The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

‘If you need to talk,’ says Jude quietly, placing her hand on my forearm.

  ‘What’s said at the pub stays at the pub,’ says Angela.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I loved the class by the way – is it just once a week?’

  TWENTY

  Stella

  ‘So how long have you been having trouble sleeping?’ Dr Grant asks me in his consultation room later that morning.

  ‘Oh, it started around the time George and I decided to move house. What with work – I run my own business – quite a big business!’ I give a little self-deprecating laugh. ‘And the move, there was a lot to keep track of and my brain doesn’t know when to stop.’ I don’t for a minute think Dr Grant will question it. But…

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, steepling his hands under his chin and narrowing his eyes at me through his silver glasses. ‘Strong sedatives such as these—’ he picks up the empty box I’ve brought in ‘—are a great short-term aid, but – and, call me old-fashioned if you like – they’re not a long-term solution. Personally, I’d like to get to the bottom of what’s causing the problem and tackle that. Maybe look at some ways you can learn to calm your mind. Meditation techniques can be very useful.’

  ‘Of course. I do try, but… goodness, I just have so much on my mind at the moment. We’ve only been married less than a year and – ah, how to put it? It takes a bit of adjustment, doesn’t it? Learning to live with someone?’ I laugh. ‘Sometimes I’m just awake with my worries and my anxieties and I just get into this cycle of sleeplessness and I need to break it.’

  ‘Anxieties, you say? About anything in particular?’

  ‘Oh, just marriage stuff. I’m sure every newly-wed goes through this… George can be – how to put it – “difficult”? He’s a high-achiever.’

  Dr Grant raises his eyebrows. ‘But everything’s all right, I hope?’

  I rub my bicep where the bruise is subtle, but still there. ‘Of course it is. Everyone has their moments, don’t they? It’s obviously a period of adjustment when you’re used to being on your own… anyway, we’re trying for a baby.’ My voice is bright.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’ll smooth things over, I’m sure. We’ll be so busy we won’t have time to argue!’

  Dr Grant inhales then exhales. ‘Do you both want to start a family?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. I’d say pretty equally.’

  ‘Good. Because I’m sure you’ve heard the term “Band-Aid baby”, and that’s not a solution for anything.’

  I laugh. ‘No, definitely not a Band-Aid baby.’

  ‘OK… Just be absolutely sure.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘So… these sedatives. Would you say you take them every night?’

  ‘No! They’re my last resort. I only take them for a couple of nights when I’ve had a few sleepless nights and I need to get out of a rut. You know, break the cycle?’ For a second I almost have an out-of-body experience: I see myself sitting in the doctor’s office practically begging for this prescription. If I’m not careful I’ll be on my knees in a minute.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says again. ‘I see. So you wouldn’t seem to be at risk of developing an addiction. Because that’s a risk with this tablet. It’s reasonably addictive. And, if you’re trying to conceive…’

  ‘Oh no. I don’t have an addictive personality,’ I say. ‘I’ve never smoked! I can give up booze at the drop of a hat. In fact, I often do Dry January.’ I laugh.

  ‘Well, of course,’ says Dr Grant, ‘that’s the other thing: these tablets must not be mixed with alcohol. The pills will depress your central nervous system and, despite what many people think, alcohol’s a depressant, too, so the effect of mixing the two can cause all sorts of problems and – well, in some cases, even be fatal. So, you must never take these if you’ve been drinking. Even just a couple of glasses of wine. All right?’

  ‘Of course. Understood.’

  ‘And, of course, if you’re trying to conceive, both of you would ideally be looking at limiting your alcohol intake. Does your husband – George – does he drink much?’

  I sigh. ‘Whisky’s his poison. But I’m trying to limit that already because I don’t like what it does to him.’

  Dr Grant raises his eyebrows but I suddenly feel disloyal to George for talking about him behind his back so I give him my best ‘everything is absolutely fine’ smile.

  He looks thoughtfully at me for a moment, then opens up a page on his computer and holds his fingers over the keyboard, ready to type.

  ‘I’ll just give you two weeks’ worth,’ he says and I exhale, aware suddenly that I’ve been holding my breath.

  ‘Then you can come back to me and we’ll reassess. Meantime, let’s try to look at a long-term solution. Will you look into relaxation techniques?’

  ‘I’ve joined the yoga class at the village hall! In fact, I’ve just been!’ I wave at my yoga clothes.

  ‘That’s a good start.’ The printer whirs and Dr Grant hands me the prescription. Mission accomplished.

  TWENTY-ONE

  George

  Ness and I have a bench on Richmond Green. We don’t own it – it’s not carved with our names or anything – but it’s where we sat the evening we moved into our house all those years ago. After spending the day keeping out of the way of the movers, we’d bought sandwiches, crisps and a bottle of wine, and eaten our picnic supper on the bench as the sun went down. It had been June, the sun reluctant to go, and the light had lasted for ever, casting longer and longer shadows across the grass as I’d wound my arm around Ness’s shoulders and we’d imagined what this new chapter of our lives might bring. I’d tasted success by then, and I remember that feeling of invincibility; I’d felt as if I could – and would – conquer the world, our Richmond house being just the start of it: the control centre from which the arms of success would spread.

  I remember, too, the giddy feeling of love I’d had for Ness back then. I’d forgotten about that.

  I remember all this as I walk towards the bench. Ness isn’t there, but then I see her walking towards me from the opposite direction, our red setter, Pepper, on a lead. Ness sees me and gives a little wave, then there’s that awkward moment when we’re both still walking towards each other and neither of us knows whether to maintain eye contact. Ness’s hair is loose and flying behind her as she walks and I get the absurd feeling that we’re in a movie; a score of violins playing in the background, and that I should run towards her, scoop her in my arms and twirl her around… I have to remind myself that we’re divorced, and then why we’re divorced.

  Why are we divorced?

  Ness arrives at the bench a few steps before I do. Pepper leaps towards me, jumping up on me, straining at the lead and pawing my clothes, licking every part of me she can reach, so ridiculously pleased to see me.

  ‘Down, girl. Down!’ I say, petting her head, then I stand up and look at Ness.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  ‘Hey.’ I stand and look at her. She’s dressed down – in far more casual clothes than she ever wore when we were together, and she looks well – really well. Younger, happier. Gone are the designer clothes and the high heels; the huge handbags and the bright lipstick. She looks lovely. So fresh. She’s wearing Converse, and her perfume smells of garden flowers. She holds out a foil package.

  ‘What is it?’ I feel her eyes on me as I peel open the foil. ‘Oh my God, did you make this?’ It’s a huge slice of Victoria sponge, its layers oozing with buttercream and jam. I take a huge bite and speak through the crumbs. ‘It’s so good. Thank you! I haven’t had cake in how long?’

  Ness flushes. ‘It’s no biggie. I still enjoy baking, even though it’s for one these days.’ She shrugs, then watches me eating. ‘You lost weight, by the way.’

  ‘In a good or a bad way?’

  ‘Just don’t lose any more. That’s all.’

  I crumple up the foil and aim it at a nearby bin, stupidly happy when I score in front of Ness. ‘You want to walk, or sit here for a bit?’
<
br />   ‘Better walk,’ she says, and I know what she means. It doesn’t seem right to sit on ‘our’ bench.

  I hold out my arm. ‘Madam?’ She takes it and we set off along the path I’ve just walked, Pepper trotting along beside us like the old days.

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’ I ask. ‘Dating anyone?’

  ‘I’m working as a teaching assistant.’ She smiles and dips her head. ‘Primary. I started volunteering at a local school, you know, just for something to do. And I liked it so much, I started working towards getting some qualifications so I can move up the ladder a bit.’

  ‘Wow, that’s fantastic!’ Now she mentions it, I can see how good she’d be in the classroom. She always was so patient, and so good with people. But she didn’t answer my other question. Is that an admission that she is dating someone?

  ‘Why don’t you train to be an actual teacher?’ I ask.

  She sighs. ‘I’d love to. But you need a degree. So I’d have to do a B.Ed. I’d be looking at three or four years, full time.’

  I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘So, do it!’

  ‘Do you really think I could?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I let go of her arm, take her hand in mine and squeeze it. ‘Should have done it years ago.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she says, giving me a sideways smile. ‘Too busy helping someone build his empire.’

  I feel it like a blow to the stomach. ‘And look how I repaid you.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not OK.’

  ‘George, what’s done is done. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’

  ‘It’s hard not to, now I have all this time on my hands to think about things.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a job? Something local, I mean? Just to give you something to do? Volunteer somewhere, or learn a new skill? If I can do it…’ She smiles and I notice her dimples. I always liked her dimples.

  ‘I was hoping to be back at work quickly.’

  ‘But what if you’re not? What do you do all day?’

  I shake my head. ‘You’re right. It’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘You’re at your best when you’re busy,’ she says, and two things strike me: one, how well she knows me and, two, if this could be why I keep losing both my memory and my temper. We walk in silence for a moment while I mull this over. For the first time in my relationship with Ness, I feel like the inferior one – and that’s another alien feeling.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I say.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why did you agree to help me? I just don’t get it. After the way I treated you, after all that I did…’

  Ness smiles. ‘Look. For what it’s worth, we were together for fifteen years. You were my husband. I have the money, and I don’t want to see you in trouble.’

  ‘Is it really that simple?’

  She shrugs. ‘Yes.’ She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cheque and a piece of paper. ‘I hope you don’t mind but my lawyer’s drawn up a receipt stating the terms of repayment if you wouldn’t mind signing.’

  ‘I don’t need to read it, do I?’

  Ness smiles and I know I trust her. I take the cheque, sign the paper and hand it back to her.

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  We walk on again in silence. We’re almost back to where we started, and there’s still one thing on my mind.

  ‘Anyway, back to my original question,’ I say. ‘How’s your love life?’ I rub my hands together, telling myself that my interest is nothing more than friendly concern.

  We stop walking and stand by the bench. Pepper’s lead plays out as she snuffles around the base of a nearby tree. The irony of us being here, talking about who Ness is dating, isn’t lost on me. What would our younger selves, those optimistic kids with their crisps and their wine, have said had we told them this is how we’d end up?

  Ness sighs. ‘Oh, you know. I go on dates now and then.’

  ‘But no one special?’

  She sighs again. ‘There’s this guy, Peter, one of the teachers from school – a department head actually! We went out for a while, but…’ She shrugs.

  ‘It didn’t work out?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. He wants marriage, kids, but I just…’

  ‘Don’t?’

  She smiles.

  ‘Been there, done that?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes and no. I haven’t given up on having kids… but whether he’s the right guy… I just don’t know.’

  ‘Well. Don’t jump in unless you’re sure.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Good girl.’ I pull her into my arms and give her a hug. ‘Thank you so much for the loan. I really appreciate it.’ I can smell the clean scent of her hair and, as I let her go, we pause for a moment, our faces close together, and I look at her mouth, free of lipstick. We freeze for a moment, unsure what the new rules are, then I touch my parted lips gently to hers for a fraction of a second. The kiss is both chaste and erotic in equal doses.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Any time,’ she says.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Stella

  As soon as I open the front door, I can tell George isn’t home. The house has that silence about it; that feeling you get that, by coming home and making noise, you’re disturbing something. I throw my keys and handbag onto the hall table, and go through to the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter: a hand-drawn cartoon of a train with a tiny George sitting inside one of the carriages with the newspaper. Underneath, George has written ‘Nipped into London. Back after lunch.’

  The answering machine light is blinking. I press play and the sound of a man’s voice fills the hallway, its timbre somehow similar to George’s despite the distortion by the machine:

  ‘Georgie-P, it’s me. What’s happened to your phone? It’s always off! Hiding away with the wife, eh! Just wondering how you’re getting on. Do we have the patter of tiny feet yet, and by that I mean dogs not kids – ha!’ There’s an awkward pause then he continues, ‘Did I miss the house-warming? Let’s try to get together. It should be easier now you’re the right side of London! So, let me know when you’re around to sink a few pints and catch up. It’s been too long. Right, bye.’

  George’s big brother Harry. Five years older and effectively from another planet. Though maybe not these days. I lean against the doorway and remember how George and Harry were like chalk and cheese growing up: George the sensitive one despite his physical strength; George happy to have a girl for his best friend, and Harry, the typical alpha male. Seemingly so much older, and so out of touch with George and I that I hardly knew him. Harry would swing in and out of his parents’ house with various friends and, later, girlfriends, in tow, pinching George’s cheek, throwing punches at him and calling him Georgie-Porgie – but now? It suddenly strikes me that they’ve reversed their roles. Harry’s now a respected psychologist – married to his scholarly work – while George is the one who strung two women along; getting one pregnant while planning a life with the other… where would that have gone had George not got caught that night at the dinner? A shiver crawls over my skin. It’s behaviour I’d have traditionally expected from Harry, not from George. I press delete and watch as the red light stops blinking.

  TWENTY-THREE

  George

  The house is quiet when I get home and I take the stairs two at a time hoping to get out of my jeans and jacket before Stell gets back so I don’t have to explain to her what I was doing in town. But I realise the moment I reach the bedroom that she’s already there. She steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her body, just as I enter the room.

  ‘What’s up?’ she says, looking at my clothes. ‘Where did you go?’

  She kisses me softly on the lips. It’s an invitation, I think, and usually I’d be on her like a wolf while she’s all soft and warm from the shower but not today. I sink onto the edge of the bed and watch as she picks out a pair of pa
nts and steps into them. She puts on a matching bra and I see that she’s trying harder, putting on a bit of a show for me, flicking her hair about and bending over to show me her cleavage as she settles her tits in the cups. It’s a typical Stella come-on but today it just doesn’t hit the spot.

  ‘Where were you?’ she asks when she realises I’m not moving. ‘You didn’t see a solicitor dressed like that? Come on, tell me! Or were you out with your girlfriend? A walk in the park and a bit of lunchtime slap-and-tickle?’ She pauses. ‘Don’t forget I’ve met you before!’

  My breath catches. I look at her but her eyes are dancing. She’s laughing, teasing me, completely unaware of how close to the bone her joke hits. Then she comes close and looks me up and down – almost examining me – and I realise I’m holding my breath, hoping, hoping, hoping that there’s no trace of Ness on me – How could there be? We didn’t do anything! – no perfume, nothing. But Stell focuses on my shirt, leans in and carefully picks a crumb off my shirt. She looks at it closely then pops it in her mouth.

  ‘Cake?’ she asks, eyebrows raised.

  I lean back on the bed and let my forearms take my weight. ‘I was sorting out the payment for Lazenby. Got peckish. So shoot me.’

  ‘You managed to get hold of the money?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You liquidated the bond early?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, look, I was thinking. What do you think about me getting some sort of a job?’

  ‘A job? What sort of job? You have a job!’

  ‘Just something small. To get me out of the house; give some purpose to my day. Some volunteer work, or part-time work in the village.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I can’t sit about all day – it’s driving me crazy. I miss the camaraderie of work; the banter.’ I pause. ‘I’m best when I’m busy.’ Ness’s words. ‘I just want something to do.’

  ‘Hang out with me.’

  ‘I… I just want to get out a bit.’

  Stell sighs. ‘When we were talking about moving out of London, I had this idea in my mind that we’d be spending more time together; cooking together; going for long walks; bringing up our baby together… Do you remember how we used to fantasise about it? I thought you wanted that, too.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Or have you realised I’m a monster?’