The One That Got Away

I can lie entwined with George, and imagine that he really is mine.

As he always should have been.

I try not to dwell on how right I feel in George’s arms; about how our bodies remember from all those years ago how well they fit together. I really try not to. I throw myself into work; I have client meetings, I’m driving our expansion into corporate clients. It’s during this period that I land some brilliant new accounts. People notice. Professionally, I’m on fire.

But then, insidiously, the alien feeling that I no longer want to be alone creeps into my consciousness like the lavender-infused curls of steam I’m watching rise above my bath one evening. I’ve a glass of wine balanced on the edge of the tub and the radio on a chill-out station – this bath routine is my favourite part of the day, but tonight there it is: the notion that it would be absolutely right for George to be pottering about in the bedroom. Just like that, the thought pops into my head and then, once it’s thought, I can’t un-think it. I sink under the surface of the water and imagine George coming into the bathroom; I imagine him plucking a warm towel off the rack and holding it out to me. Me stepping into it, George enveloping me with it, then scooping me up and carrying me into the bedroom and, as I imagine this scene, my whole body relaxes.

But this – this feeling that George should not just be in my apartment but in my life – is disconcerting. I’m a loner. Don’t get me wrong: I can deal with people well enough but, at the end of the day, I like my own space. Sharing my life is not something I’ve dreamed of since I was eighteen years old: ironically enough, not since I was a schoolgirl imagining her life with George Wolsey – and that was presumably just because I knew no better. It’s quite ridiculous if I think about it that, aged thirty-three, I’ve gone full loop. I have to be careful when I’m at work, not to daydream of how this life together might play out, but I’m not very successful. Like a creeping fog, George seeps into my day-to-day thoughts.

I picture a house in the country. Not an old heap with rattly single-glazing and leaky pipes but a barn conversion, perhaps, modernised inside. Lots of light and space; the kitchen glossy white; an office for each of us to work from home a couple of days a week. I’ve always wanted to write a book. The business is ticking over nicely. I could easily take a step back and make time to write. I see myself facing an expansive view of green fields; sucking the end of a pen as I think about my next sentence. But I also picture a small cottage by the sea, roses tangled around peeling blue window frames; a golden retriever running ahead of George and I on the cold, hard sand. Sometimes I imagine a luxury apartment on the river, its picture windows overlooking the glittering lights of the Thames as George and I stand on the terrace on a Friday evening nursing ice-cold gin and tonics. It doesn’t matter, I realise, where we live: the important ingredient of this fantasy is George. George and Stell, back together, growing old together. George and Stell together for ever.

Trying to focus on my work, I see George, in jeans and a black sweater, padding into my home office mid-morning with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and ‘that’ look in his eye… I snap my attention back to the computer screen but it’s minutes before my mind wanders again, this time down the corridor of the barn conversion, to an annexe off our bedroom where there might be… I breathe in deeply – it’s not too late!… a little nursery. White, with accents of colour. Blue or pink? I don’t mind.

I don’t know what sex our baby would have been.

I like to think a boy. A tiny version of George, his face crumpled and new.

But I’m no marriage-wrecker. Walk away, I tell myself. Walk away now.

FOURTEEN

George

We meet, one night, for dinner. An unobtrusive restaurant that I know, with lighting so low it takes a minute for our eyes to adjust, and a lot of red velvet and ostentatious décor. There aren’t many tables, but plenty of very private booths. At first glance, the restaurant doesn’t look busy but, as we walk through, it becomes apparent that almost all of the booths contain couples – many of them, I imagine, here purely to snatch time away from prying eyes. It’s that kind of place to be honest: much as I’d love to show off that I’m with Stell, I’m hardly in a position to go somewhere conspicuous – not with the chance that I might be recognised.

Stell’s energy is off-kilter tonight; nothing I can put my finger on – she’s just not her usual self. I follow her into our booth, squishing onto the bench seat alongside her, and my hand finds its usual place on her leg under the table. I stroke up and down her thigh through the thin fabric of her skirt, feeling the line of her stocking as the waitress asks if we’d like any drinks to start.

‘Champagne!’ I say, pointing to a good label on the wine list.

‘Champagne?’ Stell raises her eyebrows at me once the waitress has gone.

‘What?’ I raise mine back at her, mock innocence.

‘Are we celebrating something?’

I put my hand on the side of Stell’s face, pull her towards me and touch my lips to hers. The scent of her makes me tremble with the memory of being inside her.

‘Us,’ I say. ‘We’re celebrating us.’

She pulls away just enough so her lips move against my mouth.

‘There is no “us”, George,’ she says quietly. ‘You know that.’

I kiss her again, tasting her bottom lip with the tip of my tongue. ‘But there is. We’re here. Now. Or am I dreaming?’

She pulls away properly this time; smooths my hand off her skirt, suddenly prim. ‘George. Please. You and me? We’re an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. We don’t exist in the outside world.’

I smile. ‘Of course we do. We’re here, aren’t we?’ I pinch my arm. ‘Ouch. See?’

Stell sighs and shakes her head. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Here we are!’ says the waitress, presenting the champagne bottle with a flourish. I nod. ‘Would you like me to open it?’

‘Yes please,’ I say, and we watch patiently while she fiddles to remove the foil, then twists the bottle until the cork works its way loose. She pops it discreetly, then carefully fills two flutes, making sure they don’t bubble over. I slip my hand back onto Stell’s leg under the table and give it a squeeze, but she doesn’t look at me.

‘I’ll just get a cooler for that,’ says the waitress, so we wait, once more, till she’s back and the bottle’s settled in an ice bucket. I pick up a flute and hand it to Stell, then I raise my glass to her.

‘To us.’

‘To smoke and mirrors, and the illusion of us,’ she says.

I take a sip. ‘One day, Stell. One day we’ll have it all and, together, we’ll be glorious.’ I don’t know where they come from but, once the words are out there, I like them. I give a little nod to confirm I mean them, but Stell rolls her eyes.

‘Oh, spare me the advertising talk. We both know exactly what this is.’ She looks pointedly at the other couples hiding in booths. ‘Let’s not make it out to be more than it is, George. It’s all it ever was with you and me: sex. In secret.’

‘No. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.’

‘How am I wrong? Tell me!’ There’s fire in her eyes; a challenge. ‘Why are we hidden away in this sleazy restaurant? Why aren’t we at the theatre, at some fantastic society party, or out with your friends?’ She slumps back on the seat. ‘You don’t have to answer that. The least you can do is give me the honour of not pretending this is anything more than it is.’

‘But Stell…’ I’m at a loss for words. This was supposed to be a romantic night out, not a battle. I put my hand on hers. ‘Is this our first fight?’

‘It’s not a fight, George. It’s just me calling a spade a spade and you being a prat. I’m under no illusions here.’ She takes a glug of champagne. ‘I’m your mistress. Nothing more.’

‘But…’

‘But what?’ She spins to face me. ‘But you’re going to leave Ness? Oh please! Spare me the crap! It’s not going to happen. Let’s not pretend it is. This—’ she nods her head to the room ‘—this is all we have. All we’ll ever have. This and seedy hotel rooms.’

‘They’re jolly nice hotel rooms!’

‘You know what I mean, “Mr Jones”!’ She pauses, takes a breath and I see she’s summoning her strength. ‘And you know what?’ she says, quieter now; self-assured. ‘I’m worth more than this.’ Another pause. ‘I can’t – I won’t – go on like this.’ A breath. ‘I think we should end it.’

I stare at her, appalled. ‘No. No-no-no. I’ve not got this far with you to end it before it gets off the ground.’

‘What gets off the ground? What exactly? What do you have in mind here? Because I’m not seeing it. I’m seeing you married to Ness and me running around to your beck and call and, frankly, that’s not who I am.’

I take her hand. I can’t lose her now.

‘Stell. Princess. Look at me. Look me in the eye and listen to me. My marriage is dead. It has been for years. Ness and me, we… we live separate lives. We sleep in different rooms.’ I imagine this scenario as I talk, convincing myself as I go that this is how it really is. It’s as if I’m telling a story. ‘Yes! Different rooms. And, if you want to know: it was me who moved out of the bedroom, not her.’

‘Really?’ She wants to believe me. I can see that she really wants to believe me.

‘Anyway, the point is,’ I say, warming to my theme, ‘I want you to know that this is not about you. Yes, you may be the catalyst that makes me actually get up and want to do something about it, but Ness and I started down this road long before you came on the scene; long before the school reunion.’ I laugh. ‘God, Stell. When I saw your name under “Going” – wow. I was like a kid waiting for Christmas to come. And then – seeing you there at the bar! I couldn’t get over to you fast enough.’

‘And then I left.’

I close my eyes, remembering how I’d searched for Stell. How the colour had leached out of the evening when I’d realised that she’d gone. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And then you left.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, and I realise that she’s softening; that I’m starting to win her over. ‘I didn’t know what to make of that “arse” thing,’ she says. ‘I don’t do affairs. I just don’t.’

‘And nor should you, my princess. Listen, sitting here tonight, I promise you it won’t be for much longer. All right? But please don’t leave me. I know it’s not nice, what we’re doing, and I know it’s not “you”. I know you’re worth more, so much more. It’s far from perfect, but it won’t be for ever.’ I lift her chin so I’m looking into her eyes. ‘But what is it they say? All’s fair in love and war?’

She stares at me, her eyes searching mine.

‘Did you say love?’ she whispers.

I kiss my finger and touch it to her lips. ‘Yes, princess,’ I whisper back. ‘I said love.’

God, I’m good.

FIFTEEN

Stella

As far as my colleagues are concerned, there’s nothing unusual about me being the last one left in the office. At 6.15 p.m., my assistant pops her head around the door.

‘Don’t stay too late, birthday girl!’ she says. She hesitates a fraction in the doorway and, although I can see she wants to, she knows better than to ask if I have plans. I wonder if she’s thinking she should invite me out for a drink herself: again, she knows better. The remnants of the birthday cake the team made for me sit on the meeting table.

I smile and shake my head. ‘I won’t. Just finishing up here.’

‘Good. ’Night then!’ she says.

‘’Night.’

I wait for her to leave the building before snapping into action. All day I’ve had an overnight bag stashed under my desk. I take out my make-up bag and, in the bathroom, I go over my face, carefully touching up my foundation, darkening my eyeshadow and, finally, painting my lips siren red. I lock my office door on the way back in, and close all the blinds. My dress – bought specially for the occasion – hangs in a dust cover on the back of the door. Feeling not unlike a schoolgirl changing into her miniskirt in the school loos, I slip out of my suit and pants and into the dress, smoothing it over my bare hips as I step into the shoes I bought to match. Finally, I apply my signature scent to the pulse points on my wrists and throat, then I spray it liberally into the air above my head and let the cloud of fragrance envelop me, scenting my hair and clothes. George has, I know, an exceptional olfactory memory.

Finally, I take a look at my reflection in the glass of the office door and give myself a little nod: I’ll do. It’s the first time I’ve made such an effort specifically for George. But then I’m impressed with the way he’s managed my birthday. First, he remembered. Had he forgotten, I wouldn’t have said a thing – I’m not one to make a fuss of these things – but he remembered. And he’s made all the arrangements for tonight himself.

‘Wear something nice, Stell,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you somewhere special.’

That’s all I could extract from him, even in those vulnerable post-coital moments when his brain turns to mush. I wonder how far this is going. Is tonight to be the night we finally get to sleep a full night in each other’s arms? We’ve talked about it – dreamed about it – yet never done it. Will he manage to get away?

My phone beeps and I see that the car George has arranged to take me to the mystery destination is waiting. I gather up my things and lock the office before slipping into the car.

‘Evening,’ I say to the driver. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’

‘Yep,’ he says, misunderstanding my meaning, and I realise I don’t want him to know that I don’t know where I’m going myself, so I sit silently, trying to second-guess my destination at every junction. The car finally pulls up outside a smart hotel adjacent to Hyde Park.

‘Here we are, miss,’ says the driver. I reach for my purse. ‘Don’t worry. It’s on account,’ he says and I feel a surge of gratitude to George. This is how dating should be. My heels click on the marble as I walk into the lobby and my hair – blow-dried at lunchtime – bounces with every step. I feel like a film star and I’m expecting George to appear stage left or right, beaming and ready to escort me to dinner, but I don’t see him so I wander towards a cluster of tables and perch on a seat, where I people-watch while I wait. Hellos and goodbyes play out; airport taxis pull up and leave; bellboys whisk luggage from car to reception and back again. Aware then that time is passing, I check my watch: 7.20 p.m. The table’s booked for 7.30 and George told me it was important we were on time. I message him but the message isn’t read. I can see that George hasn’t been online for thirty minutes. Is he on the Underground? It seems unlikely; he’s more of a taxi guy. I check my phone obsessively until 7.25, when I stand up and walk over to reception.

‘Hello. You have a restaurant reservation for Stella Simons tonight… can you tell me which restaurant it’s in?’ I love that the receptionist doesn’t raise an eyebrow about why I might have a reservation and not know where: she simply picks up the phone and finds out, then directs me down to the signature restaurant – the one that’s spearheaded by ‘that’ celebrity chef who’s currently generating much buzz and column inches for his unique style. Since I’d arrived at the hotel, I’d hoped it might be that one that George had booked, but I would never presume. Nice.

At the entrance to the restaurant, they’re expecting me.

‘Miss Simons?’ asks the maître d’, then escorts me to an anteroom, where I’m introduced to two well-dressed couples clutching glasses of champagne. Until this moment, I’ve held out hope that maybe George is waiting for me at the restaurant, perhaps with some sort of surprise lined up. The surprise, unfortunately, is that he’s not here. A waiter hands me a flute of champagne.

‘One more guest?’ the maître d’ asks the waiter quietly. He looks at his watch. ‘We wait a few more minutes, but…’

I smile vaguely at the other couples and give a little shrug. It’s not me who’s late.

The maître d’ moves to the front of the room.

‘Welcome to the Chef’s Table experience,’ he says reverentially. ‘Tonight we have for you a very special experience. A unique experience. You will start the evening with a tour of the kitchens, during which you can see and experience for yourselves the high-octane atmosphere of a Michelin-starred kitchen. Then we will take you to the chef’s table where you will be joined by our executive chef, who has prepared a special eight-course tasting menu for your enjoyment. We have, too, a dedicated sommelier for you tonight who has paired each dish with a wine from our cellars.’ The two couples make excited faces at each other and I check my phone one more time: George is still offline. The maître d’ rubs his hands together, then turns to me. ‘Madam… the other guest… your companion… will be here soon?’

I shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I hope so…’ I hold up my phone as if they all can see George is offline. ‘He’s not responding. But he’s never late, so…’

The maître d’ nods. ‘We will wait five minutes.’

The other couples turn to each other and start to make small talk. I put my phone to my ear and move away from the group with a smile, disinterested in where they work and how much they’re looking forward to this evening. While they chat, I pace. Honestly: it’s excruciating. I’m relieved when the maître d’ steps forward with a pained look on his face. He gives a little bow.

‘I hope you don’t mind if we begin. The kitchen is expecting us now and it’s important that we…’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Please. Let’s start. I’m sure my companion will be here any second.’

As we walk around the kitchen, looking into pots and listening to the executive chef detail a little about the history and conception of each dish, my mind’s not on cooking but on George; I’m half expecting his hand on my hip at any moment as he steps up behind me and joins the tour. A shiver runs through me as I picture him realising that I’m not wearing any underwear.

‘This is a recipe I initially learned from my grandmother,’ a chef is telling us as he hands around tiny saucers of rabbit. I throw the morsel in my mouth in one go, registering subconsciously how the meat’s so tender it practically dissolves on my tongue. I’m not a fan of game, but the taste is exquisite. Why isn’t George here? Has something happened to him? He wouldn’t miss an experience like this through choice. He must either be caught up in traffic or some sort of security alert, sick, or have had an accident. I balance my phone in my hand beneath the saucer, waiting to feel the buzz of a message come in, yet I’m surprised when it finally does. Even though the chef is speaking, I ditch the saucer on a countertop and pull up the message. Princess. I’m so sorry. I’m not going to make it. Will make it up to you. Promise. X

The group moves ahead as I type my reply.

What happened? Are you OK?

I’m fine. It’s Ness. She’s sick. I have to go. Will try to message later.

Ness.

My heart’s suddenly hammering and I see red. I know it’s a cliché but I really do. The room seems to recede as my vision clouds. I shove my phone back into my bag without gracing George’s text with a reply, and I go over to the group, a bright smile on my face. I should have been an actress.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say loudly so everyone can hear me over the bustle and noise of the kitchen. ‘I’m going to have to leave. My partner isn’t able to make it after all. Have a lovely evening!’

‘Oh no!’ says one of the women. She turns away from the group and I can see she looks genuinely concerned. But the pity in her eyes hurts me more than George’s no-show. ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she says. ‘You’re here now and we won’t bite!’

‘Well, only the food!’ says the other woman. They giggle.

‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’ll reschedule.’

‘Aww, come on!’ The first woman tries to grab my arm and pull me over but I shrug her off.

‘It’s fine. Really. All the more for you. Have a lovely evening.’

I spin on my heel and leave the kitchen. I stop briefly in the anteroom, where the waiter’s tidying up the champagne glasses.

‘Did my companion guarantee the booking with a credit card?’

‘Yes… yes, it’s policy.’

‘He can’t make it, so please charge whatever cancellation fee you need to his card, thank you.’

‘I’m afraid at such late notice, you will be charged the full price.’ The waiter shakes his head apologetically.

‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘And, while you’re at it, please send the group a bottle of champagne. That one we had earlier? Just add it to the bill, thanks.’

I walk back through the hotel lobby and signal for a black cab, barely registering the activity going on around me. My mind’s racing: I’m remembering Ness’s phone call to me after the reunion; the warning tone in her voice: ‘Will you stay in touch, do you think?’

While the taxi weaves its way through Friday-night London traffic, I open Facebook on my mobile, and there, in among the notifications, I find Ness’s message: ‘Happy birthday, Stella! Hope you’re having a lovely evening! Xx’

Sick? She’s not sick: she’s clever. George! I think. How can you be so gullible? And then, as the taxi draws up outside my apartment block, I remember a simple fact that sends me to the wine bottle before I even take my shoes off: he’s not mine. Ness has every right to pull rank on my birthday because George is not mine.

SIXTEEN

George

When I put the key in the lock, I don’t know whether I’m worried about Ness or angry with her for making me miss Stell’s birthday dinner. I’d told her I had a very important ‘client dinner’.

‘Please can you come?’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been throwing up all day and I… I just need you.’

‘I can’t, hon. I’m sorry, but these people are in town for one night only.’

‘Can you send someone else?’

‘I would if I could, hon, but it’s me they want.’

‘George, please? I need you.’ Her voice was hoarse from vomiting.

‘Is there no one else you can call? Just till I get home?’

She’d gone quiet then, and I’d caught myself: am I such a monster that I won’t go to my sick wife when she needs me? Because I’m out with my lover? I’d paced the office, torn between burning desire to see Stell and the duty I felt to go home to Ness.

‘I’m sorry. Of course I’ll come. You’re right. I’ll get Adam to go to the dinner. I’m sure the client won’t mind and – well, if they do…’

‘. . . if they do, perhaps they’re not the sort of client you want.’

‘Exactly.’

And so I stop at Waitrose on the way home and pick up a bunch of guilt flowers for Ness.

‘Honey!’ I call as I push open the door but there’s no reply. The light’s on in the living room so I look there first and, bingo, there she is, sprawled, fast asleep on the sofa, her hair spread all over the cushions. I stand over her for a minute, wondering whether to wake her up or just make her more comfortable there on the sofa, when I notice something in her hand and my whole body stiffens. A pregnancy test.

‘Oh my God! Ness! Is it? What is it? Are we… ?’ I squeeze my hands into fists, not sure whether to take the test from her hands or wait for her to tell me. Ness’s eyes snap open and she pushes her hair out of her eyes as she struggles to sit up, her hand clamping back around the test. Slowly, she registers me standing there and her face breaks into a huge smile. She holds the test out to me.

‘Here, look.’

‘What is it? What does it mean?’

‘Read it!’

So I look at the test, and I see that it says one word and one word only: ‘Pregnant’.

‘Oh my God! Ness! Does this mean… ?’

She nods.

‘Oh my God! There’s no doubt?’

‘Well. You can get false negatives, but I don’t think you get false positives, so…’

‘I’m going to be a dad?’

‘Yes.’

I fling myself down on the sofa next to her and scoop her into my arms, hugging her to me and kissing her face and her hair. She clings on to me.