The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ