly as I could, trying to mask the fact that my cheeks were flushed and my legs felt like jelly. I wondered if he knew I’d spotted him in the carriage. Did I sound surprised enough? ‘Wow – it’s been a long time.’
‘I’m so glad it’s you,’ he enthused, green eyes shining. ‘It would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t,’ he stuttered slightly, indicating he was nervous too. ‘Crazy. It’s been so long. It’s good to see you.’ We looked at each other in awkward fascination for a moment. I wondered what to do or say next.
‘So, what have you been up to?’ he offered tentatively. By now a train had been and gone and the platform had cleared around us.
I smiled. ‘In the last twenty years? Quite a lot. Like you have too, I’d imagine,’ I replied.
Little did he know that I knew a bit about what he’d been doing from a number of Google searches. I was still barred from his social media, from when I broke up with him. I estimated that he’d come back from Hong Kong about eighteen months ago. He was probably still in that phase when you came back to London and felt like a tourist – a time before you remembered that Londoners generally didn’t talk to each other on the Underground. Even if you spied an old friend sat in your carriage, your first reaction would have usually been to avert your eyes or get off – just like I did – so this was unusual. I mentally weighed up whether or not to say, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m in a mad hurry,’ and leave the station to get a cab the rest of the way home. Any more small talk could have got painful. But something made me want to stay there. To drink up the beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes, the jawline that was a little softer; to bank the memory of his face for a little longer.
As another train pulled in and I began to walk towards the edge of the platform, Jason stayed with me, seeming keen to continue talking.
‘I don’t actually need this line,’ he confessed, as we watched the Tube doors open and close. Something stopped me from saying goodbye and jumping on. I was intrigued.’
We both remained rooted to the spot, neither wanting to be the first to break away, like there was an imaginary pull between us.
‘Do you fancy going for a drink?’ he asked. His features lit up expectantly. Looking at his face, for a moment I forgot everything – I felt 19 again. ‘I’ve had a shitty day at work, and I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to. There’s a lot to catch up on,’ he smiled. ‘A quick drink?’
I knew I wasn’t meant to drink ahead of the transfer, and I knew I should have headed straight home to put on slouchy clothes, relax and watch something on Netflix, in preparation for tomorrow, but I had thought about this guy too much in the last two decades to let him slip through my fingers and disappear into an Underground tunnel. I wanted to find out more about him. Maybe it would help me lay the past to rest? Maybe if we talked, it would help me move on. I felt like I was in a TV drama with no control over the plot.
‘Just one drink, then,’ I grinned.
We exited Stockwell Tube, walking in silence for a few minutes, towards the first pub we came across, The Pilgrim.
As we sat down at a table, I remembered the cupcake.
‘Fancy a cake?’ I offered. ‘Although it’s probably slightly battered by now.’
‘Was it meant for someone special?’ He had presumed incorrectly that women didn’t buy themselves cupcakes.
‘Nope – just me.’
‘You’re celebrating something? I could help you celebrate if so?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, clocking the gold wedding band on his left hand and experiencing a sick-to-the-pit-of-my-stomach feeling, to see it in the flesh. ‘When did you get married?’ Somehow it sounded accusatory.
‘A few years ago, in Hong Kong,’ he replied. ‘We met there, although we’re both British.’
‘Expats,’ I said carelessly; again it sounded disparaging. I smiled weakly.
‘We moved back a year and a half ago,’ he continued.
Hearing him use the term ‘We’ so many times, felt like punches to my heart.
‘Are you married?’ he asked. ‘Kids?’
I thought it was pretty obvious by the lack of decoration on my wedding finger. ‘No. Not yet. I’m in a relationship but we’re not at that stage,’ I lied. I immediately thought of Oscar, and how a large part of me wished we were still together; if the circumstances had been different with him, maybe I wouldn’t be sat here right now. ‘To be honest, I don’t see marriage as the be all and end all. I think children are more of a commitment. But I’m not at that stage either, yet. I always knew I’d have my children late – when I’m ready.’ I looked up and caught him looking fondly at me. I’d just told two whoppers because I didn’t want him to wonder why I was still single at 38; he might have wondered what was wrong with me. I knew it was pathetic to feel so insecure.
He appeared to be grinning.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘You’re just the same,’ he smirked affectionately.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what you think. You always did.’
‘Well, at 38 I would hope so,’ I remarked, relieved that I had sounded so convincing. ‘What about you – any children?’
‘I’ll get us another drink before we get into this one,’ he said, looking strained.
When he returned with two more large glasses of red wine, he paused. ‘I don’t want this evening to become about my problems.’
‘Problems?’ I examined his features.
‘The kids thing… We both want it, I think. But I’m scared. I’m worried about whether it will happen, and if it does, if I will be good enough.’
‘Good enough? Of course you’re good enough,’ I said.
‘But to be a father,’ he replied. ‘Do I have what it takes to support a family – both emotionally,’ he paused for a moment, ‘and financially. The responsibility
scares me.’
His phone rang and he picked it up and looked at the screen.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, before stopping the call and replacing his phone, screen down on the table.
‘Do you need to call her?’
‘Later,’ he said.
‘Of course you’re enough,’ I told him, surprised about the extent to which he had opened up so quickly. ‘She married you, didn’t she? For better, for worse. I’m sure she doesn’t care about your earning potential when it comes to having a child. It’s love that really matters.’
‘I know,’ he nodded. ‘I need to “man up” I guess.’ He coughed, a little embarrassed. ‘Thank you for the pep talk. Let’s change the subject.’
It was almost like old times except, of course, for the great stomping elephant in the room: the reason why we split up all those years ago. I ached to bring up the subject of us.
‘My turn to get a round,’ I said, pushing out my chair and picking up my bag. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to be drinking, but I didn’t feel drunk; two or three glasses of wine between old friends couldn’t hurt.
When I returned, the corners of his mouth turned up. ‘Anyway, what we haven’t discussed yet is why you so cruelly dumped me all those years ago?’ he said, as if he had read my mind. He looked at me intensely. I took it as an acknowledgement of how much time had passed, and what we once meant to each other. I thought I saw a flicker of longing in his eyes.
‘Still scarred, are you?’ I replied wryly, calling his bluff.
‘It came out of the blue, took me a while to get over you, if I’m honest.’ He propped his elbow on the back of his chair and leant his cheek into his hand. ‘First love – cuts the deepest…’ He stared at me in wonderment, like he once used to.
‘I do have an answer to your question though,’ I said, starting the sentence before I knew how it was going to end. And then it was left there, resting for a moment in the air between us, like a ring of smoke from years gone by.