by Fiona Harper
He hardly let her out his sight, our shopping trips being one of the few exceptions, and the least I could do then was to let her have some power and control over what she did for a few hours. I suppose we’ve just fallen into a pattern now, one that’s hard for me to change without bringing it up and sounding whiney.
Becca is a theatre manager now and as we shop she gives me an in-depth report on the antics of a well-known soap star who was appearing in the play that was on last week. My shoulder develops a nagging little niggle from the weight of my John Lewis carrier bag.
At first I’m nodding and smiling at her blow-by-blow account of his excessive vodka-drinking to get over his opening-night nerves but, funny as it is, after a while, I start to tune out. I mean, we’ve been talking about her stuff since we sat down for cappuccinos and it hasn’t even occurred to her to ask if anything much is going on in my life, even if I do usually just wave the question away and say, ‘Oh, just the same old same old …’
But today I do have something to say. Something big. Or at least I think I might. I really can’t work out if I’m just being silly, and I could do with a friend to help me sift through the facts and sort out the truth from the muddy paranoia.
But Becca is too full of ‘glow’ to notice the worry in my eyes. She just barrels on. It’s only after I’ve hauled my shower curtain onto the sales desk in John Lewis’s homeware department (and almost kissed the sales lady for taking it off my hands), and completed the transaction, that she finds a new topic.
‘Did you see that thing on Facebook?
I’m tucking my returns receipt back into my purse. When I finish I look at her, frowning slightly. ‘What thing?’
‘The reunion. Oaklands College. Some of the guys are planning a get-together, seeing as it’s twenty-five years since we graduated.’
Even though, logically, I know this is how long it’s been since I left university, the fact slaps me in the face, waking me up. Twenty-five years … a rapid slideshow of my life starts to play inside my head. I’m horrified to see how many slots are filled with black and white images of my routine suburban life or – even worse – empty.
‘Where is it? Who’s going?’ I ask, feeling slightly dazed.
‘On campus, I think someone said, and only a few people have responded so far. The post only went up yesterday.’
I nod. There’s not much else I’ve got to say on the subject.
Becca leads the way back out of the shop and turns in the direction of the food court. I’m pretty sure that’s where she’s heading, even though she hasn’t said anything. Shopping always makes her hungry.
As we walk she turns to look at me carefully. ‘Do you think you’ll go?’
I shrug. ‘Probably not.’
‘Really? I thought it’d be fun to see the old crowd.’
Of course you would, I say in my head. You’re happy. You look great. You’re glowing. Even if I’m curious about what everyone looks like and what they are doing now, I’m not sure I want that same inquisitiveness directed back at me.
What will they see? I haven’t become anything interesting or ‘grown into’ myself with age. If anything, I feel all that potential and passion I’d had in my twenties has been slowly diluted until I’m now a watery version of who I once was. I don’t want to turn up, have to chat to people with a plastic goblet full of warm sauvignon, and see the look of vague recognition in my university mates’ eyes before they smile nicely and move on to someone more interesting.
I shake my head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems like such a lot of effort for something that was such a long time ago.’
‘You’re not even curious about Jude Hansen?’
At the mention of that name my pulse jumps. I make very sure it doesn’t show on my face. I pretend I’m too busy navigating round a young mum dawdling with a pushchair to answer.
Becca, however, doesn’t seem to want to let it go, which is odd, as she never really liked Jude. ‘Word is he’s done very well for himself.’
I straighten my spine and keep looking straight ahead. ‘I really wouldn’t know.’
There’s a part of me that wants to turn and scream at her to shut up, but there’s also another contrary part that is willing her to keep talking. It’s like a scab that’s not quite ripe for picking. I know I should leave it alone, that it’ll only sting and bleed, but part of me wants both the pain and the satisfaction of pulling it off and knowing what’s really underneath.
I deliberately haven’t thought of Jude Hansen for more than twenty-four years. I looked at myself in the mirror the morning of my wedding day and told myself that door was closed.
‘So what do you think? Shall we go?’ She nudges me as we start to peruse the chiller cabinets of the sushi place. I make a show of looking, even though I know I’m going to pick the salmon bento box. I always do.
She joins the queue, leaving me to file in behind her. ‘It’ll be a right laugh. You’ll see …’
I’m really irritated that she’s acting as if I’ve already agreed, as if my role in life is just to trail around behind her and do whatever she wants. I realise that as much as I moan about having a husband who’s so laid-back he just ‘goes with the flow’ about everything, I’ve chosen a best friend who is the complete opposite and I don’t always like this end of the spectrum much either.
‘Come on, aren’t you even curious?’ she asks once we’ve found some seats. ‘You and Jude were quite a hot item at one time, if I remember rightly …’
The penny drops then. For some reason she really wants to go to this stupid reunion and she’s using Jude as leverage because she wants me to go with her.
Maybe it’s because my shoulder is still twanging from carrying that shower curtain round for an hour longer than I’d wanted but I find I don’t want to be nice, accommodating, doormat Maggie any more. ‘Not really …’ I say, feigning indifference just as well as Becca has been doing. ‘It’s ancient history and I honestly don’t care in the slightest what Jude Hansen is doing now.’
Becca eats her chicken katsu curry sulkily after that. Normally, I’d stay silent for a couple of minutes then start to chat to her, win her round, but today I stay quiet. Let her offer the olive branch for once.
I know this spells the end of our shopping trip. When we finish we throw our rubbish away and head outside, and when we pause to say our goodbyes before heading off to our respective cars, Becca looks sheepishly at me. ‘Sorry if I was being pushy … I just got a bit excited about the idea, that’s all.’ She looks hopefully at me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go?’
I shake my head.
‘You won’t even think about it?’
I laugh. Even when Becca is trying not to be so … Becca … she can’t help herself. ‘OK, OK, I’ll think about it.’ Usually, I employ this tactic to shut her up. I just say yes to whatever she’s pushing for to keep the peace then wriggle out of it later, but I discover as I drive home back to Swanham that I was telling the truth. I can’t think about anything else – anyone else – all afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE
The house is quiet when I get back. Too quiet. I’ve got used to Sophie being around during the day after her A levels had finished – leaving her lunch plate on the arm of the sofa, the chart songs drifting from her bedroom upstairs, her soft laughter as she watched something on YouTube with her headphones in – but now she’s off backpacking with her friends before uni. Well, when I say backpacking, I mean in the UK. They’re somewhere near Fort William, exploring the Highlands at the moment. I said no to haring all over Europe for two months. She’s only just turned eighteen.
I feel as if I’ve got too much time on my hands now she’s not here. I find myself wandering round the house, looking at the empty spaces, wondering what I should be doing next.
Maybe I should ask for extra hours at work? I have a part-time job in a soft furnishings shop on the High Street. I gave up my career as a graphic designer when Sophie was born. Too many all-nigh
ters to meet deadlines and things like that. It was nice to be here when she got home from school most days, even when she was old enough to take care of herself, and Dan’s money as an English teacher isn’t bad. We might not have had as many foreign holidays as some, but we’ve never gone short.
But when I think of doing full days at the shop my spirit sinks. I like my job, I do. It’s comfortable, like a pair of shoes worn in just right, but up until now I’ve been telling myself it’s just something to keep the money coming in while Sophie needed me. I don’t want it to define me.
I realise I’ve wandered through the hall, into the lounge and I’m standing in front of the mantelpiece. I’m staring at a picture of Sophie taken at her school prom. She looks elegant and happy, her warm-brown hair blown back away from her face by a playful breeze.
My eyes glaze for a second then refocus, and when I do it’s not Sophie I’m looking at in the picture, but myself. How I once was. Full of hope and ambition, optimism and bravado. A sense of loss engulfs me, but whether it’s because of my empty nest or for something deeper and long-standing, I’m not sure.
I go and get my mobile out of my handbag and dial Sophie’s number, even though I suspect she’s halfway up a mountain or in a valley with no coverage.
Much to my surprise, she picks up. ‘Hey, mum! What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re keeping warm and eating alright.’
Just wanted to hear your voice because I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next three years without you.
I hide the catch in my breath and realise I should have bought flowers while I was out – white lilies. Beautiful, waxy lilies that would fill the empty spaces in this house with their pure, white scent.
Sophie, however, on the other end of the line, chuckles. ‘I’m in Scotland, Mum, not the wilds of Antarctica, and it’s summer! They’ve got shops and beds and restaurants, you know. I’m absolutely fine!’
‘I know,’ I say softly. A selfish part of me wishes she’d sound a little bit less carefree. Just a little.
‘Anyway, gotta go! Love you, Mum!’
‘Love you too,’ I say back, but the line has already gone dead by the time I reach the last syllable.
I stare at the phone then decide to tuck it into my back pocket rather than putting it back in my handbag. It’ll be like I’m carrying Sophie around with me. I look at the clock. It’s only two. Another four hours until Dan gets home and I can tell him about the call. That’s our main topic of conversation these days – Sophie and what she’s up to – an oasis in the barren landscape of our communication.
I wander into the kitchen, put the kettle on, then decide I don’t actually want a cup of tea. I see my laptop sitting on the kitchen table and I sit down and turn it on. On automatic I log into Facebook. I spend a lot of time on Facebook, keeping up with what other people are doing with their lives.
I pretend to myself I’m just tinkering around for a while, reading a few updates from my cousin, liking some pictures of friends who’ve been out on the town, but eventually I cave and search for the reunion page. I find it almost instantly. There are comments from people I know. I don’t ‘like’ or ‘join’ but I do read.
One post in particular catches my attention: Hot guys: where are they now? I read down the comment thread. There are the predictable mentions of the college sporting gods and star drama students, but halfway down, snuggled in between the rest, I spot something:
Claire Rutt:
Anyone remember Jude Hansen?
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
No? What subject did he do?
Claire Rutt:
Business Studies, I think …
Nadia Pike:
Ooh, yes! I remember him! Lovely dark hair and blue eyes. Not muscly, but definite eye candy! Wonder if he’ll turn up?
Claire Rutt:
Sigh. Probably not. Wasn’t much of a joiner, unless you had a double-barrelled name and daddy owned a yacht … I doubt he’d be interested in a poxy reunion populated with middle-class soccer mums and civil servants.
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Hey, watch yourself! Not only does Jack play football, but I work for the local council! Nothing poxy about me, thank you.
Claire Rutt:
:-p
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Anyway, pity. This Jude person was just starting to sound interesting! I’m single again, you know, and on the lookout for hubby no.3! ;-)
Claire Rutt:
Not the settling-down type, I’d say. I’d heard he’s quite the jetsetter now, though, so if you like a challenge …
I stop reading then. My stomach is swirling and I feel like I’m snooping, even though this is a public conversation on an open group. I close the browser window down and shut the lid of my laptop. After a few seconds staring at the kitchen cabinets, which I notice could really do with a good scrub, I open it up again.
I don’t go back to the reunion page; instead, I just type ‘Jude’ into the Facebook search box. A list of options turn up, none of them him. I hold my breath and add ‘Hansen’.
Nothing.
There’s Joseph Hansen, but he’s eighteen and living in Montana. And a Julian Hansen who’s a professor of philosophy, with grey hair and a kind smile, but he’s not my Hansen.
No. Jude’s not my Hansen. Never was, really.
I feel as if I’ve stepped over a line by this point, but instead of creeping back behind it I start sprinting forward. I pull up a search engine and enter those two names again, whispering them in my head as if they’re a secret.
There are no images that relate, but I do find reference to a Jude Hansen mentioned in an article about high-end estate agents, but when I search the name of the firm I discover the website is down for temporary maintenance. In full Sherlock Holmes-mode now, I go back to the article and spot the name of a photographer connected with his – something to do with either selling or finding her a house, possibly both. I search her name and ‘house’, and I get another set of results. Two pages down I see a fuzzy picture, from Twitter, I think. It’s a housewarming party and in the background there’s someone who looks very much like the Jude I used to know, but it’s difficult to tell, because it’s out of focus and the photographer’s finger is over the corner of the shot.
I sit back and stare at the screen, screwing my eyes up a little to see if that helps, but it just makes everything blurrier. I imagine it’s him anyway.
So he did do well for himself, just as Becca said. And then I mentally whisper possibly the two most dangerous words in the English language:
What if …?
I’d never told anyone this, not even Becca, but the day Dan proposed to me – after we were back in one of our regular, college drinking holes, had shared the news and everybody was buying rounds and congratulating us – Jude had found me and asked me for a quiet word in the pub garden. Even though it was July, we’d had the place to ourselves because it had been hammering down. I still remember the scent of warm soil when I think of that moment.
He’d stared at me in the glow of the security light, more serious than I’d ever seen him. ‘Don’t …’ he’d said.
I’d frowned. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t marry him.’
I’d stared at him then, wondering what on earth was going through his head. Didn’t he remember that he’d been the one who’d pulled back and cooled off? ‘What? And marry you instead?’
‘Yes! I mean, no …’ He’d scrubbed his hand through his floppy dark hair and looked at me with unguarded honesty, a strange look on him, because he’d always been so careful to develop an air of knowingness.
My heart had begun to pound hard, just as it had when Dan had pulled a small velvet box from his pocket down by the river earlier the same evening.
Jude had cleared his throat and started again. ‘I mean … what I’m trying to say is that I think I made a horrible mistake.’
&nbs
p; He’d looked at me, willing me to fill in the gaps, but I’d held my ground. Not this time. If he had something to say he was going to have to be clear about it. I had to know for sure. He’d taken in my silence and nodded.
‘I think I love you,’ he’d said. ‘And I think it might destroy me if you marry him.’ He’d screwed up his face and I’d known him well enough to know he was wrestling with whether to say something else. Finally, he’d added, ‘And I think it might destroy you too.’
As fast as my pulse had been skipping, I’d raised my eyebrows, waiting for more.
He’d shaken his head. ‘You’re right. Destroy is much too dramatic. What I mean is – ’ He’d broken off to capture both my hands in his. ‘I don’t think he’s what you need, Meg.’
Meg. He was the only person who’d called me that. I pause for a moment just to run my mind over that fact, like fingers reading braille.
‘And you are?’ I’d asked him.
He’d given me that look again. ‘I’d like to try to be.’
I’d shaken my head, more in disbelief than because I was refusing him. ‘But you’re supposed to be going off to France next – ’
‘Come with me.’
I’d frozen then, brain on overload, unable to process anything more. ‘I can’t,’ I’d said, pulling my hands from his, and I’d backed away. It would be more romantic, I suppose, to say that I’d stumbled away from him, overcome by emotion, but I don’t remember it that way at all. I remember my steps being quite precise and deliberate.
That was the last time I saw Jude Hansen. I’d left him there in the rain. I’d had to.
I close my eyes and concentrate on pausing the memory, like hitting a button on a TV remote, and then I file it away carefully again behind lock and key.
Jude had always had the potential to do well, but that had only been one side of the coin. He could also be a little bit arrogant, thinking his way was the only way, and he hadn’t responded well to authority. There had been a restless energy about him. I’m glad he’s harnessed it, made it work for him.