Читать книгу The One That Got Away - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 7

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 I like him? Did we sit next to each other; did he tease me in the playground? Was it he who famously tripped up the deputy headmistress causing her to fall outside the school hall?

I can’t picture the person behind the name, and the stamp-sized adult face on Facebook doesn’t bring to mind the image of the child I must once have known. What comes to mind, though, as I think about the names of the children I do remember, is the cabbage-and-dumpling smell of the school dining hall; the interminable tick of the classroom clock; the peeling beige paint of the corridors; the din of the electric bell; the constant hitching of over-the-knee socks; and the thick nylon weight of the navy blazer that coated us, one and all.

On my phone, I flick to the reunion page to check again who else has confirmed. It’s a long list of names, many familiar, but most of whom I’ve not spared a thought for since the day I left school. I didn’t stay in touch and I wonder if anyone even remembers me. I wasn’t particularly gregarious; kept myself to myself, wrapped up in my cooking, neither fashionable nor cool.

Which reminds me: what am I doing here? It’s really not my scene and I bet I’m not the only one – yet not a single person’s clicked ‘not going’; not one person has dared openly to refuse this olive branch stretching across the decades. And, without a doubt, it’s George Wolsey – whom I see is happily, confidently, brazenly ‘going’ – who is the biggest draw.

Whatever Martin Johnson might like to think, it’s George Wolsey – along with his wife, Ness – who’s the glue of this event. It’s because of him that people will come tonight. Housewives, accountants and social media consultants; ‘mummy’ bloggers, shop managers and men who work in IT – they’ll all be here to bask in a little of their glorious classmate’s success; they’ll come just to be able to tell the people they hang out with that they’re going out tonight with ‘you know, George Wolsey? Of Wolsey Associates?’ Self-effacing smile. ‘Yes, him! We were at school together.’

My classmates and I are, I realise, some of the favoured few who knew George Wolsey before he became successful – before the celebrity lifestyle and the gorgeous Richmond house, the magazine spreads and the paparazzi shots. We’re a select group that knows his secrets.

Some of us, more than others.

I wonder if he’s there already.

George.

On the pavement, the sound of unsteady heels makes me turn and I see two women, clutching each other’s arm and sheltering under one umbrella, approach the door. I know them. They were close at school – like me, they hung on the outer peripherals of cool, but they didn’t seem to care – they stuck together. Tonight they’re noticeably heavier, tarted up, and they look happy; excited. They’re giggling, and I picture them half an hour ago in the cluttered family kitchen of one of their homes, generous glasses of white wine in their hands as they down a bottle for Dutch courage. Am I jealous?

Oh please.

The women wrench open the heavy door and step inside the bar. I hear a snatch of music, laughter, but not George’s voice. My thoughts slide towards Ness – also officially ‘going’. Perhaps it’s because of her, not George, that butterflies are dancing in my stomach. But it’s all history now, water under the bridge, and I need to make a stand.

‘OK,’ I say to the driver. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Sure?’

I pass over some notes, slither out of the cab and pull open the door to the bar before I have time to change my mind.