The One That Got Away

by Lucy Dawson

  Lucy Dawson has been a journalist and magazine editor. Her previous two novels, His Other Lover and What My Best Friend Did, are also published by Sphere.

  Praise for Lucy Dawson

  ‘Funny, dark and very surprising – a compulsive new breed of chicklit’

  Louise Candlish

  ‘This isn’t your standard chick-lit fluff – and for that we’re very grateful … This tale is so deliciously dark, you’ll be left craving the next twist of dubious events ****’

  Heat

  ‘This dark, compelling tale is a warning for every female with a new friend’

  Sun

  ‘Chick lit with a sinister twist’

  Elle

  ‘Totally gripping ****’

  Company

  ‘[An] intense and gripping read ****’

  OK!

  ‘Darker than your average chick lit, you’ll be engrossed from the first page. A compelling, excellent read with a twist’

  Candis

  ‘Lucy Dawson spins an intriguing tale … A break from the black-and-white morality of the chick-lit genre’

  London Lite

  ‘A claustrophobic and compelling tale, with a lethal eye for the strains and terrors that can lie beneath the surface of a friendship’

  Waterstone’s Books Quarterly

  ‘Most definitely a cut above, [this] reaches dark places which other novels in the genre would steer well clear of, on the way to a thought-provoking ending’

  Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  Also by Lucy Dawson

  His Other Lover

  What My Best Friend Did

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-7481-2601-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Lucy Dawson 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Lucy Dawson

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Book Club Questions

  For Mum and Dad

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Sarah Ballard, Jo Dickinson, Rebecca Saunders, all at United Agents and Little, Brown, James and my family and friends for their encouragement and support. I am very grateful to you all.

  Thank you to those who offered me practical advice, in particular Patricia.

  And finally thank you to DS for being the person who once told me the joke. Despite the trouble it’s caused.

  Chapter One

  As I fling the wet door of the car boot open, my fingers slip and one of my nails bends back, making me yelp and drop my overnight bag. I grab the offending digit and examine it carefully for any signs of injury; it’s throbbing, the nail bed has gone a bit white, and there’s a line where it might have snapped, but didn’t. Nevertheless, hot tears prickle my eyes … great … I’m not only late, but I’m going to cry too. Brilliant.

  I take a deep breath, blink furiously as I try to gather myself and then determinedly pick up the bag from the soggy drive. Shoving it in the car, I slam the boot firmly shut and make my way round to the door. Once I’m in, have clipped my seat belt on and adjusted my mirror so that my own eyes are staring back at me, I clock the violet shadows and the concealer already starting to settle in the creases. I got very little sleep last night.

  Last night. I remember my husband, looking at me incredulously across the bed, stunned by what I had just said.

  I twist the key in the ignition, trying to ignore the rush of shame that accompanies the memory. Jerking my head round – as if I’m trying to jolt the picture out of my mind – I look over my shoulder and start to reverse sharply. I wanted to say sorry to him this morning. I was going to – I would have said it last night except he insisted on sleeping downstairs. And anyway, how am I supposed to apologise if he’s just going to bang out to work like that? How does that help anything?

  I slam on the brakes, just shy of hitting the bank behind me, and crunch the gears into first before lifting my foot up too crossly, lurching inelegantly out of the drive and on to the road. I love Dan more than anything, but being curt when he could see I was trying to make it up to him, deliberately not kissing me goodbye? OK, he’s not usually like that at all, which means he is really angry … and hurt … but still – it was a mean thing to do.

  Leaning forward I switch the radio on and mutinously put my foot down in anticipation of the speed bump that Dan always tells me I go over too fast. It gives me a brief moment of satisfaction to fly over it in the manner of Daisy Duke, but I can’t help wincing at the God-awful noise the suspension makes when I land; that actually doesn’t sound good. I tense up and listen, worried that the bottom of the car is now about to drop off – just to cap it all – but nothing happens, and by the time I pull up at the red traffic lights, my anger has begun to dissipate and I’m not gripping the steering wheel quite so tightly. In fact I feel suddenly tired and very sad that for the first time ever, we’ve had a barney that has lasted into another day.

  I should have just kept my mouth shut. I’d be angry with me if I were him; I like to think I wouldn’t have slammed out of the house like he did, but I can see why he’s outraged.

  ‘You didn’t just say that?’ I hear the echo of his disbelief. ‘But I’m your husband !’

  I get another stab of remorse, staring unseeingly at the brake lights of the car in front of me while we all wait for green. The sound of Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ fills the car and I begin to listen to the lyrics attentively. I can identify with every single word.

  Well, except there’s no morning sun – it’s a day that could do with wringing out if anything, commuters are scurrying towards Brighton station, with cold hunched shoulders as they hurry past, but yes – why did I behave that way, saying things I didn’t mean to say? I swallow hard. I know Dan doesn’t rea
lise it, but oddly, last night DID happen because of how much I love him and in some ways, maybe this is a good thing: we don’t normally hold things back from one another, he and I are usually very good at saying how we feel. Now at least we both know we have a problem, and we’ll be able to do something about it.

  I exhale worriedly. The trouble is … the trouble is how do I tell my husband that I have realised I’m scared of doing something everyone else seems to find second nature? That yes – I wish someone WOULD tell me how to feel, because I am genuinely, honestly confused.

  I did not see this coming. I really didn’t. You think when you’re younger that you will grow up, fall in love, get married and have children – simple as that. It’s what pretty much everyone does, it’s certainly what I thought I’d do, and yet last night I accused my husband – one of the kindest, most honourable people I have ever met – of trying to trick me into getting pregnant.

  And the worst thing is, it wasn’t the alleged duplicity I was particularly worried about, it was simply the very real prospect of being pregnant that freaked me out. I wasn’t happy but nervous, or excited and scared … just plain and simple, grade A, no lies terrified at the thought of actually having a baby. And I mean all of it; the no turning back, the pregnant bit, giving birth, being responsible for a small person for ever – end of life as I otherwise know it. Yet up until now, it is something which I have always assumed I would do and – more importantly – would want.

  HOW can I not ever have properly thought about this – just assumed it would work somehow? Dan by comparison was so excited; busily talking about new adventures, next stages … What if – and seemingly overnight – my husband and I have become completely incompatible?

  My eyes widen with fear at the thought of actually being without Dan – and panicking, I fumble for my phone. I’m just going to ring him now, ring him and say I’m sorry unreservedly. Because whatever my own feelings about this, I shouldn’t have accused him of doing something so underhand, no wonder he—

  But before I can dial, an angry honk behind me tells me that the lights have finally changed and everyone wants to GO! I pull away, dropping my bag back down on the seat as a caffeinated DJ crashes in over the remainder of the song and begins to blather on about roadworks in a city centre I am nowhere near.

  And just like that, I miss my window without even realising it.

  I will look back on this moment.

  I will remember nearly calling my husband and saying sorry and I will wish with all my heart that I had taken my chance while I had it.

  It would have changed everything.

  It might even have saved a life.

  Chapter Two

  I don’t want to go to this sales conference in Windsor today. And I shouldn’t be staying away tonight either. I need to be coming home to Dan, not doing small talk with my colleagues at the hotel bar, before cautiously inspecting the sheets of a bed that will smell faintly of the cigarettes people used to be allowed to smoke in it.

  Chewing on one of my nails, I picture sitting down in our kitchen instead and talking things through with Dan, explaining my unexpected worries and fears, which is what I should have done last night instead of having my completely crazy moment … but in my defence, the last couple of days haven’t exactly been easy.

  Not that I’m trying to make excuses for my behaviour; but I do HATE the way you can be having a really nice time of it one minute – genuinely happy with your lot and wouldn’t change a thing – and then the next moment it’s as if some malign force has noticed you skipping around minding your own business and pointed a finger at earth, blasting down a beam that messes everything up completely, apparently just for the hell of it.

  Saturday was when everything started to swing out of kilter. I had been having one of those random, relaxed lunches with Joss and Bec in town, where the only rush is one of occasional spontaneous warmth that makes you say happily to the others ‘this is nice, isn’t it?’ at which they smile back understandingly and say ‘very’.

  We chatted about this, that and absolutely nothing – the way you can when you’ve all known each other for ever. We were simply enjoying each other’s company and, if truth be told, eating quite a bit more than we probably should have been; the rapidly impending Christmas party season was already going to necessitate industrial Spanx. I was secretly undoing my top button under the table when Joss sat back contentedly and patted her still somehow flat tummy, which, unfairly, wasn’t even vaguely straining at the waistband of her jeans.

  ‘How do you do that?’ Bec said enviously. ‘How do you eat that much and still be so skinny malinky?’

  ‘Worms?’ Joss shrugged.

  Bec smiled indulgently. ‘Do you think it’s because you’re taller?’ she said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Tall people really have to go some before they look properly porky, don’t they?’

  Joss looked a bit taken aback at that and I grinned.

  ‘What I mean is,’ Bec said hastily, smoothing out her dress, which had rucked up slightly, ‘you’ve got more leeway than a shortarse like me. If you and I ate the same amount of cake for a week, I’d look fatter sooner, because I’ve got less height to spread it over.’

  ‘But wouldn’t Joss also burn off more cake than you anyway because she’s taller?’ I looked at her doubtfully. ‘Like men need more calories a day than women … not that I’m saying you’re mannishly tall, Joss. Certainly not Brigitte Nielsen freaky big—’

  ‘Thanks.’ Joss wrinkled her nose. ‘I think.’

  ‘If you were a model, five foot seven would actually be quite short,’ I pointed out, reaching for one of the biscuits that had come with our coffees. ‘And you’re not a Weeble either,’ I turned to Bec reassuringly. ‘You’re both lovely just the way you are.’

  Bec wasn’t listening, she was still looking at Joss. ‘I’ve got a question. Suppose you met a man who was wonderful in every way, and I mean perfect; funny, kind, optimistic, great with children, great in bed, bought you treats without being asked … BUT he was considerably shorter than you; would you still go out with him?’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t be perfect then, would he?’ Joss said bluntly. ‘If he only came up to my armpits. Who wants that?’

  ‘Really?’ Bec was fascinated. ‘You wouldn’t date him?’

  ‘No,’ Joss insisted. ‘I wouldn’t. Why is that a surprising thing? You want to be able to look up – or at least across – into your bloke’s eyes. Not down. Never down. Urgh.’ She shuddered and her long corkscrew curls shook with disgust.

  Bec turned to me. ‘Would you have gone out with Dan if he’d been shorter than you?’

  ‘But I’m only five foot five, Bec,’ I smiled. ‘You’re talking seriously short for a bloke.’

  ‘Like Danny DeVito,’ Joss said, reaching out and snaffling the last biscuit before Bec could get there. ‘Tasty,’ she smirked through a mouthful of crumbs.

  ‘Would you?’ Bec persisted.

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘Probably not,’ I conceded.

  ‘NO!’ Bec was amazed. ‘You wouldn’t have gone out with Dan? I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t have known what I was missing out on, would I?’ I explained. ‘I just wouldn’t have found him as attractive, we probably would have only chatted for a bit and then I’d have gone on my way none the wiser.’

  ‘Yeah right!’ Joss scoffed. ‘You two were a done deal from the word go.’

  But Bec’s eyes had widened. ‘Seriously? All that happiness, all that love, you’d never have taken the chance of discovering it? You would have not married the love of your life, THE ONE, if he’d been three inches shorter than he is? I’m shocked at you Molly Greene. Shocked and disappointed.’

  I deliberately paused for a moment. ‘Bec,’ I leant forward in my seat and lowered my voice to a secretive whisper. ‘There’s no such thing as THE one.’

  Bec yelped in horror and Joss nudged me. ‘Stop it,’ she grinned. ‘Don’t wind her
up.’

  ‘I mean it!’ I said quickly. ‘What Dan and I have is unique to us, there’s one him, but if he died—’

  Bec looked like she was going to faint with horror and slip under the table.

  ‘—I would be devastated, of course I would, but I know Dan wouldn’t want me to live the rest of my life alone if he couldn’t be with me any more.’

  I watched Bec hesitate. ‘It’s like friendship,’ I continued. ‘You don’t have one shot at that for the whole of your life do you? Lots of people can bring you happiness. I think there are probably lots of “ones”.’

  ‘All right – I get it,’ Bec said ruefully. ‘I should keep an open mind to all opportunities life throws at me. You’re right.’

  ‘That’s all I’m saying,’ I smiled at her.

  ‘Would you want Dan to meet someone else if you popped it then?’ Joss asked slyly.

  ‘Of course I would,’ I said quickly. Then I thought about it a bit more. ‘But not for at least a year and I’d want her to be fatter than me.’

  ‘Oooh. Talking of people departing – Joss,’ Bec cut in, ‘I did a visit to one of my mums the other day – she’s just had twins and they’re so sweet – and I was walking past that salon you used to have that Saturday job at.’

  ‘Judy’s Garland?’ Joss muttered darkly, narrowing her eyes. ‘I hated the bloke that owned that place … sausage fingers and all those gold rings, and his vile long man nails. Two pounds fifty an hour he paid me to wash those skanky old women’s hair. I wonder what happened to him?’

  Bec stared at her. ‘Well, he’s died. Surely you could see where I was going with that? The salon’s closing down.’

  ‘I can’t believe it was still going! He was old even back then!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you even remember his hair?’

  ‘Canary yellow!’ Bec giggled. ‘That can’t have been his natural colour.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’ Joss gave a snort of amusement. ‘He used to whip the wig off in the back room and flap it around when all the dryers and the overhead heaters were going because he’d get so sweaty and hot … although that was more down to his leather trousers I think.’ She shuddered. ‘Every time he lifted his arm up to put a curler in, his belly would flop out over the top of the waistband, all red and crisscrossed.’