The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria
calculations I’d done to work out how much rent George and I could afford depending on what our starting salaries might be; and then – I know it’s coming before I get there – the page of signatures I’d practised.
Stella Wolsey. Stella Wolsey. Stella Wolsey. SW. SW. SW.
A double-page spread of looping, blue-ink Stella Wolsey.
Lying back on my pillows, I let the book drop and exhale slowly.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about George. Yes, I see the odd thing in the paper about the success of his advertising firm, about the good deeds his company does, but it’s not as if I sit there and read them word for word. I’m interested, but not that interested. That boat has sailed.
I let the memories wash over me. George and Stella. We go back to 1987. Picture two mums at a school coffee morning, keen to make friends. Two mums whose five-year-olds are thrown together through their mums’ friendship. George – my first school friend. George holding my hand as we walk into school each day. George playing with me, standing up for me, choosing me to be his partner for everything. George and Stella; Stella and George. And me taking his friendship for granted. All the push and shove, the posturing and the fights of the junior school playground passing me by as George takes care of me.
Passing the 11+ together. Getting into the same school. Laughing at our new uniforms, our blazer sleeves too long, my shoes looking ridiculously big at the end of my skinny legs. Me knocking for George in the mornings, us doing our homework together on the bus, George’s hand touching mine as we work out our maths problems, check each other’s answers, and test each other on our French vocabulary. And then, from the bus stop, going our separate ways at school: for the first time ever, in separate classes, with separate friends, but still looking out for each other; still caring.
I suppose it was inevitable I’d think he was mine. A part of me probably always thought we’d end up together. And, as we turned fifteen, I started to see George in a different light. He was handsome, strong, popular. A party was the turning point; Sophie’s sixteenth birthday. In a dark living room full of couples slow-dancing, smooching and kissing, George grabbed my hand and pulled me close, his warm hands inside my top, sliding over my skin. I could smell beer on his breath, taste cigarettes as, for the first time, his mouth found mine.
‘Come on, Stell. Come upstairs with me,’ he’d whispered, his voice thick with beer. ‘I want you.’ And I’d gone. Just like that. I let him lead me by the hand up the stairs to Sophie’s brother’s bedroom, peel off my jeans and take my virginity on a pile of coats.
And from then on George and I both were and were not a couple. We didn’t date – we didn’t ever speak of what we did – but, at every party, study date or get-together at which we found ourselves, I let him take me upstairs. In my mind we were a couple. It was never official. It was never, like, ‘George & Stell’ but everyone knew, of course they did: how could they not?
‘I love you, Stell,’ George would moan, burying his head in my shoulder as he came inside me on Friday night and Saturday night, sometimes on Tuesday night or Thursday night, or behind the Art block on a Wednesday lunchtime, too. ‘You’re the best.’ And I was happy with my lot: studying for my exams, being quietly adored by George.
But, while I assumed our love would take on the natural trajectory of an adult relationship – assumed that George and I would stay together, make it official, get married, have children – what actually happened was that I got pregnant, and George fell for Ness.
Pretty, sexy, bubbly Ness.
Lying back on my pillows, I close my eyes. The phone pings but I ignore it. I need to open this box of memories; the one I sealed tightly aged eighteen. I need to see how I feel about it now.
George didn’t want to know.
I recall the smell of the clinic. The terror of walking in alone and telling the nurse I was pregnant. I flinch as I feel the cold smear of gel on my belly and the probe moving over my skin.
‘Eight weeks,’ the nurse had said. ‘That’s good.’
It didn’t take long. I remember the ceiling. Forty-six tiles. I didn’t even stay overnight; just told my parents I was shopping in London. Hobbled home pale and shaky, pretended I had an upset stomach and went to bed for the rest of the day.
Done and dusted.
Meanwhile, George and Ness… love’s young dream.
Allegedly.
The phone rings and who knows why I do, but I pick up.
I’m awake before the alarm, a ball of morning energy. While Ness stretches luxuriously, her hair cascading over the pillows like some fairy-tale princess, I leap out of bed and zip downstairs to make the coffee, singing out loud as I take the steps two at a time.
‘Morning, darling,’ I say, bounding back upstairs, presenting the cup to Ness like a trophy. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Oh wow,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did someone win the lottery?’
‘Nothing! I just felt like spoiling my lovely wife. What’s wrong with that?’ I lean down and kiss her forehead. In the bathroom, I take a sip of my coffee and look at my reflection in the mirror: not bad for thirty-three – I regularly get mistaken for much younger. I like to think the boyish light is still in my eyes, and that the lines that are slowly starting to appear add character rather than age. I smile at myself, pleased with the decision I made to get my teeth professionally whitened. It really does make a difference. I run a hand through the hair on my temples, turning so the light catches it: there’s no grey there yet, but I’m not scared of the day it does start to appear: I’ve always fancied being a silver fox; a bit of a George Clooney. I rub the bristles on my jawline – even though I haven’t shaved for a couple of days, there’s no grey there, either – then I gently massage a few drops of shaving oil all over my face, to pep up the circulation and plump up my skin.
I can’t stop whistling in the shower, then, with the towel slung around my hips, I pull out my best suit and newest shirt. I match my cufflinks to my shirt and agonise over my tie: bold and bright, or classic? I hold each up in turn, turning this way and that to see which best brings out the light in my eyes. I suppose it’s not surprising that Ness looks up from her own mirror.
‘Important meeting?’ she asks, head cocked to one side, hairdryer in hand.
‘Yep. Which tie?’
She points to the bright one. ‘Need me for lunch?’
‘Oh – thanks, but no. It’s pretty much in the bag.’
‘OK.’ She shrugs and turns back to her hair but I can tell from the jerkiness in her movements that she’s thinking; irked perhaps. She usually comes to these lunches: I joke that she’s my client-magnet, though we both know she’s really just an ornament at the table. I tut silently to myself, my head in the wardrobe as I look for my belt: Didn’t think that one through, did you, George? I slide my belt through its loops and fasten it, then I go over to Ness and put my hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror. She puts down the hairdryer and her eyes meet the reflection of mine.
‘It’s a cert. I didn’t want to bore you with it.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yep.’ She fiddles with a pot on the dressing table, unscrewing and screwing its cap. Then she sucks her teeth. ‘Will you be late tonight?’
I turn and cross the room, my back to her as I pick up my suit jacket and slip it on, find my wallet and slide it into my trouser pocket.
‘’Fraid so. Didn’t I mention it?’
‘No.