The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

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       EIGHTEEN: George

       NINETEEN: Stella

       TWENTY: Stella

       TWENTY-ONE: George

       TWENTY-TWO: Stella

       TWENTY-THREE: George

       TWENTY-FOUR: George

       TWENTY-FIVE: Stella

       TWENTY-SIX: George

       TWENTY-SEVEN: Stella

       TWENTY-EIGHT: George

       TWENTY-NINE: Stella

       THIRTY: Stella

       THIRTY-ONE: George

       THIRTY-TWO: Stella

       THIRTY-THREE: George

       THIRTY-FOUR: Stella

       THIRTY-FIVE: George

       THIRTY-SIX: Stella

       THIRTY-SEVEN: George

       PART III

       ONE: Stella

       TWO: George

       THREE: Stella

       FOUR: George

       FIVE: Stella

       SIX: George

       SEVEN: Stella

       EIGHT: George

       NINE: Stella

       TEN: George

       ELEVEN: Stella

       TWELVE: George

       THIRTEEN: Stella

       FOURTEEN: George

       FIFTEEN: George

       SIXTEEN: Stella

       SEVENTEEN: George

       EIGHTEEN: George

       NINETEEN: George

       TWENTY: Stella

       TWENTY-ONE: George

       Acknowledgements

       Copyright

PART I

ONE

       Stella

      ‘Just give me five minutes,’ I tell the cabbie as we pull up outside the wine bar.

      ‘First date?’

      ‘School reunion.’

      He winces, cheeks sucked in. ‘Rather you than me. Take as long as you like, love. It’s your money.’ He unfurls the Evening Standard across the steering wheel and hunkers down in his seat. Above my head, the meter blinks and I stare at the glass frontage of the bar. I’m out on a limb, far from my comfort zone, and unfamiliar these days with this regenerated area south of the river. But I was born not far from here: it should feel like coming home, not entering a different country.

      Outside, there’s a drizzle falling. Behind the windows of the bar, I can see the rain-smeared shapes of people standing: bright colours, short dresses, high heels. It’s hard to tell if these people are even part of the reunion – how would I know what my schoolmates look like now; what fifteen years has done to their faces and silhouettes? Still, short dresses don’t seem the ticket. I’m in jeans, heels, cashmere. Neutral colours; no effort.

      Tyres swish as cars pass by on the wet street and I think for a second about telling the cabbie I’ve made a mistake; got the wrong night. Whatever bravado it was that made me click ‘going’ on the school reunion page is now long gone. What am I doing here? I blame it on Martin Johnson: it’s he who thought up the reunion; he who set up the Facebook page that brought life to this freak show, but the irony is I don’t even remember who he is.

      For the hundredth time, I try out the sound of his name on my tongue. Quite possibly it’s a name I used to know; to hear; to say on a regular basis. Did СКАЧАТЬ