The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  George is staring at me. ‘Well, I suppose last year it did take a few months to get the money to him because we were waiting till we got the last of the bigger pledges…’

  ‘OK… so you could even just say that you’re waiting for a pledge to come in. Nicholas will neither know nor care as long as he gets the money in the end? It’s not stealing.’ I take off my glasses and smile at him. ‘Look, it’s only an idea. But I don’t see the harm in it and I can’t see any other way.’ I pause. ‘Or is there something else? Are you worried about putting the house in joint names if it’s your money we’re using to buy it?’

  George frowns and shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I have no issue with you keeping the house in your name,’ I say. ‘Give me a lasting power of attorney in case anything happens to you, but it can all be yours. I trust you. We’re a team! Like we were at school. George ’n’ Stell!’ George smiles and I see that this does make him feel a little better. I wonder if he, too, remembers the pile of coats. I lean over and give him a kiss.

  ‘This is the perfect house for us. We’d be so happy there. I just know it.’

  He pulls me to him. ‘OK, princess, let me think about it.’

  SIX

  George

  And I give it a lot of thought. I really do.

  I weigh it up for the best part of the morning, pacing up and down my office, listening to the conflicting voices in my head and, ultimately, what I come out with is this: as Stell said, it’s not stealing; it’s borrowing. I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body; I’d no more steal from a charity than I would kill a puppy. What we’re talking about here is a short-term loan that no one will ever know about. What is it they say? ‘If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound?’ Of course it doesn’t. I won’t even remember borrowing the money in a year’s time, let alone five years’ time. It’ll be a far bigger regret to have let this house that Stell loves go; to have to compromise; settle for less. I see us moving again in two years; I see Stell always hankering after the house that got away.

  And it’ll be fine. Everything always works out fine in the end.

  So, I go online and shift half a million quid of the charity money into my own account without giving it a second thought. Lazenby’s a mate: when he gets back from his trip, I’ll explain, make sure we’re all upfront about it. When I pay it back, I’ll even add on an extra five grand out of my own pocket – in lieu of interest, if you like.

  And then we buy the house, and I feel good about it.

  Stell throws herself into fitting it out the moment the sale goes through. For the next couple of months, she’s up to her ears in swatches and samples, and it’s a cold Saturday in February by the time she finally takes me to see the place. The bare trees that line the roads of West London are stark against the electric blue of the sky and, for the first time since New Year, I get that giddy sense of hope buzzing in the air. We turn onto the A40, which, amazingly, is clear, and anticipation crackles between the two of us – I honestly feel like a teenager again. I crank the music up loud and we sing along like a couple of schoolkids as I open the throttle and ease the car up to the speed limit. When the song ends, Stell turns it down and puts her hand on my leg.

  ‘Sixteen years and we’re finally together,’ she says. ‘As we always should have been. I love that it’s going to be just the two of us: George ’n’ Stell, finally living our country dream.’

  I give her hand a squeeze. ‘By the way, did I tell you I’ve even found a motorcycle club nearby? I can ride out with them every weekend. I think I might enjoy the country, after all.’

  Stell doesn’t reply so I turn the volume back up and we sing along again, laughing at the silly voices we each put on. Stell directs me once we leave the A40 and it’s not long before we turn into the village. Stell’s alert in her seat, head swivelling this way and that like a meerkat.

  ‘This is it! This is Main Street, where everything is. And we’re just… just down here on the right. Next right!’

  I almost miss the turn – it’s more of a lane than a street.

  ‘Private access,’ says Stell. ‘Leads only to our house.’

  I pull up outside the house. With walls that are a mix of red brick and black timber, topped with a thatched roof, it’s a dark-looking building from the outside, and not entirely what I would have imagined from what I’ve seen of the interior. Maybe she’s been bluffing me about the glass and steel. Honestly, if it’s more rustic inside than modern, I’ll be pleased. Give me a good set of ceiling beams, an Aga and a bit of oak, and I’ll be happy.

  ‘Ta-da!’ says Stell, as she pushes me through the front door and the first thing that strikes me is the smell. It smells like every five-star hotel I’ve stayed in; some sort of blend of cedar wood, bergamot and jasmine. In the hallway I see a glass jar of those scented sticks and I get what she’s trying to do with them. The place smells clean and fresh, but it doesn’t smell like home.

  Stell nudges me down a polished concrete corridor towards the kitchen, and I see at once that the entire place really has been gutted and refitted. She flicks some switches and spotlights come on in the ceilings; electric blue lights along the base of the kitchen cabinets.

  ‘Do you like the lights? I love them!’ Stell says and I nod because she’s so enthusiastic; so proud of what she’s done but, as I look around the kitchen, I can’t see anything except a glistening sink and a quad of identical-looking ovens built into the cabinets. No fridge, no dishwasher. But Stell pulls open a few doors and I see that everything’s been hidden among the gleaming white panels.

  ‘Where’s the Aga?’

  Stell gives me a little nudge. ‘Don’t you like it?’ Her face is lit up like a little girl, and I feel bad for teasing her. ‘It’s a great kitchen!’ she says. ‘Trust me.’

  She doesn’t wait for an answer before hustling me out of the kitchen and down the corridor past a study and a dining room to the staircase.

  ‘I want to show you upstairs first.’ She flicks her eyes to the glossy concrete floor. ‘Underfloor heating, by the way.’

  ‘Phew.’

  ‘We can put a runner down if you find it too austere.’

  We look at a couple of good-sized bedrooms done in fifty shades of neutral, then Stell leads me into the master bedroom.

  ‘Wow,’ I say again. It could well have been Stell’s room from her apartment transported here: the same shades of white and soft grey. I get why she likes this colour scheme, it’s clean and easy on the eye, but a huge part of me is disappointed. It’s so impersonal. I wanted to see something of Stella in our bedroom; some passion, some colour. Ness had her faults but she was always a noisy riot of colour, her personality imprinted on everything in our house. Stell’s idea of ‘home’ tells me nothing about her and it leaves me wishing for something that shows me who she is; something more than this perfect exterior. If I’d have opened the door and found a jungle of greens, browns and fiery reds, I’d have had her on the bed right away.

  ‘And now,’ Stell says, ‘close your eyes.’ She takes my arm and leads me to another room. ‘OK, open them.’

  I realise at once that this is the nursery. A cot takes pride of place in the centre of the room, a white mosquito net centred above it. For some reason it makes me think of The Sleeping Beauty: a room for a prince or princess to sleep in splendid isolation. The baby’s not being limited to neutrals, though – here, Stell’s allowed a little yellow to creep in in a cheery pattern on the curtains and also on the cot bedding. There’s a multicoloured mobile hanging above it, too, and a plastic sheep gizmo thing at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Night light. Plays lullabies,’ says Stell, as I go over to see what it is.

  By the window there’s a stylish white nursing chair and a folded grey blanket. Stell squeezes her hands together as she looks at me.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I pull her to me and hug her. ‘It’s perfect. Great job.’

&n
bsp; ‘Do you mind that I chose the cot already?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Not at all. Should I?’

  ‘The woman in the shop thought I was being presumptuous. She practically told me not to count my chickens, the dried-up old bag. But we’ll make it happen, won’t we?’

  I stroke her hair. ‘If anyone can make it happen, princess, we can.’

  SEVEN

  Stella

  ‘What on earth were the movers thinking?’ I say as I open the cupboard above the kettle expecting to find the coffee and tea, but find myself staring at condiments and spices. ‘Did they put any thought into how they filled the cupboards at all?’

  ‘Not everyone’s a cook,’ says George. He’s at the kitchen table in his leathers with the morning’s papers. It’s our first Saturday in the new house and we’re slowly learning that, while the kitchen might look immaculate on the surface, the unpackers have thrown our new supplies higgledy-piggledy into the glossy white cupboards.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, opening random cupboards to try to find the coffee, ‘but unpacking is their job! They should know how to do it! They do it for a living, for pete’s sake! I can’t bear it.’ I start pulling packets of tea and coffee out of the cupboard once I find them sitting alongside the tomato paste and rice. ‘I’m going to redo it. The whole kitchen!’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ says George, finally looking up from the sports page. ‘If we’re going to do it, we should do it properly. Let’s draw up a plan of what should go where. Ergonomics. Not only should it look nice, but it should be efficient, too.’ He stands up and stretches. ‘Right, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to meet the local MC. They’re planning a ride into the Chilterns.’

  I turn to look at him. ‘Oh. How long will that take?’

  ‘A few hours. More if we stop for lunch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘And the kitchen?’

  ‘I’ll help you later.’

  I turn back to the cupboard and pull out a few more things. ‘OK. Don’t worry. I’ll do it myself.’ I’m speaking into the cupboard. ‘Have fun.’

  George doesn’t move for a minute, then I hear him put his jacket back down and his boots cross the kitchen floor. He slides his arms around my waist and kisses my neck.

  ‘Would you like me to stay at home?’

  ‘Well. It is our first weekend at home together. And the kitchen does need to be done.’

  ‘Then I’ll stay.’

  I turn in his arms and kiss his lips. ‘Thank you.’

  I get a piece of paper from the study and settle myself next to George on the bench seat, leaning in close to his body. He quickly sketches out a three-dimensional plan of the kitchen. I watch his hand, fascinated, as the pencil makes deft marks on the paper. Out of nowhere, a diagram appears.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Are we agreed that the kettle and the coffee-maker go here?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then the tea and coffee need to go in this cupboard.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And it makes sense to put the dishes and glassware in the cupboards above the dishwasher, wouldn’t you agree? And the saucepans in the drawer under the hob?’

  ‘Spoken like a scientist,’ I say.

  We work our way around the plan of the kitchen, then, when it’s complete, and we’re happy with where everything is stored vis-à-vis where it’ll be used, we pull everything out of the cupboards, and start sorting it.

  ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know people in the village,’ I say while we work.

  ‘You’ll have to make friends for both of us,’ says George. ‘Scope people out.’ He chuckles.

  ‘Why me? Why not both of us?’

  ‘I’m going to be quite busy at work.’

  ‘At home, though? I’m thinking pub lunches, afternoon siestas…’

  George doesn’t even turn to me. He gives an ironic little laugh. ‘The lunches will have to wait. Maybe pub suppers.’

  ‘Why? Where will you be?’ We said we’d both work at home at least half the week.

  ‘At the office, princess. I’ve so much on at the moment, I need to be there. We’re pitching for a major new client.’

  ‘But the company’s doing well, right?’

  ‘Yes. But this is business. It’s pride. This company would be a major feather in our cap – it’d lead to more business. It’s how it works.’

  As if I don’t know that.

  ‘I know what we planned,’ he says. ‘But work’s crazy-busy and I need to be there.’

  Finally, George turns to look at me. I’m standing stock still, a brand-new cast-iron saucepan in my hand, thinking: George, broken promises. For a second, anger pulses through me and I have the insane thought to whack him over the head with the Le Creuset. I’m breathing hard and I clench my teeth together to try to hide it.

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ George says. ‘It won’t be for ever.’

  ‘But you promised. You said…’ I hate my tone. It sounds whingey. Needy. I’m not needy. I don’t do needy.

  ‘I know what we said,’ says George. ‘But look, the house cost more than we planned. No one pulls in a new client like I do. They need me in the office. For now. Once we’re through this – once the new client’s on board – I can ease off. But for now, see it as an investment in our future.’

  I slip the pan into its designated drawer underneath the hob, taking the moment to close my eyes for a second, and take a deep breath.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, as I straighten back up. ‘Of course.’

  George comes over and puts his arms around me. When he speaks, I can feel his mouth moving against my hair; the heat of his breath on my scalp. ‘I know you just want me here, all to yourself.’

  I push him away and turn back to the array of kitchenware that’s still spread out all over the units. ‘Come on, let’s get this done and maybe we can get to the pub at some point today.’ I pause. ‘That is if you’re not working.’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

  ‘I was thinking, by the way,’ he says after a pause, ‘we could throw a house-warming party. It would be a great way to get to know people. They must be dying to see what was done to the house during the refurbishments. We could let them in to have a look around.’

  ‘You make it sound like the Queen opening up Buckingham Palace!’

  George laughs and flushes, clearly pleased with the analogy. ‘Yeah. Something like that. What do you think?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘We could just invite the whole village. How many do you think live here? Two hundred? Three hundred?’

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘Fantastic! We’ll blow them out of their sleepy little beds – show this village how to parteee!’ George dad-dances around the kitchen. ‘Maybe you could get into the coffee mornings; inveigle your way into the “in” crowd – find out who’s who; make sure they get invited.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go to yoga at the village hall. There’s coffee after. That’s where I’ll get the gossip.’

  ‘Yoga? Not kick-boxing?’

  ‘I feel a gentler sport might be the way forward if I’m trying to…’ I pat my tummy, and George smiles.

  ‘You love a plan, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, hon. I do.’

  EIGHT

  George

  Stell looks incredible when she comes downstairs later that evening. She’s wearing a tight cashmere sweater, black leather jeans and high-heeled boots that make her hips swing when she walks. I’ve not made much of an effort myself: we’re only going to the pub. She stops by the door to shrug on her coat and I give her a little wolf whistle. ‘Nice. You’re going to give the village girls a run for their money.’

  She gives me a smile and holds out her arm. ‘Shall we, Mr Wolsey?’

  As we walk together down the lane, I try not to trip or land my foot in a puddle. The lane’s not lit and it’s hard to tell where the potholes are. Stell’s clutching my arm, even less steady than I am.

  ‘Maybe flats next time, princess
,’ I say as she teeters. ‘You ain’t in Kansas now… or rather, you are in Kansas now!’ She rolls her eyes at me. Truth is, I quite enjoy having her hang tightly on to my arm; it’s so rare that she needs me. I clutch her a bit tighter. On the wind, I pick up the smell of cows or horses – some sort of shit anyway. Stell breathes it deeply into her lungs and then breathes out with her eyes closed and her face lifted to the night air.

  ‘It’s different to London,’ she says. ‘but I like it. Just smell that fresh, country air. I can feel it going down into my lungs, expelling all those city fumes!’

  ‘It’s because it’s so bloody cold. That’s why you can feel it going down into your lungs!’

  ‘It’s going to be nice having a local, where everyone knows us.’

  I suddenly get a flash of my local in Richmond: my drinking buddies round the bar; the late-night lock-ins; the sing-songs with Ness; the band who used to let me bang the drums while Ness bashed out the old favourites on the piano. We were a great double act.

  ‘I guess.’

  We turn onto Main Street and walk past a couple of shops to the pub.

  ‘Bingo,’ says Stell, pulling open the door. ‘It’s so close!’

  Inside, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the light. It’s an average pub: traditional; nothing special; but the open fire crackling down one end is a nice touch. There’s a handful of people at the bar, and several of the dining tables and booths are taken. I point Stell to a vacant table then head to the bar for our drinks.

  ‘You new around here?’ asks the barman as he pours my pint and a whisky chaser.

  ‘Yep. Just moved in.’

  ‘Ah. To the barn?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Jolly good, jolly good. Nice to see it lived in again.’ He shakes his head. ‘Thought the work would never finish. Trucks and lorries up and down the lane at all hours bringing mud all over the street.’ He tuts. ‘Anyway. Happy with it?’