Читать книгу The One That Got Away - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 15

NINE

Stella

Hand on heart, it feels good to walk out on George. It feels like the moment I’ve had coming for the last fifteen years. Admittedly, it’s not as bad as being left pregnant aged eighteen, but leaving him at that table feels symbolic. It feels like retribution. Closure.

I go back to my life, focus on my work, get on with running the little part of the world for which I’m responsible. Occasionally, in spare moments on the Tube or in a taxi queue, I think about George; I practise saying his name in my head and think about what he told me. It takes me time to come to terms with my new knowledge; time to absorb the fact that George didn’t get over me. There was a time when I longed to hear that he loved me, but now the words are out there, rolling around in the present day, they sound wrong. George is married and I’ve moved on. I don’t need George in my life.

But.

This is not any married man we’re talking about. This is George.

My George.

He said we should have had the baby.

I go about my business and I tell myself that it’s all very well that George still feels something for me but that’s his problem, not mine. George is not available, and I don’t do married men. Besides, I’ve made my stance clear: I’ve walked out on him twice now. The serendipity of that is not lost on me.

It could all end there. It should all end there.

But George has both the money and the tenacity for grand gestures. The day after I leave him in the pub, my secretary knocks on my office door. It’s almost lunchtime and my day’s one of pretty much back-to-back meetings. I’ve worked out how much time I need to prepare for each meeting and asked not to be disturbed. I’m irritated when I look up to wave her in. She’s carrying a box out in front of her as if it’s full of live puppies.

‘What is it?’ I’m short with her, trying not to lose the thread of my thoughts.

‘A delivery,’ she says. ‘Gourmet Lunch Co.’

‘Not mine.’ I turn back to the computer.

‘It’s got your name on it.’ She checks the label, reads out my name, company name and address. ‘I’ll leave it here.’ She places it on my desk, along with a set of office cutlery, and leaves.

When the door’s shut, I open the box. The smell that releases makes my mouth water. Inside, there are a couple of chargrilled chicken skewers arranged on a salad of lentil, feta and aubergine.

I turn back to my work and my phone buzzes. George. Did lunch arrive?

My lips twitch. I don’t want to smile, not even to myself, but who bar George would send food to the boss of a catering company? Only he would know me well enough to guess I rarely make time for my own lunch.

Why did you send it?

I want to take care of you.

I don’t need taking care of.

Everyone needs taking care of.

Maybe when I was 18 but not now.

Touché.

I don’t reply.

I’m saying sorry, George types.

I put my phone on silent and get back to work. But George doesn’t stop with one lunch. Food continues to arrive on a daily basis. Once, I pick up the fork, tempted to eat, but there’s something about putting food that George has chosen for me in my mouth that feels as if I’m letting him in; accepting something that I can’t allow myself to accept. I’m the feeder, not him. I tell my secretary to consider the deliveries hers.

Next comes a parcel delivered by hand. My assistant places it on my desk with a raised eyebrow and I look at the rectangular package, wrapped in luxurious paper. The cream silk ribbon is perfectly tied. It can only have come from George, though I imagine he didn’t wrap it himself. All morning, I leave the parcel on my desk, wondering whether to send it back, but then, around lunchtime, my resolve weakens and I gently tug the end of the ribbon to release the folds of paper. I’m expecting something new and shiny but, beneath the paper, my fingers touch something that’s softer, more worn: a used copy of a novel I loved as a teenager.

Sitting at my desk, I flick through the familiar pages, remembering the excitement with which I’d read the story for the first time. There’s a bookmark inside and I know before I turn to that page what I’ll find: it marks a paragraph about love I’d read aloud to George when we were seventeen. It’s only later, when I’m flicking through the book again that afternoon, that I realise the copy George has sent is a first edition. I place it reverentially back on my desk and nod. I’m impressed. The book is a thoughtful gift yet I don’t know if I should thank him. Well, of course I should thank him. But I know what George is like. If he sees any weakness in me, any chink in my armour, he’ll storm into it like the rugby player he used to be. I stick with simple.

Thanks for the book, I text him.

You’re welcome, he replies, and I just know that he’s smiling.

*

The next day, I’m wrapping things up at work when my phone buzzes. The sound’s loud in the silence of the office. It’s late – dark outside – and everyone’s gone home. I check the screen: an unknown number. I stare at it for a second, weighing up whether or not to pick up. It could be a new client, or perhaps a cold call. I’m about to leave and I don’t want to get into a long conversation. Even as I think all this, the phone stops buzzing. I put it back on the desk, but it starts up again almost immediately.

I pick up. ‘Stella Simons speaking… Hello?’

The line crackles a little, then a female voice comes on. ‘Stella! Hello! How are you?’ Pause. ‘It’s Ness.’

I lean back in my seat, lift my chin and squint my eyes at the blackness outside the office window. ‘Hello.’

‘It was lovely to see you the other night,’ says Ness. ‘Really nice.’

I give a polite laugh.

‘Wasn’t it amazing to see how everyone’s turned out?’ she says. ‘And yourself – of course! I’ve googled your company now.’ She laughs. ‘I didn’t realise that was you! Marvellous! I always knew you’d go far!’

Another small laugh from me.

‘I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years!’ Ness continues. ‘Gosh, did you see Julia and Sarah? It’s incredible that they’re still friends! And that their children are friends too! Do you still see anyone from school?’

‘No.’

‘No, we neither. We don’t have time, really, to be fair…’ Her voice trails off and I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing: namely, that Ness’s time is dedicated almost entirely to looking good on George’s arm.

‘So…’ she says, and I close my eyes, sensing that she’s finally coming to the point. ‘Do you think you’ll, um, stay in touch with George now you’ve reconnected?’And, as she asks this, I realise the reason that she’s called is because she’s worried. Insecure. I open my mouth to reply but she doesn’t give me a chance to speak.

‘It was so amazing to catch up with you after so long,’ she says. ‘George and I were both so happy to see you!’ She doesn’t sound that happy. ‘I mean… after, you know, what happened all those years ago…’ Her voice isn’t as confident now. She stops and clears her throat, then her words come out in a rush. ‘But I wanted you to know that George and I – we’re, well, we’re good. Really good.’ She waits, but I don’t respond. ‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘I know it must have been hard for you. At the time, and all that. But it was a long time ago! We were children. Nothing but children!’ Her laugh rattles down the phone line. ‘But, you know, difficult decisions were made and we stuck with them. You sleep in the bed you make! Literally!’ She falls silent for a second. ‘Look. I just wanted to say that all that happened back then: I’m sorry. It must have been horrific for you. But I want you to know it wasn’t for nothing.’ She pauses again and I really am struck dumb. ‘Yes. That’s what I want to say. If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t for nothing. I still love him.’ Her intonation makes it sound like she has more to say and I wait but then Ness says, ‘Stella? Are you there?’

‘That’s lovely,’ I say. But look, I don’t mean to be rude… if you’ll excuse me, I really have to…’ I don’t bother finishing the sentence. ‘Goodbye,’ I say, and cut the line.

*

Some time later, George suggests we meet for a drink in London. I’m surprised he’s so brazen.

Far too busy, I write. A crazy day of meetings all over town. And it’s true.

Another time, he writes.

But, the next morning, as I’m moving about my apartment gathering my things for the day, George messages to tell me he’s arranged a car for me for the day.

Outside the building, I find a sleek Mercedes with a smartly dressed driver and, again, I’m impressed. It’s actually exactly what I need to get me through the day. Reluctantly, I allow the driver to open the door for me and I climb in with my bag and sink into the coolness of the leather seat. I’m annoyed I didn’t think of hiring a car myself: it’s presumably just an Uber of some sort. Damn it, he’s good. I sit in the back of the car, feeling like this is the most delightful thing in the world as the driver pulls into the traffic, and I toy with my phone: common decency says I should thank George, but you have to understand that I really don’t want to encourage him. I’ve said before: I don’t do married men. And that means I don’t encourage them either. I’m flattered by his attempts to win me over, but there’s more to it than that: a part of me is curious to see just how far he’ll take this without any encouragement.

A part of me doesn’t want him to stop.