The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  ‘Shit!’

  I look around for something to blot it up with, then decide it’ll be easier to scrape it off when it’s cooled. There’s a row of tea lights and they lead down the hallway to the living room. I stand for a second looking at the effort Stell’s gone to and try to summon up enthusiasm for the kind of evening she appears to have in mind. Romance couldn’t be further from my mind. I breathe in and count to ten, then slowly exhale and walk down the corridor. At the threshold of the living room, I pause and run my hands through my hair feeling suddenly nervous. There’s always a motive with Stell. What’s all this about?

  I push open the door. The room jumps and flickers in a mass of candlelight. At the heart of it, Stell’s reading a book on the sofa. The twinkling light makes her eyes sparkle and gives a soft glow to her skin; she looks radiant. I catch, too, a whisper of her scent on the air. She puts down her book and smiles.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  ‘Hi.’

  I walk around the sofa to her and bend to kiss the top of her head. Her hair smells of flowers and I breathe it in. She turns her face up to me and we kiss for a minute, then she twists herself up until she’s standing. She’s barefoot, which makes her look small and vulnerable.

  ‘How was your meeting?’ she asks.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  I sigh. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Could we lose everything?’

  I look at her face, so earnest and trusting and hesitate. ‘No.’

  She knows I’m lying.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s not talk about it now. Tonight’s a special night.’

  She ushers me onto the sofa and comes back with a whisky and a plate of nibbles.

  ‘You’re allowed one,’ she says, referring to the whisky, and I notice that she doesn’t have a glass.

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Oh, mine’s in the kitchen,’ she says.

  ‘Dinner smells amazing.’

  ‘Roast fillet of beef.’

  I smile at her. ‘Yorkshire puddings?’

  My mouth’s already watering. It’s been so long since she’s let me eat anything as rudely unhealthy as batter.

  She nods. ‘And potatoes.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I roll my eyes upwards, imagining the taste and texture of such treats. ‘So what’s tonight about?’ I look around the room. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’

  ‘I have something to tell you.’

  My blood runs cold but Stell’s smiling. She sits down next to me and takes my hand.

  I search her face for clues. ‘What? What is it? Has something happened?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What?’ The tightness in my chest comes back, constricting my breathing.

  She looks down and then back up at me. ‘Are you ready?’

  I nod, swallow.

  ‘George,’ she says, ‘I’m pregnant.’

  THREE

  Stella

  He cries, of course.

  ‘Really?’ he asks, searching my face with his eyes, looking I imagine for clues that this is some sort of joke. But why would I joke? Is there any reason why I’d joke about this?

  ‘Yes, really,’ I say.

  He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight against his chest as he strokes my hair. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Finally. I just can’t believe it.’

  Then he takes my hand and gently sits me down on the sofa like I’m fragile as a newborn lamb, and that’s when I see his tears glinting in the candlelight.

  ‘Stell,’ he says but doesn’t continue. ‘Stell.’

  He rubs my back and it’s as if he no longer knows what to do with me; how to touch me; like he’s frightened he’ll break me, so I pull him down till we’re lying squashed together on the sofa and I kiss him deeply and run my hands over his back, and he resists for a second, like I’m some sort of virgin, but then he groans and suddenly he’s hungry for me, his kisses deepening as his hands slide over my waist, over my belly, and then he’s slowly undoing my shirt and bra, and kissing me all over, breathing ‘I love you’ into my ear.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’

  He trails kisses across my belly, then he’s undoing my jeans and I’m lifting my hips to let him slide them off. I undo his belt and he stands up to drop his trousers.

  ‘Is this OK?’ he asks as he lies back down. ‘Are we allowed to?’

  ‘I want you to.’

  But now I feel his hesitation; the awkwardness in his touch. I run my hands over him, trying to lead him on, but he resists.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I breathe into his ear. ‘It’s fine. Really it is.’

  George pulls me into his arms and settles my head on his shoulder. ‘But what if it’s not? I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear for anything to happen to our baby.’

  ‘Really, it’s OK.’

  I stroke his chest as we lie in awkward silence for a minute.

  ‘I can’t do it, Stell,’ he says. ‘Not while it’s so new.’

  My mood changes in a flash. I’m not going to beg for sex. I untangle myself from his arms, stand up and step back into my clothes.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say as I pull my shirt back on. I keep my back to him to hide the tears of frustration. ‘The dinner’s ready anyway. I don’t want the beef to spoil. Come on, get dressed. We’ll go and eat.’

  My smile’s too bright, my voice too brittle, but George – more fool George – he doesn’t notice.

  FOUR

  George

  I shove the kitchen door open with my backside and am hit by a wall of sound. The buzz of chatter fills the pub – it’s five-thirty on Thursday and Derek’s ‘mummy and me’ supper promotion’s going down a storm: the place is a sea of kids and mums taking advantage of the deal: a three-course supper from the kids’ menu, and a free glass of wine for mum. Even the garden’s rammed with kids rampaging over the climbing frame and swarming the sandpit while their mums try their best to ignore them in the late afternoon sun. I’ve been boomeranging in and out of the kitchen, picking up dishes and glasses, wiping spills and sweeping up forgotten fries. Both dishwashers are on as I head out again to collect more plates, and I see Stell at the bar, an empty wine glass next to her. I’m shocked: it’s barely a month since she told me she was pregnant.

  I go over to her. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hi! You must be clocking off soon – I thought we could grab something to eat.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  The pub’s the last place I want to be when I clock off. I have a Pavlovian reaction to the stale-beer, old-food smell of it now: the association with dirty plates makes me want to throw up.

  ‘How about the Indian?’ I say.

  Stell wrinkles her nose. ‘I really don’t feel like spicy food.’

  ‘OK, all right. Whatever you want.’ I look at my watch. ‘Half an hour to go.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Derek places a glass of white wine in front of Stella with a flourish.

  ‘Thanks.’ She picks up the glass.

  ‘Another?’

  She puts the glass down without taking a sip. ‘Yes?’

  I reach over to take it from her but she slaps my hand away and we stare at each other. In this moment, she looks hostile – it’s as if she’s challenging me. The school reunion comes to mind: the way Ness had let me take her glass simply because her period was late. We hadn’t even known there was a baby then, and she let me protect her.

  ‘Are you… are you sure you should?’

  Stell looks at Derek and shrugs.

  ‘Let her be,’ says Derek. ‘It’s Thursday. A girl needs to let her hair down.’

  ‘But, Stell… you know…’

  ‘Know what?’ she says.

  ‘Maybe not the best thing to be doing.’

  She looks at Derek, picks up her wine and takes a deep swig.

  ‘I’ll do what I wan
t,’ she says and I stare at her. What’s come over her? My child’s inside her body; our child is depending on her to keep it safe – she’s going to be a mother!

  ‘Hear, hear!’ says Derek, then he turns to me. ‘Haven’t you got work to do? It’s in the rules: no chit-chat. Remember?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I turn my back on the two of them. Is it nonalcoholic wine? Is she playing a joke on me? It’s only half an hour till I clock off: I’ll talk to her about it then.

  FIVE

  Stella

  George’s face is tight when he comes over at six. There are two empty glasses next to me now and he points at them.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Can’t get the staff these days. Where’s a good dish-clearer when you need one?’

  Derek overhears and snorts a laugh. ‘Can say that again, ha ha.’

  ‘Seriously, Stell!’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask George.

  ‘Looks like George here could do with one,’ Derek says. ‘Lighten him up a bit. On the house.’

  George’s mouth opens but no words come out. I can see he wants to have a drink but something’s stopping him. He takes a deep breath and pulls himself up tall.

  ‘Thank you, Derek. But I think we should get the bill and get Stella home.’

  I roll my eyes at Derek.

  ‘Come on, Stell,’ George says. ‘You’ve had more than enough. Let’s get going.’

  He takes my arm and pulls me to my feet. I shrug him off. ‘But I want another one.’

  Now we’re standing and glaring at each other. I’m embarrassed that this is playing out not just in front of Derek, but in front of Dr Grant and his wife, who’ve just come in and are further down the bar. I can see that George is furious: he’s struggling to compose himself and a vein throbs at his temple.

  ‘Now!’ he says, and grabs my arm. He throws some notes onto the bar. ‘That should cover the bill. But we’re leaving now!’

  I freeze and George yanks my arm so hard I stumble and lose my footing. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Is that all right with you?’ Derek asks me.

  I wrench myself free of George. ‘What’s got into you?’

  He glares at me as if he’s trying to tell me something. ‘You know what’s got into me.’

  Tears prick behind my eyes. ‘George. Not now. Not when I feel like this. Please.’

  Derek comes around the bar now and steps in between me and George.

  George’s lips flatten. ‘Move. She’s my wife and I’ll deal with this.’

  ‘Now, you listen up!’ Derek says. ‘This is my pub and I will not have you manhandling anyone on my property.’ He looks George up and down. ‘Men like you, you make me sick!’

  ‘Men like what exactly?’

  Derek takes a step towards George and squares up to him. ‘Men like you! If you want to shove anyone, shove me. Picking on a woman. Knocking them around.’ He shakes his head and I get the feeling that if he could spit on George, he would. ‘Loathsome. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police on you.’

  George takes a step back, his hands in the air. ‘Whoah. There’s no shoving going on anywhere. I’m just trying to look after her. I want what’s best for her.’

  ‘You want what’s best for her?’ Derek’s tone is scathing. ‘Don’t you think she’s the best judge of that?’

  ‘Clearly not!’ George says, pointing to the wine glasses. ‘Look, what are you doing even serving her? She’s pregnant!’ He sobs. ‘She’s pregnant with my child!’

  There’s a stunned silence. Derek turns to look at me and then back at George. It feels as if the entire pub is listening. Derek steps back from the two of us.

  ‘Well… congratulations,’ he says.

  I look up and my eyes are wet. ‘Not here, George. Not now. Let’s go. Please.’

  We leave the pub in silence.

  SIX

  George

  Stell marches home ahead of me. Neither of us says a word. She opens the front door and lets it slam in my face so I have to get my own key out. I look for her in the kitchen, living room and study, then climb slowly up the stairs. She’s curled in the foetal position on the bed, her back to the door.

  ‘Stell…’ I sit at the foot of the bed and touch her leg. She pulls it away from me. ‘Stell, sweetheart, what just happened?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m sorry I said that you’re pregnant, but the guy practically accused me of knocking you about. I wanted him to understand that there’s nothing more precious to me than you.’ Silence. ‘You know that, don’t you? You and the baby. You’re my everything.’

  The bed shakes and I realise that she’s crying. I kneel next to where her head is and stroke her hair away from her face.

  ‘Stell, what’s the matter? Is it so bad that he knows?’

  Her crying intensifies. I want to take whatever it is that’s bothering her, pull it out of her and throw it away.

  ‘Stell, what is it? You can tell me.’

  She takes a deep breath and then whispers with her eyes closed. I strain to hear. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  My entire body goes cold and I get this out-of-body feeling, as if I’m watching the scene from above. ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘I lost the baby, George. You know I did!’

  ‘What? What are you saying? I don’t understand. Stell!’ I try to lift her face; to turn it so I can look into her eyes and see that she’s somehow joking, but she pulls away and turns her face into the pillow.

  ‘George, please! This is difficult enough as it is.’ She starts crying again.

  ‘No! What are you talking about?’

  ‘I told you last week, I started bleeding…’ She puts her hand on her tummy and closes her eyes. ‘Don’t make me explain it all again. You know all this.’

  ‘No! No, I don’t!’

  ‘Oh God. George! It’s too much. I can’t deal with this! Not on top of the miscarriage. Please tell me you remember.’ She’s got her hand over her mouth now and I can see that the fact I’ve forgotten is distressing her as much as losing the baby.

  ‘Princess.’ I reach out to her; stroke her, any bit of her I can get: her hair, her shoulder, her upper arm, her hip. I smooth her hair around her ear but still I can’t see her face. ‘I don’t understand.’

  But, as I’m stroking her, I’m thinking back over the past month: she’d been quiet; slept a lot; stayed in bed more than usual, but I’d put it down to her being tired with the pregnancy. But why don’t I remember her telling me that she was bleeding? I’d have taken her to the doctor; gone with her to hospital. God, I’ve been through all this with Ness! I know what to do.

  ‘Do one thing for me,’ she says. ‘Check your diary.’

  ‘OK.’ I kiss her cheek, her forehead; try to hold her head in my hands. ‘Princess. Can I hold you?’

  She moves up a little and I climb onto the bed next to her, take her gingerly in my arms and stroke her hair and her back. ‘There, there,’ I croon as if she’s the baby. ‘It’s OK. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  I say it as if I mean it.

  SEVEN

  Stella

  I take a bath, then make my way downstairs. George is sitting at the kitchen island staring into space. He looks like a shrunken version of himself. When he sees me, he stands up and folds me gently in his arms.

  ‘How are you? Is there any pain?’

  ‘No. It’s OK now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I tighten my arms around his waist, noticing as I do how I can clasp my own wrists behind his back he’s so thin. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that. But it’s not, is it? Nothing’s right. And I don’t know how to put it right.’

  I pull away and hold his hands. ‘We’ll work on it. Together. That’s what this marriage is all about. It’s a partnership.’

  His face is so hopeful I can’t bear to look at it. ‘I’d love some tea if you feel li
ke making it.’

  With something to do, George snaps into action. ‘Go and sit in the living room. I’ll bring it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I flop onto the sofa. I’m cosy in my pyjamas and have that sense of release that comes after crying. When George comes in with the tea, though, I realise the toll all that’s happened lately must be taking on his well-being. He looks haggard, with grey shadows sitting on his face and deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. I think about the fraud case, the stress that must be causing him, the loss of his job and now the news of the failed pregnancy and another memory lapse, and I almost feel sorry for him. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be beaten when you’re already down – and the memory loss must be terrifying. He sits down next to me on the sofa, runs his hands through his hair and sighs.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

  ‘Like the boat’s been rocked, but it’s still afloat.’ I give him a weak smile.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Did you check your diary? Is it there?’

  He closes his eyes as he nods, his face utterly beaten. I press my hand over my mouth and when George looks up at me again, we stare at each other silently acknowledging how bad this is.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ George asks.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’m relieved everything’s out in the open. Admitting there’s a problem is half the battle, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so.’ George sighs again, and runs his hand through his hair.

  ‘I wondered why you didn’t say anything about it the next day.’ I put my hand on George’s leg and stroke it absent-mindedly. ‘I was expecting you to be more sympathetic, but then, when you didn’t mention it – when you left me to go through it on my own – I just thought it was your way of dealing with it.’