‘Oh God. You must have thought I was so unfeeling. No. I just had no memory of the conversation.’ We stare at each other. ‘And you’re completely sure? About the baby?’
I nod.
‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’
We lapse into silence. George’s eyes search my face. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘What’s happening to me?’
‘We can move forward from this,’ I say.
‘How? How can we? It’s just… sometimes I feel my life is spiralling out of control. Everything’s going wrong. Everything.’
‘No. Don’t think like that. I’ve been thinking. Do you want to hear?’
I look sideways at him and suppress a smile: he’s hanging on to every word. If I told him to dye his hair blue, he’d ask which shade.
‘OK, first,’ I say, ‘they say you’re most fertile in the months following a miscarriage, so…’ I give him a shy smile.
‘You want to try again so soon?’
I nod.
‘OK. If you’re sure…’
‘I am.’ I stare at my teacup. ‘And there’s one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s about the house. It’s been on my mind a lot. Maybe it’s even why I…’ I rub my stomach and leave long enough for George to realise what I mean. ‘I’ve been quite stressed about it. About the fact that we could lose it.’
‘OK…’
‘You were protecting me when you said there was no way we could lose the house, weren’t you?’
He has the decency to look guilty.
‘Well, look. Before all this happened with the baby, I checked out the situation with a lawyer myself. I guessed you’d be focusing on the court case with yours, and not looking so much at the bigger picture.’
‘True. And?’
‘Well, it seems that you could be liable for a fine and possibly court costs. And, if you can’t pay, the court would be within their rights to force you to sell the house. Our house. It’s in your name. It’s your asset.’
George rubs his chin. ‘So… ?’
‘Well…’ I take a deep breath. ‘The solicitor recommended transferring the house into my name for the time being. We can transfer it back the moment the case is over. But what that means is that they can’t make you sell it.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I’m just telling you what the solicitor told me.’
George doesn’t say anything.
I exhale. ‘I know. I don’t like it either. But it’s what he said we should do. I just thought I’d throw it out there.’
I get up and walk to the window, keeping my back to George. When he doesn’t say anything, I dab at the corner of my eye.
‘I’d really miss this place. I’s our first home together. Look at the garden. It’s coming into its own now. The flowers look so beautiful. I can just imagine us out there with a cup of tea… a little toddler chasing after bubbles in the sunshine. A little boy, maybe, in a little stripy romper suit.’ I turn and face George with a smile. ‘But it’s fine. We’d find somewhere else. We’d be fine wherever. Even if we had to downsize to an apartment. All that matters is that we’re together.’
George is rubbing his neck, massaging it and tipping his head backwards, rolling it around.
‘And what about the firm?’ he asks. ‘Could they make me sell my shares in that? The firm I’ve built from scratch?’ His voice is thick with disbelief.
‘Ah. We spoke about that, too.’
‘And?’
‘He recommended we set up an offshore company – owned by me for the time being – and keep the shares there. They’ll be untouchable. We can change the company directorship back to you later.’
George snorts. ‘Untouchable and probably worthless when this has dragged through the courts.’
‘They won’t be worthless. We’ll get a good PR onto it. You’ll bounce back, trust me, and then we’ll transfer the shares back to you, good as new. Promise.’
EIGHT
George
So, today Stell said she’d seen a solicitor and he recommended putting the house and company shares into her name so the court couldn’t come after me if I’m fined or ordered to pay costs. But, God, would it be such a disaster if we had to sell this house? It’s full of bad memories, it’s too big for us and I never liked it in the first place.
I sit back and reread what I’ve just written in my diary. It’s enough for today. I really don’t want to transfer the house – it seems rather extreme, and I’m wondering what prompted Stell’s solicitor to tell her to do that. I didn’t even ask who she used – someone in London, I suppose. I close the document and look over to Stell – she’s across the kitchen island from me, working on her book. She’s obsessed with writing it by hand in a notebook. Says the physical act of writing makes her more creative – whatever floats her boat. We’ve the radio on Jazz FM and the back door’s open to the garden. I take it all in: on the surface, it’s a scene of peaceful domesticity but I can’t settle. My mind keeps going back to what Derek said at the pub earlier: ‘Men like you make me sick!’ He thinks I push Stella around. I shove the chair back and stand up. If I go now, I should catch him before the lunch rush starts.
‘Just going out for a walk.’
Stell barely looks up. ‘OK. Take your time. I’m busy here.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Great. I’m really enjoying it. I think I could be on to something.’
I walk down the lane composing what I’m going to say to Derek in my head. When I get to the pub, he’s polishing glasses behind the bar and, thankfully, there are no customers. I stand opposite him at the bar and wait for him to look up. When he sees it’s me, he opens his mouth but I hold my hand up to stop him.
‘Look. About what happened yesterday.’
Derek doesn’t put the glass he’s holding down. ‘What about it?’
‘I just wanted to clear the air. Tell you my side of the story.’
‘Think I know your side of the story.’
‘No. Let me say this: I’ve never pushed Stella around. I’ve never hit any woman and I never would. I don’t know where you got that idea from but it’s insane.’
Derek looks hard at me. ‘If you say so.’ I can tell from his dismissive tone that he doesn’t believe me at all.
‘I’m not that kind of guy, Derek.’
‘If you say so.’
I turn and move towards the door, but then he speaks again.
‘She asked me to give you the job, you know.’
‘I know.’ I start to walk back towards Derek but don’t go as far as the bar this time.
‘She’s very good to you,’ Derek says.
‘I know.’
‘Loves you too much, if you ask me.’
I bow my head. I know all this.
‘You have issues, mate,’ Derek says. ‘Sort your life out before someone does it for you. Mark my words.’
I close the door quietly on my way out.
NINE
Stella
I’m so engrossed in my writing I barely notice when George gets up and goes for a walk. I’m really enjoying writing by hand, feeling the glide of the pen over the paper and the sound of the paper crinkling as I turn to a fresh page of the notebook. I’m trying to get inside the head of my protagonist – the woman whose husband chips away at her self-esteem and her sense of self, making her believe that he’s her only protector. But, inside the house, he doesn’t protect her, he abuses her. She doesn’t know who her enemy is, and increasingly feels she’s going mad. As I write, her emotions flow through me. I sigh and wince and clasp my hand to my mouth as I reread what I’ve written, but my thoughts are interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. Chiming out in the silence of the house, it sounds almost rude.
I look through the peephole before I open the door. It’s Dr Grant.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Good morning, Stella. I hope you don’t mind. I was
just passing and thought I’d call in to check that you were… that everything was… OK. After yesterday?’
Ah. The pub. I really shouldn’t have let that scene get out of hand. There’s a trailing cobweb on the doorframe. I blow at it then look back at the doctor. ‘I’m fine, thank you. All’s good.’ I give him a big smile. It’s fake.
‘It’s just – again, forgive me – your husband said you were expecting?’
I smile. Really fake.
‘And, well… look, can I come in?’
‘Sure, of course.’ I laugh to disguise the reluctance that’s seeped into my voice. ‘How rude of me, I’m so sorry. Please come in.’ I step back and lead Dr Grant through to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love one, thank you.’
Dr Grant will never understand that my making him instant coffee instead of ground coffee is my way of saying he’s interrupted me from something I would rather be doing and, as I spoon the granules into his cup, I realise that my book’s still open on the counter and that Dr Grant is looking at it.
‘Oh, excuse me.’ I zip over to it and close the notebook. ‘You caught me in the middle of something. Please, take a seat. So, what can I do for you?’
Dr Grant sits at the island. ‘I just wanted to check if everything is all right. You were drinking quite heavily last night, and… in your condition… I say this both as a doctor and, I hope, as a friend – well, you know you should avoid alcohol. Certainly in large amounts.’
‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Oh! Forgive me! It’s just I thought I heard…’
‘You did. George said it. But I lost it.’ Dr Grant stiffens. ‘Oh, nothing too traumatic.’ I wave my hand, unwilling to accept the sympathy. ‘It was over barely before it started. Early days. I hear it’s very common.’ I pause. ‘I’d told George but he’d forgotten.’ I look at Dr Grant and he’s hanging on to every word. ‘He’s been having a little trouble with his memory lately.’ I give a little laugh. ‘Anyway, look, can I get you a biscuit?’
Before he has a chance to answer I go to the living room to retrieve the biscuit tin. While I’m there I see the sofa cushions are all crushed from where George and I sat yesterday, so I take a minute to straighten them, and then I straighten the rug, which is no longer aligned with the coffee table. Then I pick up the biscuits and head back to the kitchen. Just as I reach the doorway, I see that Dr Grant has opened my book and is reading again. I take a few steps quietly back and watch while he absorbs what’s on the page, then I clear my throat as I approach again, giving him time to shut the notebook quickly and pull over the newspaper that’s next to him.
‘Here we go,’ I say, tipping some biscuits onto a plate.
‘How did George take the news? About the baby, I mean.’
‘He’s OK, I think. Disappointed, obviously.’
‘He’s keen to have children?’
‘More keen than I am, if that’s possible!’
‘I see.’ Dr Grant takes a sip of his coffee, then sighs. ‘It’s a difficult time. Can put a lot of stress on a couple, especially given what else is going on with his job and the memory issues.’ He looks directly at me. ‘Are things all right between you both?’
I nod vigorously. ‘Yes. Everything’s fine. Really. Really fine.’ I get up suddenly and open a kitchen cupboard. ‘Would you like any other biscuits? Anything at all? I’m sorry, these are all I have. I thought I had more but I wasn’t expecting you and I haven’t been shopping.’ I’m talking too fast.
‘Stella.’ Dr Grant’s voice is firm and I turn to face him.
‘Yes?’
‘If you need anything – anything at all – please remember that I’m here, and that you can talk to me in complete confidence.’
Silently, I nod.
TEN
George
After I leave the pub, I walk straight down Main Street, past the end of the lane to our house, and continue on down the road that leads past the woods and out of the village. I don’t know that I’m turning into the woods until my feet take me off the pavement and onto the pathway that snakes between the trees. Branches heavy with the new leaves of early summer hang low and I bend every now and then to avoid being whacked in the face, but I’m not taking in the scenery, just keeping my body in motion as I try to sort out my thoughts.
Derek’s words come back to me and I cringe. His hostility jars me. I’m one of those people that everyone likes: jovial, easy-going, popular. It’s who I am, and the feeling that the village – not least the pub landlord and the doctor – is against me unsettles me. But how? How has my life come to this? Why am I even being judged by a bunch of people I barely know? Why do I care what they think?
The path opens out to a series of small ponds and I stop for a moment to take in the sight of the sun reflecting off the flat surface of the water. Insects buzz back and forth over the water but nothing breaks its surface. It’s so still that the canopy of trees is reflected almost perfectly, like a mirrored underworld. How have we not been here before? It’s so tranquil; such a great spot.
I start walking and, with my body back in motion, I think back to when I first got together with Stella. I was always a moth to her flame in a way that no one else understood. Even back at school, Stell could be prickly and cool to the point of seeming disinterested. There was always an independence about her; a feeling that she didn’t need me; that she chose to be with me because she liked me – nothing more, nothing less. And I guess, if I’m honest, I liked the fact that I was the only one who got to know her. Stell had no friends at school; she couldn’t give a fig about the other girls, was aloof, standoffish, happy in her own company, and I liked that about her. I liked that I was the only one who fascinated her enough to keep her coming back. It’s not that I had any shortage of offers from other girls – ‘easier’ girls, I guess – but Stell was a challenge and, when we were together, she was so warm. Even now, walking in the woods my dick stiffens at the thought of how warm Stell was when we were alone as teenagers; how accommodating. Being with her was like cracking a soft-boiled egg, getting through the shell to the softness inside.
The other girls – God. I shake my head as I remember. They were all posture: all legs and lips and lashes, but when it came to the crunch, they wouldn’t give out like Stell did. Stell gave me everything and asked for nothing. Other girls wanted a kiss and a fondle, then wouldn’t do more unless we were a ‘couple’; they wanted to be ‘dating’, they wanted to be ‘exclusive’; they wanted everything packaged and sewn up. Stell was different. She took what I offered, gave from her soul, and left me feeling she couldn’t give a damn whether or not I came back. I smile despite myself. Why couldn’t I just choose the easy option?
But hang on, I did. I chose Ness. Pretty, popular Ness. Ness who knew how to play the game, and, boy, we played it together: the parties, the events, the lifestyle. She has an easy charm that Stell lacks; a way of disarming even the prickliest of clients. Emotional intelligence. Ness has it in spades and I used it to bag clients I was having trouble reeling in.
‘Come to dinner,’ I’d say. ‘Just a casual supper at my house,’ and I knew that Ness would work that charm and the account would be in the bag by morning. Ness was, to all intents and purposes, the perfect career wife. Stell – Stell wouldn’t have given a damn about that. She wouldn’t have cared.
And then a sobering thought: did I get where I was with my career partly because Ness was there, supporting me, showing me off, suggesting parties, hosting dinners, schmoozing the right people? Is it because I’m without her that my life has fallen apart?
Ness was such a good egg.
There’s a bench by the pond, its wooden seat, scarred by decades of penknives, dappled with sun and shade. I sit on it and rest my head in my hands as I stare at the lake. Dragonflies – or are they damselflies? – dance over the water, zipping back and forth like their lives depend on it. The sun is warm on my back.
I didn’t know what I stood to lose.
> But Stell. The moment I saw she’d signed up for the school reunion, I knew I was in trouble. I’d followed her career in the media – that meteoric rise to success she’d had with her catering firm, from delivering hand-prepared lunches to offices within a square mile to being the most talked-about, the most popular private catering company in London. I was thrilled for her success; desperate to talk to her; desperate to see for myself the woman she’d become… because… if I’m honest with myself, because Ness was too nice, and I was bored.
And when I saw Stell that night – ignoring me as she always used to – I was lost. She wasn’t interested and that was irresistible: adult Stell was more of a challenge than she ever was at school. I shake my head as I think about the ways in which I chased her and tried to win her over. Those lunches I sent. The car. Getting that bloody first edition. The clumsy way I’d slid the hotel key card to her. But it had worked, hadn’t it? And here we are.
But?
I can’t put my finger on what it is. But something’s not right.
ELEVEN
Stella
I’m still writing when George gets back. He walks into the kitchen and stands there without saying anything. I feel his eyes on me so I finish the sentence I’m writing and look up.
‘Hey,’ I say, cocking my head and smiling. ‘Good walk?’
‘Yeah. Went down to the woods.’
‘Lovely.’
There’s a pause and it seems awkward. George’s energy is weird. It’s like he’s thinking more than he’s talking, which is not like him at all. I look at his left hand.
‘Still haven’t found your wedding ring?’
He looks at his hand. ‘No.’
‘Sure it’s not in the bathroom? I thought I saw it by the sink. It’s been there all week.’
‘It’s not there. All right?’ George’s voice is snappy.
I hold my hands up in a mock surrender. ‘OK, OK. I was just asking.’
George comes over to the kitchen island. ‘I’m going to write my diary.’
The One That Got Away Page 25