The One That Got Away

‘What is it?’ I’m short with her, trying not to lose the thread of my thoughts.

‘A delivery,’ she says. ‘Gourmet Lunch Co.’

‘Not mine.’ I turn back to the computer.

‘It’s got your name on it.’ She checks the label, reads out my name, company name and address. ‘I’ll leave it here.’ She places it on my desk, along with a set of office cutlery, and leaves.

When the door’s shut, I open the box. The smell that releases makes my mouth water. Inside, there are a couple of chargrilled chicken skewers arranged on a salad of lentil, feta and aubergine.

I turn back to my work and my phone buzzes. George. Did lunch arrive?

My lips twitch. I don’t want to smile, not even to myself, but who bar George would send food to the boss of a catering company? Only he would know me well enough to guess I rarely make time for my own lunch.

Why did you send it?

I want to take care of you.

I don’t need taking care of.

Everyone needs taking care of.

Maybe when I was 18 but not now.

Touché.

I don’t reply.

I’m saying sorry, George types.

I put my phone on silent and get back to work. But George doesn’t stop with one lunch. Food continues to arrive on a daily basis. Once, I pick up the fork, tempted to eat, but there’s something about putting food that George has chosen for me in my mouth that feels as if I’m letting him in; accepting something that I can’t allow myself to accept. I’m the feeder, not him. I tell my secretary to consider the deliveries hers.

Next comes a parcel delivered by hand. My assistant places it on my desk with a raised eyebrow and I look at the rectangular package, wrapped in luxurious paper. The cream silk ribbon is perfectly tied. It can only have come from George, though I imagine he didn’t wrap it himself. All morning, I leave the parcel on my desk, wondering whether to send it back, but then, around lunchtime, my resolve weakens and I gently tug the end of the ribbon to release the folds of paper. I’m expecting something new and shiny but, beneath the paper, my fingers touch something that’s softer, more worn: a used copy of a novel I loved as a teenager.

Sitting at my desk, I flick through the familiar pages, remembering the excitement with which I’d read the story for the first time. There’s a bookmark inside and I know before I turn to that page what I’ll find: it marks a paragraph about love I’d read aloud to George when we were seventeen. It’s only later, when I’m flicking through the book again that afternoon, that I realise the copy George has sent is a first edition. I place it reverentially back on my desk and nod. I’m impressed. The book is a thoughtful gift yet I don’t know if I should thank him. Well, of course I should thank him. But I know what George is like. If he sees any weakness in me, any chink in my armour, he’ll storm into it like the rugby player he used to be. I stick with simple.

Thanks for the book, I text him.

You’re welcome, he replies, and I just know that he’s smiling.

*

The next day, I’m wrapping things up at work when my phone buzzes. The sound’s loud in the silence of the office. It’s late – dark outside – and everyone’s gone home. I check the screen: an unknown number. I stare at it for a second, weighing up whether or not to pick up. It could be a new client, or perhaps a cold call. I’m about to leave and I don’t want to get into a long conversation. Even as I think all this, the phone stops buzzing. I put it back on the desk, but it starts up again almost immediately.

I pick up. ‘Stella Simons speaking… Hello?’

The line crackles a little, then a female voice comes on. ‘Stella! Hello! How are you?’ Pause. ‘It’s Ness.’

I lean back in my seat, lift my chin and squint my eyes at the blackness outside the office window. ‘Hello.’

‘It was lovely to see you the other night,’ says Ness. ‘Really nice.’

I give a polite laugh.

‘Wasn’t it amazing to see how everyone’s turned out?’ she says. ‘And yourself – of course! I’ve googled your company now.’ She laughs. ‘I didn’t realise that was you! Marvellous! I always knew you’d go far!’

Another small laugh from me.

‘I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years!’ Ness continues. ‘Gosh, did you see Julia and Sarah? It’s incredible that they’re still friends! And that their children are friends too! Do you still see anyone from school?’

‘No.’

‘No, we neither. We don’t have time, really, to be fair…’ Her voice trails off and I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing: namely, that Ness’s time is dedicated almost entirely to looking good on George’s arm.

‘So…’ she says, and I close my eyes, sensing that she’s finally coming to the point. ‘Do you think you’ll, um, stay in touch with George now you’ve reconnected?’And, as she asks this, I realise the reason that she’s called is because she’s worried. Insecure. I open my mouth to reply but she doesn’t give me a chance to speak.

‘It was so amazing to catch up with you after so long,’ she says. ‘George and I were both so happy to see you!’ She doesn’t sound that happy. ‘I mean… after, you know, what happened all those years ago…’ Her voice isn’t as confident now. She stops and clears her throat, then her words come out in a rush. ‘But I wanted you to know that George and I – we’re, well, we’re good. Really good.’ She waits, but I don’t respond. ‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘I know it must have been hard for you. At the time, and all that. But it was a long time ago! We were children. Nothing but children!’ Her laugh rattles down the phone line. ‘But, you know, difficult decisions were made and we stuck with them. You sleep in the bed you make! Literally!’ She falls silent for a second. ‘Look. I just wanted to say that all that happened back then: I’m sorry. It must have been horrific for you. But I want you to know it wasn’t for nothing.’ She pauses again and I really am struck dumb. ‘Yes. That’s what I want to say. If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t for nothing. I still love him.’ Her intonation makes it sound like she has more to say and I wait but then Ness says, ‘Stella? Are you there?’

‘That’s lovely,’ I say. But look, I don’t mean to be rude… if you’ll excuse me, I really have to…’ I don’t bother finishing the sentence. ‘Goodbye,’ I say, and cut the line.

*

Some time later, George suggests we meet for a drink in London. I’m surprised he’s so brazen.

Far too busy, I write. A crazy day of meetings all over town. And it’s true.

Another time, he writes.

But, the next morning, as I’m moving about my apartment gathering my things for the day, George messages to tell me he’s arranged a car for me for the day.

Outside the building, I find a sleek Mercedes with a smartly dressed driver and, again, I’m impressed. It’s actually exactly what I need to get me through the day. Reluctantly, I allow the driver to open the door for me and I climb in with my bag and sink into the coolness of the leather seat. I’m annoyed I didn’t think of hiring a car myself: it’s presumably just an Uber of some sort. Damn it, he’s good. I sit in the back of the car, feeling like this is the most delightful thing in the world as the driver pulls into the traffic, and I toy with my phone: common decency says I should thank George, but you have to understand that I really don’t want to encourage him. I’ve said before: I don’t do married men. And that means I don’t encourage them either. I’m flattered by his attempts to win me over, but there’s more to it than that: a part of me is curious to see just how far he’ll take this without any encouragement.

A part of me doesn’t want him to stop.

TEN

George

Around 10 a.m. I stick my head out of my office and call my assistant. I’ve been in the office since 8.30 and haven’t done a shred of work.

‘Rachel! Can I borrow you for a minute?’

She looks up from her desk. ‘Shall I bring any client files?’

‘No. Just yourself and the project book.’

She raises her eyebrows and goes over to the filing cabinet where she keeps what we call the ‘Project X’ book.

I pace my office while I wait for her. There are other things I should be thinking about but the need to conquer Stell is consuming me; it’s all I can think about, night and day. I’m treating her as if she’s a major client I need to win over. And, in a way, she is.

Rachel closes the door behind her. ‘How did it go down? The car?’

‘He didn’t say.’ I’m chewing on a little flap of skin at the edge of my nail, careful not to let slip that it’s a woman I’m trying to impress. ‘They have to have liked it, though. Right?’

‘I should imagine so. And the other things? The book? Did the world’s pickiest CEO realise it was a first edition?’

‘Yes, he said thank you.’

Rachel smiles. ‘Good. It took for ever to track that down. So – now what’s the plan? Maybe it’s time you tried to have a one-to-one meeting?’

I sigh. ‘I’ve tried. I just keep getting blanks.’

‘Maybe they’re just not interested. Maybe they’re going with someone else, or they don’t need advertising at this stage.’ Rachel sighs. ‘Come on, George, it’s not as if we need their business specifically. Maybe it’s time to draw a line under this one.’ Rachel looks at me then and, as she reads my expression, her face softens. She cocks her head to one side.

‘Who is it? Is it really a potential client?’

I close my eyes and exhale.

‘Is it a woman?’

I shake my head. ‘Just someone I was at school with.’

‘And you need to settle an old score? Getting their business would mean a lot to you?’

I smile. ‘Something like that.’

A look passes between us. I know that she knows I’m lying. I’m sure she suspects it’s a woman. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to cover for me when Ness calls. But she’s way too professional to admit it.

‘Right,’ she says, opening the notebook. ‘Let’s see. What have we done so far? What else can we do? Opera tickets? Theatre?’

I go over to the window and stare out, my hands in my pockets. ‘You know what, Rach? I think you’re right. I think it’s time I tried for another face-to-face meeting.’

ELEVEN

Stella

I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

I look at the message George has sent. In the format of a yes/no question, it’s brave, risking as it does a direct rejection. It’s the second time he’s asked me to meet him since I left him in the pub and I don’t feel that, in the subsequent weeks, I’ve given him much to go on. He’s got balls, I give him that.

I put the phone down and let my thoughts roam. There’s no way George is going to be in Hampstead for work. I know enough about him to know that his life is highly unlikely to involve him coming up here at any point. I’ve googled him, of course I have.

I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

I pick up the phone. Sure, I type. But perhaps, too, this is the moment it all starts to go wrong. Perhaps this is the tipping point of this story because I know, as I agree to meet George, that my own intentions are greyer than four-day snow.

I don’t know how this is going to play out. It’s not like me at all.

*

I have to leave work earlier than usual in order to make it back to Hampstead in time for eight, but that’s the only concession I make to the evening’s arrangements. The perversity of the meeting place is not lost on me: we’d both save time if I just suggested we meet in the West End, but I want George to have to put himself out a little. I go straight to the pub from work. Today, I’ve had meetings all day – a sponsorship deal and a couple of big corporate accounts – so I’m in a suit, heels, stockings. I don’t let myself examine why I decide to let George see me dressed like this instead of nipping home to change: I don’t want to know my motivations. I walk faster to distract myself, the clip of my heels ringing out against the noise of the traffic.

He’s in the same booth as he was last time; again, a bottle of wine on the table. I note that this time two glasses are poured and it occurs to me that, last time we met, he might have thought that I wouldn’t turn up. When he sees me, a smile washes over his face and he stands to greet me; gives me a hug, pulls back and kisses my cheek. Not an air kiss. A proper kiss. Lips on skin. My eyes close. Unintentionally.

I slide onto the bench opposite him and slip out of my suit jacket. Underneath, I’m wearing a sleeveless silk blouse.

‘Wow,’ says George. ‘You look… different.’ He’s not seen me in glasses before. I lower my gaze and look at him over the narrow tortoiseshell rims.

‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.’ I stretch my arms up over my head to release my hair, which has been in a bun all day, and shake it out over my shoulders. It’s a flirty move and it surprises me that I do it. ‘So, how are you?’ I say.

‘Comme ci, comme ça.’ George gives a Gallic shrug. I can feel his eyes on me, sliding over the bare skin of my arms and my throat.

We make small talk for a while, but below the words lies a subtext. The important discussion is non-verbal. Decisions are being made. When I can take it no more, I shift in my seat.

‘George,’ I say. ‘Why are you here with me?’

He leans back in his seat and exhales. ‘We’re… having a drink?’ His face lights up as he smiles.

‘No. I don’t mean that. I mean why are you here in Hampstead – miles from your home, from your wife – having a drink with me? I know you weren’t up here for work. Give me some credit.’ I see from his expression that I’m right. ‘What do you want from me?’

He has the grace to give me a coy look. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

I close my eyes, then open them again. I’m going to give decency one last shot. ‘But you have Ness,’ I say. ‘She’s beautiful. She always was the beautiful one.’

George’s face collapses. ‘Oh, Stell… is that what you think?’

I shrug. ‘This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what you’re doing here.’

‘I know. I know how it looks. “I’m a lucky man; why risk it?” and all that, but…’

‘But what? You chose. You had your choice, and you chose Ness.’

‘Stell. That’s unfair.’

‘Is it? Really?’

George closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he starts to speak. ‘I’m not happy, Stell. The marriage isn’t in a good place.’ He shakes his head. ‘Marriage!’ he snorts. ‘I say “marriage” as if what Ness and I have resembles that in any way, shape or form.’ He waits but I don’t say anything so he carries on. I’m running my finger along the grain of the table while he talks. ‘It used to be good, when it was just the two of us and we had nothing. But she changed the moment the money started rolling in. She has no career. She’s nothing but “Mrs George – Mrs Advertising”. She does nothing all day except pamper herself so she looks good. She’s like a footballer’s wife. What do you call them? A WAG. Totally vacant.’ He knocks his knuckles against his temple. ‘Nothing there. It’s taken over who she is, Stell; it’s all about her image, how she looks. I’ve forgotten what the real Ness even used to be like.’

I let his words settle, then I say, ‘I see.’ I’m not going to pass judgement on anyone else’s marriage, and I’m certainly not going to sit here criticising Ness with her husband, tempting as it is.

‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ George says when he realises I’m not going to say anything else, ‘that my success is only public? Everyone thinks I’m this huge success but, privately, I’m falling apart. If only they could see what goes on at home. It’s like the Cold War.’ George puts his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

The word ‘divorce’ springs to mind but it’s not my place to say it. I give George a weak smile. I will not get involved in other people’s marital spats.

‘I can’t leave her,’ says George. ‘What would she do without me? I’m her provider.’

I look at the table.

‘I know, I know,’ says George. ‘I’m too soft. Everyone tells me that.’ He sighs. ‘What I want from life has changed. I’m learning that sometimes things that look the best on the outside aren’t perhaps the best on the inside.’ George looks meaningfully at me and, despite the backhanded nature of this compliment, I can’t look away. He reaches for my hand across the table and the touch of his skin on mine fascinates me. Gently, he strokes the palm of my hand with his thumb. We stare at each other, communicating on a level that has no words. Then I pull my hand away and smile brightly.

‘So, how’s business?’ I ask. The conversation moves on. We finish the wine, drink another bottle; stick to safer topics. George flirts a little, and I don’t stop him. Around 10 p.m., he reaches for my hand again, and I let him take it. He leans towards me, his eyes searching my face.

‘Stell,’ he says, and I know what’s coming. I realise now that I’ve known all along why I picked this pub below the boutique hotel the first time; why I came here tonight, what I’ve known all along was inevitable. ‘Stell,’ he says again. ‘I want you. Come upstairs with me.’

Right words, wrong order, but I forgive him the slip – it’s been seventeen years since that night, after all. I look into George’s eyes, those hazel eyes I used to know so well. I search them and I see regret, desire, and, if I’m not mistaken, love.

‘Please?’ he asks.

I lower my eyes. Inhale. Exhale, then I look back up at him.

George slides a key card across the table. ‘Go now. I’ll come up in five.’

It’s not stealing if it should always have been yours. I take the key card and head for the stairs.

TWELVE

George

There’s no time for me to reflect on what happened with Stell: the very next day is my wedding anniversary and Ness, it turns out, has booked us a romantic dinner à deux sliding down the Thames on a luxury river cruiser. She’s even arranged a cake. It’s coming towards us now: a chocolate gateau held majestically aloft by a beaming waitress. Ness moves a candle out of the way and takes my hand across the table.

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ She smiles. ‘This is why I’ve been trying to stop you ordering dessert. I thought they’d never bring it out.’

I squeeze her hand. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ But I do. I hate showy, public displays of affection: the forced happiness. The hope – followed, inevitably, by the disappointment. It’s just so married; so ‘meh’.

‘I know you wanted a quiet dinner, but – well, it’s fourteen years!’ Ness is pleased with herself. Has she done this because she knows I’ll hate it, or do I just think that because I know I deserve to be punished?

The waitress arrives, places the cake reverentially in the centre of the table, arranges a knife, two plates, and there it is: ‘George & Ness’ entwined in dark chocolate italics across a slab of white chocolate atop the cake. Naff, naff, naff.

‘Congratulations,’ says the waitress. ‘Happy anniversary.’

Our fellow diners turn quietly back to their own dinners.

‘Shall I?’ I ask, picking up the knife.

‘Just a little.’

I cut two slices, one marginally smaller than the other, and pass one to Ness.

‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

‘Happy anniversary. Another year survived.’ Ness laughs.

‘It’s good,’ she says, after tasting the cake, and she’s right – it is. Gooey, moist and utterly delicious. I wolf it down.

‘Did you ever imagine we’d get to fourteen years?’ Ness asks.

I look at her. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘It’s not that difficult. Back then – when we were eighteen – did you ever imagine us this far down the line? Or did you just think about the present? You know, a bit of fun for the time being. Not really imagine the far distant future?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘What about you? Did you?’

Ness plays with the cake on her plate, pushing it about with her dainty little cake fork. Then she looks up at me.

‘Yes, of course I did. When I got married, I knew – hoped! – it was for life. You don’t enter into marriage imagining it’s not going to be for ever. Do you?’

‘Of course not. So, in answer to your question: yes. I did.’ I smile at her. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

She sighs. ‘Oh nothing.’ She picks up her wine glass and holds it to her cheek before draining it in one. ‘Right, where’s the bathroom?’

While she’s gone, I pull out my phone. I’m desperate to speak to Stell; find out what she’s thinking after last night. The sex blew me away. When I message her, she replies immediately and I type frantically, knowing I only have a couple of minutes. Last night clearly broke some sort of barrier between us but I don’t know if she sees it as a one-off, or the start of something new. I try to lead her on, to goad her into talking about it, but her responses are frustratingly ambiguous. Each reply she sends leaves me desperate for more and, for five, maybe ten, minutes, I lose track of where I am and why. When I look up from the screen, I realise that Ness hasn’t come back.

Gotta go, I type reluctantly to Stell, while hoping that my disappearing might leave her wanting more, then I stand and look around for Ness. I can’t see her in the dining room, so I push open the door to the deck and see her, finally, standing at the railings, staring out at the water. She looks completely, unbearably, alone.

I slip my arms around her waist from behind, getting a face full of hair as I do so, and squeeze her against me, feeling the softness of her waist, where it dips in under her breasts.

‘Hey, gorgeous. Do you come here often?’ I whisper in her ear, as I nibble her ear lobe. She’s stiff for a moment and then I feel her relax into me.

‘I was waiting for you,’ I tell her, but she sighs and closes her eyes.

‘I needed some air,’ she says.

‘It’s lovely out here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. London’s so beautiful. You get such a different perspective from the river.’

I rest my chin on her shoulder so my eyes are the same level as hers and I get the same view she’s getting. She’s right. London is beautiful at night. The moon’s not quite full and it reflects off the water as the boat moves along, barely breaking the surface. We stand in silence for a few minutes and suddenly I’m imagining that it’s Stell in my arms, not Ness. That we’ll go home together and it’s Stell I’ll make love to, Stell who’ll be the mother of my child. Oh God, could that ever be possible?

‘I love you, Mrs Wolsey,’ I say.

Ness gives a tiny laugh. ‘I love you too, Mr Wolsey.’

‘We’ll be docking soon,’ I say. ‘Come inside. Let’s have coffee.’

We walk back in with our arms around each other.

THIRTEEN

Stella

The evening in the pub with George is the beginning, of course, of an affair. More than that: a love affair.

But, love or no love, it means the start of a series of meetings in discreet London hotels. For my own convenience as much as for his, I stop asking George to come all the way to Hampstead. We start meeting in central London. Snatched moments: lunchtimes; afternoons. We have our favourite meeting places as well as what rapidly becomes a ‘regular’ little boutique hotel in Mayfair, where we act out the pretence that we’re married. The hotel realises, I imagine, what’s really going on, but the staff play along happily enough. George buys a second phone; pays cash at the hotel. If it wasn’t such a cliché, it might be funny.

I’m surprised by how right everything feels. For the first time since I was a teenager, I slowly give myself up to love, enjoying the feeling of well-being with which it infuses me; lapping up the knowledge that I am loved.

But there’s a sticking point. An elephant in the room.

He’s not mine.

I try not to think about Ness. I’m not the one, after all, who stood at the altar and promised to be faithful. I don’t know how George does it, but, if I concentrate hard enough, if I squeeze my eyes shut when I’m lying in his arms and if I focus on the rhythm of his breathing and inhale the scent of his skin, I can just about pretend that Ness doesn’t exist; I can force her from my mind and inhabit a world in which, for an hour or two, for a stolen evening here and there, it’s just George and me.