The One That Got Away

‘You’re happy about this?’ she asks.

‘Of course I’m happy! Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ I swear I want a baby more than she does; I long to see that little crumpled face that looks like a brand-new, old-age version of me. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it! You clever thing! How?’

‘George! You know exactly how!’

‘But – when?’

‘You remember that night your client cancelled? I reckon it was then.’

‘But why now?’

‘Oh I don’t know, George! Stop analysing it! Maybe the time’s right. Maybe the stars aligned and a pink unicorn sprinkled some fairy dust over our house. I don’t know.’

I look at her and maybe I’m imagining it but already there seems to be a radiance about her. Suddenly I feel very protective of her. She’s carrying the most precious cargo in the world: my child.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to bed. You need your sleep now, more than ever. You both do.’ I take her hand and lead her up to the bedroom where we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

At the very back of my mind, behind everything else, just one dark cloud: Stell.

SEVENTEEN

Stella

I don’t contact George again after my birthday. He texts a little – though not as much as I’d have imagined, to be honest – but I delete his messages as soon as they come in, without even reading them. Was he the one let down on his birthday? Humiliated in front of strangers?

Instead, I spend all weekend alone. When the chips are down, you can rely only on yourself in this life. Remember that! I tell myself. Walking on the heath and passing time in coffee shops, I take the full blame for the debacle of my birthday night and berate myself with every step. George was played by Ness. This I see, and he’s an idiot not to see. But there’s a reason why I never get involved with married men and it’s just as valid with George as it is with anyone else. Yes, he was my George and yes, he should be my George, but he’s married. End of.

‘It’s sleazy, Stella, it’s seedy and it’s not you!’ I say out loud lying on my sofa on Sunday afternoon. ‘I don’t care who he is, it stops now.’ I get out my old notebook with the wedding dresses and the signatures and throw it in the bin without looking at it, then I toast my decision with a glass of good wine and some olives and start to feel a little better.

By the time I return to work early on Monday morning, I’m almost myself again, excited about what the coming working week will bring as I head towards the office, and then I see him – George – standing outside the office door looking absolutely freezing despite his winter coat. My first instinct is to run into his arms, then I remember what he did and I want to dodge him and walk the other way but he’s looking out for me and already he’s seen me. I stop and look at him.

‘What brings you here?’

He takes a step towards me, his hands held out. ‘Stella. Stell. Please.’ I notice that his knuckles are rudely red next to the white of his fingers. His nose, too, is red, and his face is pinched with cold. He stamps his feet on the pavement, his breath coming out in clouds.

‘Please what?’ I say.

‘Please don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this!’

‘I’m not being like anything. I’m just trying to unlock the office. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I have a company to run – as do you.’ While I fumble for the keys in my bag, George tries to pull me round and hug me but I stand stiffly, my face averted. He lets his arms drop.

‘I’m sorry about your birthday,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am, but I couldn’t help it.’

‘OK,’ I say, unlocking the door. ‘Have a good day.’

‘Is this it?’ he asks. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ His voice is sodden with sadness and something catches in my chest.

I turn to face him. ‘How’s Ness?’

A micro-pause. ‘She’s much better, thanks.’

‘What was wrong?’

‘She was sick. Vomiting. A bug, I guess.’

‘Did you see her throw up?’

George flinches. ‘What?’

‘She wished me a happy birthday on Facebook that morning. She said, “hope you’re having a lovely evening – kiss, kiss”.’

‘You can’t read anything into that!’

I shrug. ‘Whatever.’

‘She was sick, Stell. Don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’ I know it sounds arrogant to assume that Ness feigned sickness to stop him seeing me on my birthday – especially when she doesn’t know about our affair – but I know I’m right.

‘You know she’s already warned me off you?’ I say. ‘She called me after the reunion. Did you know that?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. She’s not stupid. Did you actually see her throw up? Did you see vomit come out of her mouth? Even once?’

George shakes his head slowly. ‘Look. Whatever you’re implying, you’re wrong. Trust me.’

We stare at each other and I realise there’s something he’s not telling me; that there’s more to this and that, in our little trio, I’m the only one who doesn’t know. I look away.

‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ness, and I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But just know that she’s manipulating you. Don’t be gullible. That’s all I’m saying.’

Saying the words out loud, I feel so mean; so petty. ‘Why am I even standing here on the pavement discussing with you whether or not your wife was sick? The point is you say I’m your “everything” but I’m not. Not at all. I’m only your “everything” when it suits you. As I said before, it’s not who I am. This is not my life and I will not continue like this!’ I’m embarrassed to realise I’m shouting.

‘Stell. I’m sorry. I stuffed up.’ He’s scuffing the pavement with his toe.

‘Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Now I have to get to work. Have a good day.’

I give George a peck on his cold cheek, then I open the door and step inside the office reception. I try to shut the door behind me but he holds it.

‘Stell, please.’

We tussle for a moment and, again, I’m struck with how undignified this is. Never in my life have I aspired to be a woman who tussles with her lover on the doorstep of her office. I peel George’s cold fingers off the door.

‘Let go, please, George. I need to get into work. Goodbye.’

I shut the door in his face.

EIGHTEEN

George

Stell stops taking my calls and refuses to answer my messages. She doesn’t even check Facebook – all my messages sit there unread. It’s as if she’s blocked me from her life – and of course that makes me desperate. Like an addict, I check all my social media obsessively, monitoring whether or not she’s online. If she is, I never catch her.

So I try to focus on Ness, but the initial excitement about the pregnancy starts to wear thin: she’s capricious, sick a lot, tired all the time, and lets me know in no uncertain terms that I can forget about sex until she starts to feel better. It’s too early for a scan so we don’t even have one of those grainy pictures to look at. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

Meantime, on the long evenings in front of the television when Ness is in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Stell. Do I love her? I want her. I want to possess her. I want to be the most important thing in her life. I need to be the most important thing in her life; I need her to look at me as if I’m her sun, her moon and her stars. I’m obsessed with her. Is that love? I think so.

And then another thought: what if it was Stell, not Ness, having my baby? The thought makes me catch my breath. I close my eyes and imagine me and Stella in bed, my hands sliding over the tautness of her swollen belly, feeling the movements of my child under her skin. I imagine making love gently, gently to a pregnant Stella.

I’m not religious, but I say a little prayer. Please, God. Somehow.

And then reality slams me in the face. The love of my life is expecting me to leave my wife, but my wife is pregnant. I know I’ve sunk low sometimes, but leaving a pregnant woman? I can’t do it.

So what can I do? How can I buy myself time?

Could I tell Stell that Ness is sick? Something that means I have to stay with her for a few more months to ‘support’ her and ‘help’ her? I stare blankly into the middle distance, tapping my forehead as I work through my ideas. If Ness was allegedly going for regular treatments, I could even come to her antenatal appointments. I’d come out of it smelling like roses on both sides.

And then the solution hits me: cancer.

A curable one, of course: I wouldn’t want to give Stell the impression Ness is dying. I don’t want to tempt fate. But yes: cancer’s a good bet. A small one, caught early but requiring seven or eight months of treatment.

Sad face: I’m so sorry, Stell, but I can’t leave her right now.

Yes, it’s perfect. I give myself a silent high-five.

And so, I wait outside Stell’s office again. All afternoon, I sit in the Greek-run sandwich shop across the road, one eye on my coffee, one on the office door. But, as afternoon turns to evening and darkness sets in, I start to wonder if she’s even there. Then, around eight, just as I’m about to give up, I see the door open and, finally, it’s her. I sprint across the street.

‘Stell!’

‘How long have you been waiting?’ Stell locks the office door as she speaks, her eyes not meeting mine.

‘Since half-four.’ I nod at the sandwich shop. ‘I was in there quite a bit. Great coffee. Kept me awake.’ Instinctively, I reach to touch her arm, but she jerks it away from me and starts to walk down the pavement towards the Tube station. I dash to catch up.

‘Stell. Wait!’

‘What? I told you how it’s going to be. I don’t do affairs.’

‘I know. Please come with me. Come for a quick drink. I need to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘About stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you. About Ness.’

She stops and turns, a flash of hope in her face. ‘What is it? Have you left her?’

I swallow. ‘Not here. Come with me.’ I tug at her arm, and am surprised that she lets me guide her by the elbow to the nearest bar. We stand awkwardly as I order drinks. Below ground is a second bar that’s quieter. Like a couple on a first date, we each carry our own glass down the spiral staircase, and I lead Stell over to a table. We’re the only people there yet suddenly the room seems tiny – claustrophobic – and the walls close in on me, the paint a dark red that makes me think of torture, burning and hellfire.

We settle, then I pick up my drink, well aware that, should she ever find out about Ness’s pregnancy or my lies, it could very well be the last time I ever have a drink with her. I look at her: at her glossy hair, her eyes, the cool paleness of her skin, the long legs slanted to cross under the table. I stare at her, taking it all in: I can’t lose her. I can’t.

Neither can I tell her the truth.

I lift my glass. ‘Cheers.’

We clink glasses but Stell puts hers straight back down. She’s on the edge of her seat, her coat still on, a smile playing around those gorgeous lips.

‘So. Tell me,’ she says. ‘What about you and Ness?’ Her tone is playful and I know she’s waiting for me to say that I’ve left her; that I’ve moved out and started divorce proceedings.

I rub the back of my neck. ‘Stell. This time without you has been hell. It’s made me realise that it’s you I love; it’s you I want to spend the rest of my life with.’

She raises her eyebrows at me but doesn’t say anything. I have her attention. I drop my voice and reach for her hand. ‘I want everything with you: the wedding, the house, growing old together… you know it was always supposed to be…’

‘A baby?’ Her voice is a whisper. ‘Do you want a baby with me?’

I close my eyes. ‘Yes. I want to have a baby with you.’

Stell sits perfectly still. I can see she’s holding her breath. I pull her into my arms and stroke her hair. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you in my life. We’ll make it happen, I promise.’ I pause. ‘Please remember that. Because there’s something else I have to tell you. And it’s not good.’

She exhales. ‘OK?’

‘I’m going to leave Ness. That is one hundred per cent certain.’ I pause. ‘But the bad news is it might take a bit longer than I thought.’

‘How come?’ Stell takes a sip of her drink and puts her glass down hard. A little wine slops onto the table. I stare at the splash on the dark wood of the table, and then I start to speak in a monotone.

‘She found a lump in her breast. She’s had a mammogram and a scan and it’s not looking good.’

‘Oh my God.’ Stell presses her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘The doctor was very concerned,’ I say. ‘They’re going to do a biopsy.’ Stell’s hanging on to my every word.

‘We’re hoping it’s early stages,’ I say, almost convincing myself. ‘But the main thing is, she’s in the right hands now.’ I hope she doesn’t question me further. What I’ve now said is the sum total of my knowledge about breast cancer.

Stell’s nodding. ‘That’s good. There’s a good chance of beating it if you catch it early.’

‘I know. I’m trying to keep her spirits up but obviously there are a lot of unknown quantities at this stage. The point is I just feel I would be a real schmuck to leave her right now. I just couldn’t live with myself. I think the doctor said that if treatment was needed, it would likely go on for a few months. So I need to be around for a while longer. Take her to appointments and look after her if she’s sick at home. She’s got no one else.’

As I say this, I’m thinking ahead to when the baby’s born. Then what will I do? I’ll worry about that later. Solutions always magic up from somewhere. The point is that, for now, I’ve staved off a crisis. And Stell is reacting just as I hoped she would.

‘Is this why you couldn’t come for my birthday?’

I nod. ‘Exactly. She’d just found out. She was in pieces. Understandably.’

She puts her hand on mine. ‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I get it. You’d be a monster not to stay.’

‘Thank you, princess,’ I say. ‘Just say you’ll be there for me. Say you want me. That’s all I need to hear from you. We’ll get through this, I promise.’ I lift her chin so I’m staring into her eyes.

‘Yes,’ Stell whispers, and I touch my lips to hers.

‘I love you,’ she says.

Bullet dodged, Wolsey. Bullet dodged.

NINETEEN

Stella

I practically skip to the Tube station. OK, I feel bad for Ness, but I don’t have the slightest doubt she’ll make a full recovery. As George says, she caught it early and she’s getting treatment. Knowing George, it will be with the best private doctors around.

But the news about Ness pales into insignificance when I think about the other things that George said. As I strap-hang home, the train throwing me about as it speeds through its tunnels, I’m barely aware of my surroundings. All I can think of is George’s words.

I want to have a baby with you.

These are the words I longed to hear, alone in my bedroom at eighteen with a ball of cells multiplying in my belly. They’ve been a long time coming and they fall on me like balm, unlocking something that lies deep inside me. While I try consciously not to nourish it, this seed George has planted starts to take root.

I want to have a baby with you.

I push it away but it comes back, bigger and stronger:

I want to have a baby with you.

*

We’re soon running at full speed again. If George is attending appointments with Ness, he shields me from them. We barely speak about her, and he never misses dates he’s arranged with me. Meanwhile, since the night he told me about her lump, something’s changed: we’re closer. I no longer feel like a mistress stealing moments, but a wife-in-waiting. We make love with our eyes open, drinking in each other’s face, and I feel like I can see into George’s soul. I feel myself softening; a sense of ice melting. I’m less obsessive at work – I delegate more while I let myself daydream about what it might be like to have a family.

Even George notices a difference in me. I’m kinder, more pliable and I start to feel that this life, this love, really could be mine. It’s like a shedding of layers – the layers of protection I’ve worn since the day George walked out on me. I start smiling at strangers. I find myself looking at other people’s children, noticing for the first time not their raucous screams but the joy in their smiles, the pearly whiteness of their tiny teeth and the pudginess of their squidgy little hands.

One lunchtime I’m in Boots, being jostled by the lunchtime crowd. The heating’s up too high; industrial fans are blasting hot air into the store. I’m sweating under my coat and suit, the air’s too dry on my skin, and my hair’s gone static. I find myself in the vitamins section. Before I know it, I’m holding a jar of folic acid supplements in my hand and wondering if I should buy them. I feel naughty, like I’m a teenager caught by my mum with a packet of condoms in my hand. Folic acid is for those respectable women who plan babies – to date it’s never featured in my life plans, but George’s words have pierced me deep inside: I can’t stop thinking about getting pregnant and, if I have a baby, I want it to have the best chances in life. I’m passionate about this: an apology, perhaps, to the baby whose life I prevented from starting.

I stand still, people pushing past me down the narrow aisle, and I remember the feeling of those first days of pregnancy: the tingling breasts, the unshakeable feeling that there was something growing in my belly. Back then, it caused nothing but horror but, now, I long to feel it again. I smile to myself: this time I’ll do it right. I put the tablets in my basket and take them to the checkout, where I catch the cashier’s eye. She doesn’t say anything, but she smiles, and I know she knows. I feel like I’m joining a secret club.

Maybe now the time is right.

TWENTY

George

Stell’s late to our hotel one day and I loiter about the room wondering what to do. It crosses my mind to wait, naked, on the bed but, as I’m undoing my trousers, I think maybe that’s too presumptuous. So I stand at the window, watching the street below, but the angle’s not right for me to see the hotel entrance so I can’t see if she’s arriving.

Time stretches. I make an espresso, clicking a pod into the machine and inhaling the aroma as the machine vibrates and coffee splashes into the cup. When I hear the click of the door – half an hour late – I’m pacing the room. I turn and catch my breath as she wafts in: that face; that hair; those eyes; those lips – where Ness has curves, Stell is all drama, edges and adrenalin. My cock stiffens.

‘Princess!’ I cross the room in two strides and stop in front of her. She makes no apology, no explanation, for her tardiness – neither do I want her to. We stand, centimetres apart, for a moment, taking each other in, then I lean in, push her hair back from her face and kiss her softly on the lips. ‘How are you?’

She doesn’t reply, just steps around me without speaking and starts to undress, slowly removing her clothes in what I’m sure is a tease show until she’s left only in stockings and heels. Then she lies back on the bed and starts to touch herself, her hands sliding over and into the flesh I’m desperate to taste. All the while she does it, she’s watching me with her eyes half closed, moaning. I move to join her, my hands on my belt buckle, but she shakes her head.

‘Oh no. Not yet.’

Dear God, she makes me watch until I can’t bear it, then, finally, she rolls onto her front and slips a pillow under her hips.

‘Fuck me.’

I realise, as I come, gasping, inside her, that in the heat of the moment I forgot to use a condom.

As we lie together afterwards, I stroke her taut belly, so different to Ness’s, which, while I can’t yet feel the bump, is starting to thicken. ‘Oh God, Stell, I’m so sorry.’

She smiles. ‘Are you really? You said you wanted a baby with me.’

Before I can reply, she jumps out of bed and heads into the bathroom and I lie there contemplating how I’d cope with both my wife and my lover pregnant. If you sat me down and made me pick one of them at this point, I’m pretty sure I’d pick Ness. Not so much through love but because she’s carrying my child and it’s the right thing to do. Just think of the bad press I’d get for leaving her pregnant. But, wow, if Stell was pregnant too, it would change everything. The thought is both terrifying and and exciting.

I’m this far into my thoughts when she reappears wrapped in a towel. I watch as she steps back into her clothes. She sits on the edge of the bed as she rolls her stockings back up her legs – usually she makes a show of it for me – it’s often a sticking point that delays my return to the office but today she does it matter-of-factly, turning her body so I can’t see the stretch of her legs as she eases the stockings up her thighs and I wonder if she’s cross with me about the condom; if it’s reminded her of that awful time when we were eighteen. Sometimes she’s so difficult to read. She re-buttons her blouse and slips back into her skirt. Then she stands in front of the mirror and puts her hair back up ready to return to the office. I’m still naked on the bed watching her – drinking her in – my hands behind my head.

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