Читать книгу The One That Got Away - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 23

SEVENTEEN

Stella

I don’t contact George again after my birthday. He texts a little – though not as much as I’d have imagined, to be honest – but I delete his messages as soon as they come in, without even reading them. Was he the one let down on his birthday? Humiliated in front of strangers?

Instead, I spend all weekend alone. When the chips are down, you can rely only on yourself in this life. Remember that! I tell myself. Walking on the heath and passing time in coffee shops, I take the full blame for the debacle of my birthday night and berate myself with every step. George was played by Ness. This I see, and he’s an idiot not to see. But there’s a reason why I never get involved with married men and it’s just as valid with George as it is with anyone else. Yes, he was my George and yes, he should be my George, but he’s married. End of.

‘It’s sleazy, Stella, it’s seedy and it’s not you!’ I say out loud lying on my sofa on Sunday afternoon. ‘I don’t care who he is, it stops now.’ I get out my old notebook with the wedding dresses and the signatures and throw it in the bin without looking at it, then I toast my decision with a glass of good wine and some olives and start to feel a little better.

By the time I return to work early on Monday morning, I’m almost myself again, excited about what the coming working week will bring as I head towards the office, and then I see him – George – standing outside the office door looking absolutely freezing despite his winter coat. My first instinct is to run into his arms, then I remember what he did and I want to dodge him and walk the other way but he’s looking out for me and already he’s seen me. I stop and look at him.

‘What brings you here?’

He takes a step towards me, his hands held out. ‘Stella. Stell. Please.’ I notice that his knuckles are rudely red next to the white of his fingers. His nose, too, is red, and his face is pinched with cold. He stamps his feet on the pavement, his breath coming out in clouds.

‘Please what?’ I say.

‘Please don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this!’

‘I’m not being like anything. I’m just trying to unlock the office. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I have a company to run – as do you.’ While I fumble for the keys in my bag, George tries to pull me round and hug me but I stand stiffly, my face averted. He lets his arms drop.

‘I’m sorry about your birthday,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am, but I couldn’t help it.’

‘OK,’ I say, unlocking the door. ‘Have a good day.’

‘Is this it?’ he asks. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ His voice is sodden with sadness and something catches in my chest.

I turn to face him. ‘How’s Ness?’

A micro-pause. ‘She’s much better, thanks.’

‘What was wrong?’

‘She was sick. Vomiting. A bug, I guess.’

‘Did you see her throw up?’

George flinches. ‘What?’

‘She wished me a happy birthday on Facebook that morning. She said, “hope you’re having a lovely evening – kiss, kiss”.’

‘You can’t read anything into that!’

I shrug. ‘Whatever.’

‘She was sick, Stell. Don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’ I know it sounds arrogant to assume that Ness feigned sickness to stop him seeing me on my birthday – especially when she doesn’t know about our affair – but I know I’m right.

‘You know she’s already warned me off you?’ I say. ‘She called me after the reunion. Did you know that?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. She’s not stupid. Did you actually see her throw up? Did you see vomit come out of her mouth? Even once?’

George shakes his head slowly. ‘Look. Whatever you’re implying, you’re wrong. Trust me.’

We stare at each other and I realise there’s something he’s not telling me; that there’s more to this and that, in our little trio, I’m the only one who doesn’t know. I look away.

‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ness, and I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But just know that she’s manipulating you. Don’t be gullible. That’s all I’m saying.’

Saying the words out loud, I feel so mean; so petty. ‘Why am I even standing here on the pavement discussing with you whether or not your wife was sick? The point is you say I’m your “everything” but I’m not. Not at all. I’m only your “everything” when it suits you. As I said before, it’s not who I am. This is not my life and I will not continue like this!’ I’m embarrassed to realise I’m shouting.

‘Stell. I’m sorry. I stuffed up.’ He’s scuffing the pavement with his toe.

‘Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Now I have to get to work. Have a good day.’

I give George a peck on his cold cheek, then I open the door and step inside the office reception. I try to shut the door behind me but he holds it.

‘Stell, please.’

We tussle for a moment and, again, I’m struck with how undignified this is. Never in my life have I aspired to be a woman who tussles with her lover on the doorstep of her office. I peel George’s cold fingers off the door.

‘Let go, please, George. I need to get into work. Goodbye.’

I shut the door in his face.