The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

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      ‘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…’

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