The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  He bends his head down so his lips are close to my ear. ‘Come away with me – for a weekend,’ he says. ‘I want you to myself.’

  The breath stops going in and out of my lungs. ‘A weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’ The pressure from George’s fingers gets stronger. ‘A nice hotel. Maybe somewhere near the coast. A big four-poster bed. An open fire. Country walks. Sea air, and a night in each other’s arms.’ He groans. ‘I just want to wake up with you in my arms. What do you think?’

  What I think is: Why haven’t you left Ness?

  Down on the street, the light turns green and the lane of traffic begins to move. Through the double-glazing, I hear muffled shouts; the sound of cars hooting. What else do I think? I think, No way am I putting myself in that position again. The last time I offered to spend a night with you, you ran home to your wife. I turn around to face George, forcing him to drop his hands and take a step back. He perches on the end of the bed. He’s in his pants, nothing more, and it makes him look boyish and vulnerable. I remember, for a second, the boy on the pile of coats.

  ‘George. I…’

  ‘I promise nothing will get in the way. Nothing.’

  My eyes narrow as I look at him and I nibble the inside of my cheek. I know he means what he says, but experience proves he’s not always able to deliver, even if he does have the best intentions. I picture myself alone in a country hotel, lying on a four-poster bed, waiting for a George who never turns up. I close my eyes, draw my breath inside myself to summon up my strength, give my head a tiny shake and exhale. I won’t let him hurt me again.

  ‘Sorry.’

  George’s face falls and, again, I see the boy.

  Did you really think I’d say yes? I want to add, after what happened last time, but I leave it unsaid. He knows.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to do something really special for you, that’s all.’

  And this is where my mind starts to work. There’s a charity Valentine’s ball that I’ve been invited to. They’re counting on the auction to raise desperately needed funds and I’d like to go – just not on my own. In my head, I see myself entering the ballroom with George on my arm. Gorgeous George in black tie. Us at the top table, maybe. Already I start thinking about what I’ll wear. Red, obviously.

  ‘Can I tell you what I’d really like?’ I say to George.

  He looks up, his face full of hope. ‘Of course.’

  I tell him about the dinner. ‘I’d really like you to come as my partner. But could you get away on Valentine’s Day? Or will Ness want to do something?’

  Am I testing him? Maybe. But George is laughing. His gratitude for this scrap I’ve thrown him after refusing to indulge his countryside dream is so embarrassing I look away. ‘Stell. I’ve told you. We’re like brother and sister! Valentine’s Day doesn’t even register in our house.’

  ‘Because I can’t be let down.’ I get up and stretch my arms above my head while I look around the room for the crumpled heap of my skirt.

  ‘I know. Listen, what charity did you say it was?’ I tell him and he smiles again. ‘Actually, that’s perfect. My firm’s a major benefactor, so it won’t look too out of place for me to be there too.’

  I really wish you hadn’t said that, George.

  ‘So it’s a date?’ I ask, stepping into my shoes.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s a date.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stella

  I don’t mean for us to get caught. Really, I don’t.

  The Valentine’s event is in the ballroom of a hotel on Park Lane, and George picks me up from my apartment in a car. My scarlet gown is the epitome of understated glamour, and it makes me smile to think it took less than an hour to pick. I called on the services of a personal shopper in the end – briefed her, tried on a shortlist of dresses in my lunch hour and chose the most show-stopping gown. No fuss. No drama. When George saw me he stopped – he actually stopped – then he put his hand over his heart and did a funny little bow.

  ‘Stell. You look breathtaking,’ he said. It was the result I wanted. He, too, scrubs up well. His dinner jacket is well cut of expensive fabric, and it fits like a made-to-measure. Perhaps it is. I don’t ask. George opens the car door for me and I step carefully inside, arranging the skirt of my dress carefully so it doesn’t get stepped on. George runs around to the other side and scoots in next to me. He takes my hand.

  ‘I’ve never been so proud to be with someone,’ he says. ‘You really are the perfect woman.’

  I smile and kiss his cheek.

  After some time stop-starting in Saturday-night traffic, we join the line of vehicles approaching the drop-off point for the hotel ballroom. A valet opens the door and I step out, arranging my dress as I do so. George takes my arm but then sees that a bank of photographers lines the red carpet, waiting, presumably, for the famous faces invited tonight. Some minor royal is the guest of honour. George lets go of my arm and takes a step back.

  ‘You go ahead,’ he says. ‘Let them get your dress from every angle. I don’t want to cramp your style.’

  I look at him for a second, confused – I wanted to arrive on his arm – then I realise: he doesn’t want to be photographed entering the event with me in case Ness – anyone, I guess – sees the pictures.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and walk ahead. Mentally, I picture my hands in their red boxing gloves smacking into a boxing bag with George’s face on it: left, right, left, right. My smile, as the cameras click, is frozen.

  Inside, the ballroom is stunning. Everything, from the table linen to the chairs, is silver, white or glass, giving the effect of a glittering snow palace. The only exception to the icy theme are huge spheres of red and white flowers that hang from the ceiling on silver chains. I catch the scent of magnolia, rose and lily. The effect is stunning: the organisers have really done themselves proud. A waiter asks my name and offers to show me to my table. The whole point of my bringing George tonight was so I didn’t walk in alone. I clench and unclench my jaw.

  ‘I’ll wait for my partner,’ I say. ‘He’s just coming.’

  ‘Miss Simons,’ says a deep baritone voice behind me. I turn and find Nicholas Lazenby, the chief executive of the charity tonight’s bash is supporting. He’s a portly bloke but he looks dapper in his dinner jacket.

  ‘Nicholas!’ I lean in to air-kiss his cheeks. ‘Is Joan here tonight?’

  ‘Yes, yes. She’s fussing about the flowers. You’re here alone?’ he asks.

  I mention George’s name. ‘It’s a work thing,’ I say. ‘Thought we may as well sit together.’ I give a little laugh, irritated with myself for protecting the liar. It’s an unintentional slip.

  ‘Ah, Wolsey, the old mucker!’ says Nicholas. ‘One of my key benefactors.’

  ‘I know. He was so proud of last year’s fundraiser. It was a record amount, wasn’t it?’

  Nicholas positively beams. ‘Yes it was! Nine hundred and seventy thousand, give or take the odd penny. Wolsey’s really changed things for us. I’m hoping they’ll beat that next year – should they choose to do another fundraiser for us, of course.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure they will. You know George – loves a challenge.’

  ‘That would be incredible. The work we’re doing – it’s so important.’ Nicholas’ eyes mist over and I know he’s thinking about the children his charity helps: the never-ending tsunami of displaced children who need clothes and food and medicines and life-changing surgery.

  ‘Lazenby!’ George slaps Nicholas on the back.

  ‘Ah,’ says Nicholas, ‘the man himself. Wolsey, old boy! How the devil are you?’

  They chat for a minute, then George takes my arm and, together, we find our table and introduce ourselves to the others already there with no explanation of our relationship. I know none of the people there. Other benefactors of the charity, I assume. We make small talk: what brings you here? How long have you been involved with the charity? Wasn’t the traffic horrendous tonight? At least i
t wasn’t raining! And, all the while, I’m aware of the ladies at the table focusing on George: he is handsome; clearly the best-looking man at the table, perhaps in the room. I place my hand over his on the table.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  George

  There’s a diamond bracelet Stell likes in the auction catalogue. It’s a reproduction of a vintage piece in 18-carat gold sprinkled with diamonds and I see her catch her breath as she looks at the picture.

  ‘Let’s go and see it,’ she says, so I go with her up to the glass case, and it’s as if her eyes come alive.

  ‘I can already feel the weight of it,’ she says, circling her wrist with her thumb and fingers. ‘It’s as if I owned it in a past life. It needs to belong to me.’

  ‘Are you going to bid?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Up to a point. I’ve set myself a limit. Is there anything here you like?’

  ‘Not really. I could hang the signed football shirt in the office, I suppose, or there’s a nice voucher for a weekend away: country house hotel, champagne, butler, spa…’ I look sideways at Stell but her eyes are still on the bracelet.

  The auctioneer calls us all to attention and the bidding starts. I join in for the fun of it and manage to bag the football shirt as well as a signed cricket bat – it’s all for charity and I always like to support Lazenby. We go back years. The bracelet’s the last item, and Stell fidgets constantly.

  Finally, the bidding starts and I watch in admiration as she bides her time, waiting for the pace to slow before she raises her paddle for the first time. Soon, it’s just her and another bidder – a guy who looks quite serious about winning. There’s a woman at his side fanning herself with the catalogue. I see her give Stell a tight smile and imagine the bracelet will be for her.

  ‘Fifteen hundred?’ asks the auctioneer. ‘One thousand, five hundred pounds?’ Stell nods.

  He looks at the other bidder. ‘Do I hear sixteen hundred?’ The other bidder nods.

  They ping-pong back and forth as the value reaches and then passes two thousand pounds. Stell continues on for an extra hundred pounds.

  ‘Two two?’ asks the auctioneer. ‘Do I have two thousand two hundred?’

  The other man nods. The auctioneer turns to Stell and she shakes her head and slumps back in her seat. The look on her face destroys me.

  ‘The diamond bracelet is sold for two thousand, two hundred pounds. Going…’

  I jump up. ‘Two thousand five hundred!’

  I’m aware of heads turning and my name ricocheting about the room – it’s good entertainment, I guess, not to mention good publicity for the firm. Stell looks at me, her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Two thousand five hundred from the gentleman at Table One,’ says the auctioneer, then he turns again to the other bidder, who shakes his head.

  ‘Going, going, gone.’ The auctioneer raps his hammer. ‘The diamond bracelet is sold for two thousand five hundred pounds. Congratulations, Mr Wolsey.’

  Applause breaks out and, auction over, an assistant comes to escort me to the back room so I can pay and pick up the bracelet. Stell’s right – it’s stunning. I watch as the assistant places it reverentially in a velvet box and closes it with a satisfying click.

  ‘Congratulations again, sir. It’s a fine piece.’

  Dessert’s been served as I walk back out with the box. Some sort of mini cheesecake concoction, artily arranged with a wafer of white chocolate, gold-crusted, standing out from the top like a sail. Half of the table have started eating, the others are presumably waiting for me but, as I come back out, one of the men at the table starts to clap. As I reach the table, everyone joins in so I give a little bow.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  Stell’s fiddling with her spoon, drawing a pattern in the blobs of sauce that decorate the plate. Surely she knows the bracelet is for her, not Ness. I place the box onto the table next to her, and take my seat.

  ‘You can pay me back later,’ I say, and everyone laughs.

  She opens the box and touches the bracelet gently with her fingertips. The she takes it out and holds it up, letting the light refract off the facets of the diamonds.

  ‘Pass it around!’ someone says, and I see how reluctant she is to let go of her new treasure but, still, she sends the bracelet around the table to be pored over with gasps.

  ‘Do you mind if I… ?’ asks one lady. She fastens it on her wrist. ‘Oh, it suits me! It’s like Cinderella and the glass slipper,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s supposed to be mine!’

  Stell glowers at her. Reluctantly, the woman takes it off and the bracelet continues its circumnavigation of the table until it’s back with Stell.

  ‘Try it!’ says the lady, and Stell lays it across her wrist but I stop her.

  ‘May I?’

  I take the bracelet and slowly fasten it around her wrist, aware that everyone’s eyes are on us. I can see the faint movement of her pulse. Although entirely non-sexual, it’s one of the most erotic moments of my life. Stell then holds her arm up to show the table and there’s a collective sigh of appreciation before spoons are picked up and the attention turns once more to dinner.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask Stell quietly.

  ‘Yes. Very much. Thank you. Excuse me a sec.’

  She pushes her chair back abruptly and stands up.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Stella

  I leave the ballroom through the heavy double doors and walk down the carpeted corridor aware of the weight of the bracelet on my wrist. What was he thinking?

  I use the bathroom, then, as no one else is there, I take my time checking my hair and looking at my dress in the mirror. I hold up my arm and twist and turn so the bracelet sparkles in the mirror. I don’t actually want to go back to the table. The evening’s over as far as I’m concerned. I have no desire to eat dessert. I pull open the bathroom door and walk straight into George. He reaches for my hands; holds both of them in his.

  ‘Hey, princess. Pleased with your bracelet?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’ I look at it twinkling. ‘But you can’t give this to me. Ness is bound to find out.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you paid me back. You don’t have to, of course.’ He laughs. ‘I was just saying that, you know, for the table, because…’ His voice trails off.

  Everything feels wrong. I pull my hands gently back from George’s. I don’t want this beautiful bracelet to be associated with lies.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  I look down. George’s shoes are super shiny tonight: a man of details. He lifts my chin with his fingers and I see a passing couple look over curiously.

  ‘Are you uncomfortable with me buying it for you? Listen. Why don’t you take it as proof of a promise? A promise bracelet?’

  ‘A promise of what?’

  ‘That I’m leaving her. That we’re going to have that future together.’

  I don’t say anything. We’ve had promises before. What I want is action. There’s a steady trickle of people in the corridor now – people are starting to leave.

  ‘I know I’ve said it before,’ George says, ‘but I mean it. You’ve been incredibly patient, Stell. You’ve been amazing, and I want to make you a promise, right here and right now, that I’m leaving Ness. Will you accept this bracelet as a token of my love, and as a promise?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a flurry of activity; a little posse of people walking fast – the minor royal’s leaving; behind her, there’s the glint of light on camera lens. I make my decision.

  ‘Well—’ I smile ‘—when you put it like that, how could a girl resist?’

  George steps closer and I tilt my face up to his for a kiss that’s so tender it feels as if it contains all the love in the world. In my peripheral vision, to the right, cameras flash.

  THIRTY

  Stella

  I’m not surprised, then, to see an article about the ball in the paper the next morning. I scroll through the pictures, skimming over who was
there and who wore what. George makes the cut and, posing alone on the red carpet in his dinner jacket, his thick, dark hair swept back with pomade, he looks every inch the movie star. I take in the image for a second, remembering the fury I’d felt walking the red carpet alone, then it’s with a sense of inevitability that I reach them: multiple images of the headline guest gliding down the corridor after the ball – with George and I kissing in the background.

  The focus is not on us of course but, for those who notice, the fact that the kiss was a private moment away from the theatre of the ballroom makes the images all the more compelling. Without having been there, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was a brief peck on the lips or a longer kiss, but my eyes are closed, which, in visual terms, speaks volumes.

  I tap on the first image and enlarge it a little. Although you can’t see the man’s face fully, it’s obvious to me that it’s George, though to recognise him, you’d have to know his suit, his shoes, his hair and the shape of his body. And the most obvious thing to the general public is that the woman George is kissing is a brunette, not his famously blonde wife.

  If Ness sees the image, she’ll know.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say without any feeling, expanding the image to get a better view. My dress looks awesome.

  I’m this far in when the phone rings.

  ‘Stell!’ George sounds panicked, his breathing ragged. ‘Have you seen the paper today?’

  ‘I have,’ I say. There’s no point in lying.

  ‘Oh my God. She’s nipped out to Waitrose, but she’ll read the paper as soon as she gets back. She’s going to look at that story. She knows it’s my charity. She’s going to see the pictures. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Calm down,’ I say. ‘You can’t see your face and they haven’t named you. It could be anyone.’