The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  She shakes her head dismissively. ‘Look, George. I really think you should see Dr Grant.’

  ‘About my memory? Or—’

  ‘Yes, about your memory.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a problem? I don’t get it. I don’t get why it’s happening.’

  ‘That’s why you need to see the doctor. It’s very worrying.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Stell. Princess… can I ask you something? Are you afraid of me when I’ve been drinking?’

  She looks away. She doesn’t need to answer; it’s written all over her face and shame sweeps through me. How could I do this to her?

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m going to get rid of all the whisky right now. From this day on, I won’t touch the stuff.’ I try to take her in my arms but she steps aside.

  ‘How can you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself. Come on. Let’s go and get rid of the whisky right this minute.’

  She laughs bitterly. ‘Good luck with that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, there’s not a lot left.’

  ‘What do you mean? I had three bottles. I’ve drunk, maybe, one? I’m going to pour them all down the sink.’

  ‘You had three bottles. I think you still have three bottles.’ She pauses. ‘It’s just that they’re empty.’

  ‘Rubbish. Come on. I’ll show you. This I do remember.’

  I lead her to the kitchen.

  I open two cupboards before I find the one with the bottles. I pull out the whisky bottle and stare at it in shock. It’s almost empty. I look back in the cupboard for the other two but all that’s there is the bottle of tequila Phil brought back from Mexico.

  ‘Where are the other two?’

  I look at Stell and she raises an eyebrow and looks towards the glass recycling box, where two empty bottles stand tall. I go over and pick one up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clearly yes.’

  I shake my head at the empties. ‘I have no memory. None at all.’

  ‘I can imagine. I don’t know how you do it. Your liver must be mush.’

  ‘Oh my God, Stell.’ I turn away to hide my shock. ‘I hadn’t realised it had got this bad. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. That’s it from now. I’m not drinking any more. I promise you that here and now.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You don’t have to quit completely,’ she says. ‘Just know when to stop. I really don’t want any more…’ Her voice trails off and she waves her hand vaguely towards her forehead. ‘This isn’t how imagined it.’ Her voice breaks. ‘Where will it end, George? Where?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. There’s nothing else I can say, is there? I’m just… it won’t happen again.’

  ‘I hope not,’ she says.

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. About my memory loss. Do you think I should start keeping a diary? I could use it to double-check what actually happened each day.’ I wait but Stell doesn’t reply. ‘Or does that sound mad? Am I losing my mind?’

  Stell looks thoughtful. ‘No, it doesn’t sound mad.’

  ‘So do you think I should do it?’

  ‘If you think it’ll make you feel better, why not?’

  *

  In the shower, I trawl over and over what happened last night but I still can’t remember anything beyond putting the key in the lock, having a few drinks while I watched television, and coming up the stairs. I turn the water to its hottest setting and scrub my body with the loofah as if I can somehow scrub the shame and self-loathing from me; as if the action might let me somehow emerge from the shower a new person. Through the steam, I see Stell come into the bathroom and I wipe a circle of steam from the door so I can see her. She opens the laundry basket and picks out a bundle of crumpled towels, gagging slightly then squeezing her lips shut as she scoops them into her arms. I turn away and let the water cascade over my face.

  SEVENTEEN

  Stella

  Five-thirty the next day, there’s a screeching noise in the garden – a fox or a cat, maybe. It wakes me from a muddled dream, and then the first birds start to squawk and my brain starts up its whirring. Next to me, George is snoring. I lie still, thinking. It’s possibly too early to test, but my period’s late and the packs of pregnancy tests I’ve bought are burning a hole in the cupboard.

  Shall I, shan’t I?

  Can I wait another day or two?

  I get up and go into the en suite, closing the door softly behind me. From the bedroom, the snoring continues.

  With shaking hands, I rip open a box and pull out the test. I give the instructions a quick glance to remind myself for how long I need to hold it in the stream of pee, then I sit on the loo and get on with it, capping the test afterwards and placing it face down by the sink. Determined not to look at the results until it’s developed, I open the bathroom cupboard and stare at the contents. Tick tock. Tick tock. My eyes roam over my supplies: razors, tampons, nail polish remover, make-up remover, cleansers, eye creams, serums, night cream, little glass bottles of essential oils, medicines. I pick up my sleeping pills and count them: not many left. I’ll have to get some more from Dr Grant. Surely that’s three minutes up now. I wait another couple of minutes to be absolutely sure the test will have developed and then I pick it up.

  ‘Not pregnant.’

  The breath goes out of me. The hope. The light. I feel the words like a slap in the face and I slump down the wall until I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, the test in my hands. How can she get pregnant and me not? We’ve been having unprotected sex for months now. Lots of it! But the lack of pregnancy is clearly not George’s fault, given his track record. And Ness is the same age as me. I treat myself well; I eat well and take the vitamins. Why can she get pregnant by accident and I can’t even with a systematic plan? I pull myself up and look in the mirror.

  What is wrong with you? I ask myself. Why can’t you get pregnant, you freak?

  EIGHTEEN

  George

  Stell and I aren’t talking much since the other night. The atmosphere’s strained. I try, but she’s all monosyllables and closed-eye sighs. I can’t say I blame her; I just wish I knew how to put it right.

  Mid-morning, she goes out to pick up groceries, and I wander from room to room, fiddling with things; unable to settle. For the first time in my life, I don’t like myself, and I no longer know how to be alone. The remorse I feel about the way my marriage is panning out is oil in my veins, oozing through me, clogging me up. How can I put things right? Actions, George. Actions. Show her you love her. Stell hates mopping floors – really loathes it – so I decide I’ll make it my job: cleaning the house will be my penance. I grab the mop, fill up a bucket with hot water and bleach, and set to work on the floors of the kitchen, hallway, stairs and bathrooms.

  And, as I work, moving the mop left to right and right to left, drawing a trail of lemon-scented bleach across the polished concrete, I think. Aside from the state of my marriage, there’s the not inconsiderable issue of how I’m going to get the money I’ve promised Lazenby. I straighten up for a second, slightly breathless from the activity, and wipe my forehead. It’s still two months till my bond matures and my broker’s adamant that I shouldn’t sell below par – clearly he’s never been faced with the possibility of a jail term. But then it hits me: the reason why I no longer have half a million quid lying about could also be the solution. Ness. Without stopping to think, I pull out my phone and dial her number. It rings five times.

  ‘Hello, George,’ she says carefully and the sound of her voice hits me in the solar plexus. It takes me a second to recover.

  ‘George… ?’ she prompts.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’ I ask. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Good, all good, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘Oh… I’ve been better.’ I pause. ‘Have you heard about the court case?’

  ‘Have I heard?’ She laughs.

  ‘Of course you’ve heard.’

  ‘The whole of London’s heard. You’re the best gossip any
one’s had lately. What made you do it? What were you thinking?’

  I close my eyes. ‘God. It was all a misunderstanding. I didn’t actually steal the money. I’d never do something like that. You know that, don’t you?’

  She doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Ness! You know I wouldn’t steal money from a children’s charity, don’t you?’

  Micro pause. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  I exhale. The familiarity of her voice falls on me like balm.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. ‘It can’t be easy.’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks. Coping. But I wanted to ask you a favour.’ I speak quietly: it feels naughty to be standing here in the house I share with Stell, speaking to Ness. It’s like a reversal of all that happened previously; the creeping around I did with Stell while hiding from Ness. I go to the hall window and look out at the lane, watching for the car. ‘You know the money you got from the divorce settlement?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says carefully.

  ‘I wondered if I could, well, borrow half a million. To pay the charity back.’ I pause but she doesn’t say anything. ‘Look, I have the money in a bond. It’s just going to be a few more weeks till it matures and – oh God – Ness, it looks like there could be a court case and it’ll look so much better if I’ve paid it back. At best it could mean I won’t get dragged to court. At worst, it’ll look good in court. Basically, I have to find it. Half a million quid.’

  ‘But you don’t have it?’

  ‘Not accessible, no, I don’t.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that, if you pay back the money, Lazenby – it was Lazenby, wasn’t it? – can somehow try to stop the case going to court?’

  ‘Yes. You know I could go to jail?’

  ‘I heard. Is that true? Or just Chinese whispers?’

  I sigh. ‘Yeah. Apparently. Although I really doubt it would happen. But it’s just all so rubbish. Lazenby told me to pay back the money asap and he’ll do his best to get me out of the court case, but he can’t make any promises. Meanwhile, I’m off work for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Living the country dream,’ says Ness.

  ‘Hardly.’ I regret saying it the moment the word leaves my mouth. But, instead of taking the chance to gloat, Ness glosses over it and I’m grateful to her for not picking up that ball and kicking it right back at me.

  ‘So, what do you think? Could you lend it to me?’ I pause. ‘Please?’

  She sighs. ‘When do you need it and when can you pay me back? You will pay me back, won’t you?’

  ‘Scout’s honour! I need it as soon as you can get it, and I can pay it back within eight weeks, maximum. Is that doable?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Oh, Ness. Thank you! Thank you so much. If there’s anything you ever need, please just call me. Anything.’

  ‘How about a husband? I seem to have lost mine.’ The words sting, but I hear a smile in her voice.

  ‘Point taken,’ I say. ‘But seriously, thank you for helping me out.’

  ‘Well, you may have treated me like crap, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch you go to jail.’ She laughs and the sound triggers memories that flicker through me in the space of a heartbeat: Richmond, parties, our white-sand honeymoon in Mauritius.

  ‘Oh Ness. I…’

  I feel like a complete shit, is what I want to say. Compared to you, willing to help me out when all I did was cheat on you and humiliate you, I feel like the biggest shit on the planet. I open my mouth to say it but a car turns into the lane: Stella. I jerk back from the window.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’m so sorry. Can we talk later?’

  ‘Stella’s back? How ironic,’ says Ness.

  When Stell opens the front door, I’m mopping the floor.

  NINETEEN

  Stella

  Compared to kick-boxing, the yoga class is interminably slow but I enjoy it far more than I think I will, especially as the other participants don’t take it so desperately seriously. There’s chat and even friendly laughter as one woman collapses while balancing on one leg. With spiky, hennaed hair, multiple piercings and the compact, muscular body of an athlete, the teacher’s not at all what I imagined. She makes a point of helping me ease my limbs into contortions designed to de-stress, detox and unwind. And, as we lie on the floor with our eyes closed at the end of the ninety minutes, I’m woken by someone else’s gentle snore from a sleep that stole me unawares. I feel, to my surprise, energised, balanced and taller as I wipe down the mat, roll it up and tuck it into the storeroom. Afterwards, Jude, the teacher, invites me to join the class for a coffee.

  ‘It’s a bit of a tradition,’ she says.

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug, and join the raggle-taggle group heading down the high street. It’s nice to enter the pub with people for a change; for a moment, I feel like I belong to something. I take a seat with the group and, within a minute or two, Derek is out from behind the bar and over with his order pad.

  ‘The usual, ladies?’ he asks.

  ‘And one extra for our new recruit.’ Jude smiles at me.

  ‘I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Stella,’ says Derek. ‘Americano?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘So what brings you to our village?’ the teacher asks once Derek’s back behind the bar, and everyone’s eyes swivel to me. I don’t suppose they get a lot of new blood here and I feel it’s a seminal moment: it’s now that opinions will be formed and alliances made. Given the mid-morning timing of the class, none of these women can currently be career women.

  ‘We moved from London,’ I say. ‘We wanted a change of pace.’ I look around the faces – they’re hanging on to every word. I lean forward a little, confidentially. ‘We want to start a family.’

  The sentence has its desired effect and coos of approval ripple around the table.

  ‘You’re in the right place,’ says the lady who lost her balance in the class. Her name’s Angela. Her face is pretty but tiredness hangs under her eyes and I see it, too, in the hollows of her cheeks. ‘This is a lovely place to bring up children.’

  ‘Do you have any?’

  ‘Three.’ She nods. ‘Five, four and two.’

  The table erupts into a conversation about the ‘wonderful’ village school and nursery versus the pros and cons of sending children to the bigger schools a car-drive away. The village nursery, I learn, provides a home-cooked lunch for its little charges. It’s not cheap, I also learn, but the meals are made using hormone-free meats, wholegrains and organic produce.

  ‘And what’s the alternative?’ one woman asks. ‘Rice crackers, Waitrose hummus and endless bloody carrot sticks that never get eaten?’All the women collapse in laughter and I nod along, deciding that I, too, will send my children to the village nursery with the hormone-free, organic, cooked lunches. I almost forget I don’t yet have any children.

  ‘And your husband?’ asks Jude. ‘Will he be commuting?’

  I take a deep breath, still unused to explaining George’s circumstances. I’m saved, though, by Derek, who brings the tray of coffees.

  ‘Don’t you go scaring off our newest recruit with your questions.’ He gives me a big smile and starts to unload the coffees from the tray. As I’m passing them out, I see Jude’s eye rest on my right arm. For a minute, I can’t think why she’s looking at it, then I glance down and remember the bruise. I’d caught her looking at it during the class but now I realise she can see it far more clearly.

  ‘Everyone got the right coffee?’ I ask. The women around the table nod and busy themselves with their coffees and then their attention is back on me. I lean forward with a smile.

  ‘So what’s village life like? What do I need to know?’

  ‘It’s so friendly,’ says a woman called Rachel. ‘You know that saying: “It takes a whole village to raise a child”? Well, that’s what it’s like. Everyone’s in and out of each other’s houses. I know that my son – he’s eight – I know that if he falls off his bike down the other
end of the village, someone there will patch him up and send him home. It’s that friendly.’

  ‘And safe,’ says Angela.

  ‘Yeah. It’s so safe,’ says Rachel. ‘We don’t have any crime here. Don’t even need a Neighbourhood Watch: we all take care of each other.’

  The women laugh.

  ‘It’s like going back to the 1950s,’ Rachel continues. ‘The men are men – real men – not those namby-pamby, touchy-feely types you get these days. Have you seen those “man-bags” some blokes carry these days?’ She shudders. ‘None of that here. Our men are the sort who look after their women and their families.’ She’s on her soap box and everyone’s nodding. These men are sounding a little like cultural dinosaurs to me but I can hardly say that. ‘I mean,’ says Rachel, ‘that bruise on your arm.’ She nods at my arm and, again, I clasp my hand over it defensively. ‘You see anyone here with a mark like that and if these guys thought someone was messing with you – my goodness, I pity that guy.’

  My smile is tight and Rachel’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh God! I never meant to imply anyone was messing with you; I was just giving an example!’

  There’s a stricken silence, just for a second, then, ‘You and your big mouth,’ says Angela, and everyone laughs. Biscuits crunch; china clinks.

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, then open them. ‘Oh, come on, give the guy a chance! It’s just… difficult for George right now. He’s not working at the moment, and he’s not used to being home all day, every day. I understand completely what he’s going through.’ I frown. ‘He drinks a bit. You know what it’s like… but… everything’s fine.’ I smile brightly at the women around the table and they look at me in silence, no idea of what to say next. ‘Everyone has bad days, don’t they?’

  I rub my hands together and grin at them. ‘Aw-kward! I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much…’ I let my voice tail off as I look around the table and the women nod solemnly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Rachel. I wonder if she wishes she’d never brought up the topic. The others echo her. ‘Our lips are sealed.’