The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria
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.
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.