The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘No buts. I’m done here.’

FOUR

       Stella

      Back in Hampstead, I wave to the doorman and press the button for the lift. My phone chimes as I step into it and I ignore it: I’ve long stopped bothering to try to get a connection on the ride up to my apartment. The lift pings and I shove the key in my front door and breathe in that familiar bergamot smell of home.

      I kick off my heels and saunter into the bedroom to change before pouring myself a glass of wine and collapsing onto the sofa. The blinds are open and I can see the glittering lights and sodium glow of London stretching beyond the blackness of Hampstead Heath. I lean back and relax, circling my ankles and enjoying being home. My phone chimes again. I look. It’s a Facebook message from George. Two in fact.

      George Wolsey.

      I stare at the name for a minute. I’ve never seen his name on my phone or in my inbox. It used to be letters. Paper envelopes or folded pieces of paper with my name written in his scruffy, boy-writing. Birthday cards. Postcards. Once, a Valentine’s card. The sight of his name in my inbox makes me feel as though we’re travellers – astronauts who’ve made it from a distant galaxy in which technology doesn’t exist.

      Oh, George. Good at school. A sportsman. Quietly good-looking. Average intelligence. Excess confidence. A bit of bluster. He played the game. But even I wouldn’t have picked him out to be the most successful product of our year. He didn’t even go to university – he got offers, yes, but he changed his mind after getting a summer job at an advertising agency. From what I’ve read about him, I imagine that he lived and breathed the business; worked his way up, charming people left, right and centre. And now – now if you sing a tune from an ad – any ad that you hear on television or radio – the chances are that Wolsey Associates is responsible.

      But that’s not why George is in the media; that’s not why we read interviews about him and see the odd picture of him rubbing shoulders with pop stars, artists, ‘it’ girls and actors at various black-tie events. No, what George is most known for these days is the pro bono work and the fundraising initiatives his agency does for children’s charities. It’s all about corporate responsibility for George now. As I said: he plays the game.

      But what game is it he’s playing tonight? I open the first message. Where are you?

      And then the second one. I can’t see you.

      I put the phone down and take another sip of wine. Should I reply? Why not? Why not let him know that I left him? Typing with my thumb, balancing my phone in the same hand, I write back. At home.

      Before I close Facebook and put the phone down, George has answered. You left already? I wanted to see to you.

      You saw me.

      I wanted to speak to you. Properly. Why did you leave?

      ‘None of your business,’ I say to the apartment. I put the phone down and head back to the kitchen for some cheese to accompany my wine. I have a salty Old Amsterdam and some Beaufort D’Ete, which I take out of the fridge almost reverentially. The phone pings again, and then again and again. I take my time cutting the cheese and arranging it on a plate. I pick up a crisp linen napkin and top up my wine glass. Back on the sofa, I put my plate on a side table and pick up my phone.

      Stell?

      Looking good, by the way.

      ‘Gee thanks,’ I say out loud. I think for a minute about sending George a witty reply but decide not to in the end. There’s nothing to be gained from reopening this path of communication. George has been out of my life for fifteen years and I’ve done just splendidly without him.

      I take my cheese and wine into the bathroom and turn on the taps, adding a generous slug of bath oil. I peel off my sweater, my jeans, my underwear and my jewellery and climb into the bath, letting the warm, oily water slide over my skin. I close my eyes and picture the bar I’ve come from this evening. What’s happening at the reunion now? I wonder. Has it become wild, even the quiet ones drunk and dancing, or did everyone leave early, rushing back to partners, children and the thought of an early-morning start for rugby practice? Who’s George talking to? Is he doing the rounds, dutifully remembering everyone’s interests and quirks, or sitting morosely at the bar nursing a whisky as he messages me? And where’s Ness in all this? I sip my wine and enjoy my cheese, happy to be alone in the peace of my bathroom.

      The phone rings: an unknown number. It can only be George. The sod.

      ‘You’re married!’ I tell the phone without connecting the call. I place it on the side of the bath and sink my head below the surface of the water, from where I can no longer hear it ringing.

FIVE

       Stella

      Please pick up. I need to talk to you.

      The message comes in as soon as I turn on my phone the next morning. I put the handset down on the duvet and sigh. George will know, of course, that I’ve read it, thanks to the magic of Facebook. But what’s he after? What’s he looking for? He has everything he could want in terms of success. What does he want with me now, after all these years? I sigh again and pick up the phone. If it were anyone else, any other married man, I wouldn’t have given the message a second look.

      About what? I type. I hesitate, then press send.

      His tiny face appears next to the message immediately: he was watching the screen. Can I call you?

      Another sigh from me. I don’t have the energy for this.

      A pause. We’re worth more than this, Stell. Come on, for old time’s sake.

      Stell.

      I feel like I’m standing on a cliff top, teetering on the brink of something dangerous. I could step back: a part of me is curious, a part of me is defiant and – I close my eyes as I admit this to myself – a part of me is flattered. With a sigh, I twist around and open the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet, groping around underneath the books, the hand creams, the foot lotions and the pedicure socks until I feel and grasp a hardback notebook.

      It’s old and worn, its corners frayed, the spine breaking, yet it’s as familiar to me as my own hand. Slowly, I open it and turn the pages, looking at the pictures I stuck in fifteen years ago, the Sellotape now yellowed and peeling. The wedding dresses – so dated, so naïve – cut out of bridal magazines; the sickly, tiered wedding cakes, dusted with pastel-coloured flowers; the pencil sketches of my dream wedding dress; the photographs of apartments cut from property magazines; the pages of 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.

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