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‘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 (#ulink_a87d6d79-3756-5bd7-afa3-fb4235d82ca9)
Stella (#ulink_a87d6d79-3756-5bd7-afa3-fb4235d82ca9)
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.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about George. Yes, I see the odd thing in the paper about the success of his advertising firm, about the good deeds his company does, but it’s not as if I sit there and read them word for word. I’m interested, but not that interested. That boat has sailed.
I let the memories wash over me. George and Stella. We go back to 1987. Picture two mums at a school coffee morning, keen to make friends. Two mums whose five-year-olds are thrown together through their mums’ friendship. George – my first school friend. George holding my hand as we walk into school each day. George playing with me, standing up for me, choosing me to be his partner for everything. George and Stella; Stella and George. And me taking his friendship for granted. All the push and shove, the posturing and the fights of the junior school playground passing me by as George takes care of me.
Passing the 11+ together. Getting into the same school. Laughing at our new uniforms, our blazer sleeves too long, my shoes looking ridiculously big at the end of my skinny legs. Me knocking for George in the mornings, us doing our homework together on the bus, George’s hand touching mine as we work out our maths problems, check each other’s answers, and test each other on our French vocabulary. And then, from the bus stop, going our separate ways at school: for the first time ever, in separate classes, with separate friends, but still looking out for each other; still caring.
I suppose it was inevitable I’d think he was mine. A part of me probably always thought we’d end up together. And, as we turned fifteen, I started to see George in a different light. He was handsome, strong, popular. A party was the turning point; Sophie’s sixteenth birthday. In a dark living room full of couples slow-dancing, smooching and kissing, George grabbed my hand and pulled me close, his warm hands inside my top, sliding over my skin. I could smell beer on his breath, taste cigarettes as, for the first time, his mouth found mine.
‘Come on, Stell. Come upstairs with me,’ he’d whispered, his voice thick with beer. ‘I want you.’ And I’d gone. Just like that. I let him lead me by the hand up the stairs to Sophie’s brother’s bedroom, peel off my jeans and take my virginity on a pile of coats.
And from then on George and I both were and were not a couple. We didn’t date – we didn’t ever speak of what we did – but, at every party, study date or get-together at which we found ourselves, I let him take me upstairs. In my mind we were a couple. It was never official. It was never, like, ‘George & Stell’ but everyone knew, of course they did: how could they not?
‘I love you, Stell,’ George would moan, burying his head in my shoulder as he came inside me on Friday night and Saturday night, sometimes on Tuesday night or Thursday night, or behind the Art block on a Wednesday lunchtime, too. ‘You’re the best.’ And I was happy with my lot: studying for my exams, being quietly adored by George.
But, while I assumed our love would take on the natural trajectory of an adult relationship – assumed that George and I would stay together, make it official, get married, have children – what actually happened was that I got pregnant, and George fell for Ness.
Pretty, sexy, bubbly Ness.
Lying back on my pillows, I close my eyes. The phone pings but I ignore it. I need to open this box of memories; the one I sealed tightly aged eighteen. I need to see how I feel about it now.
George didn’t want to know.
I recall the smell of the clinic. The terror of walking in alone and telling the nurse I was pregnant. I flinch as I feel the cold smear of gel on my belly and the probe moving over my skin.
‘Eight weeks,’ the nurse had said. ‘That’s good.’
It didn’t take long. I remember the ceiling. Forty-six tiles. I didn’t even stay overnight; just told my parents I was shopping in London. Hobbled home pale and shaky, pretended I had an upset stomach and went to bed for the rest of the day.
Done and dusted.
Meanwhile, George and Ness… love’s young dream.
Allegedly.
The phone rings and who knows why I do, but I pick up.
SIX (#ulink_1c185508-21ac-5123-a2ce-8ad48ac36116)
George (#ulink_1c185508-21ac-5123-a2ce-8ad48ac36116)
I’m awake before the alarm, a ball of morning energy. While Ness stretches luxuriously, her hair cascading over the pillows like some fairy-tale princess, I leap out of bed and zip downstairs to make the coffee, singing out loud as I take the steps two at a time.
‘Morning, darling,’ I say, bounding back upstairs, presenting the cup to Ness like a trophy. ‘Ta-da!’
‘Oh wow,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did someone win the lottery?’
‘Nothing! I just felt like spoiling my lovely wife. What’s wrong with that?’ I lean down and kiss her forehead. In the bathroom, I take a sip of my coffee and look at my reflection in the mirror: not bad for thirty-three – I regularly get mistaken for much younger. I like to think the boyish light is still in my eyes, and that the lines that are slowly starting to appear add character rather than age. I smile at myself, pleased with the decision I made to get my teeth professionally whitened. It really does make a difference. I run a hand through the hair on my temples, turning so the light catches it: there’s no grey there yet, but I’m not scared of the day it does start to appear: I’ve always fancied being a silver fox; a bit of a George Clooney. I rub the bristles on my jawline – even though I haven’t shaved for a couple of days, there’s no grey there, either – then I gently massage a few drops of shaving oil all over my face, to pep up the circulation and plump up my skin.
I can’t stop whistling in the shower, then, with the towel slung around my hips, I pull out my best suit and newest shirt. I match my cufflinks to my shirt and agonise over my tie: bold and bright, or classic? I hold each up in turn, turning this way and that to see which best brings out the light in my eyes. I suppose it’s not surprising that Ness looks up from her own mirror.
‘Important meeting?’ she asks, head cocked to one side, hairdryer in hand.
‘Yep. Which tie?’
She points to the bright one. ‘Need me for lunch?’
‘Oh – thanks, but no. It’s pretty much in the bag.’
‘OK.’ She shrugs and turns back to her hair but I can tell from the jerkiness in her movements that she’s thinking; irked perhaps. She usually comes to these lunches: I joke that she’s my client-magnet, though we both know she’s really just an ornament at the table. I tut silently to myself, my head in the wardrobe as I look for my belt: Didn’t think that one through, did you, George? I slide my belt through its loops and fasten it, then I go over to Ness and put my hands on her shoulders, looking at her in the mirror. She puts down the hairdryer and her eyes meet the reflection of mine.
‘It’s a cert. I didn’t want to bore you with it.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yep.’ She fiddles with a pot on the dressing table, unscrewing and screwing its cap. Then she sucks her teeth. ‘Will you be late tonight?’
I turn and cross the room, my back to her as I pick up my suit jacket and slip it on, find my wallet and slide it into my trouser pocket.
‘’Fraid so. Didn’t I mention it?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
At the door, I pause and turn to look at her. ‘Yeah. Potential new client. Drinks in the West End.’ I shrug. ‘Sorry, hon. He chose the location. But it’s not dinner. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cooking,’ I add. ‘I’ll pick up something on my way.’
‘OK,’ she says.
Our eyes meet across the bed and hang together for a weighted moment – a moment in which I wonder if she’s on to me – how could she be? – then I smile.
‘I’ll be home as soon as I can. Have a good day, babe.’
SEVEN (#ulink_c3cc6d6f-6eee-5239-a4af-71347438ffe2)
Stella (#ulink_c3cc6d6f-6eee-5239-a4af-71347438ffe2)
It’s jeans again. So shoot me: they look good. I take a final look in the mirror, pick up my handbag and leave the apartment. While I’m walking to the pub, I wonder how long it’ll take George to come up from Richmond; what he’s told Ness he’s doing tonight. My steps ring out as I stride down the road, sounding more confident than I feel. With every strike of heel on pavement, I ask myself, What are you doing? What exactly are you hoping to achieve with this?
I’m usually very clear on my motives. It’s my USP; who I am. From buying a sandwich to launching a new menu, I never do anything without knowing exactly what it is and why I’m doing it. Informed. Decisive.
But today I’m confused. How has this man from whom I haven’t heard for fifteen years persuaded me to meet him in a pub? Am I really such a pushover? Have I seriously been waiting fifteen years to receive a call from George Wolsey? I don’t think so, yet one week ago he was nothing to me and now I’m walking to the pub to meet him: go figure.
But there’s more to my unease than feeling disconcerted by how easily George has blasted his way through my defences: he’s married, and there’s a part of me that senses his intentions are not entirely pure.
When it comes to George, my sixth sense always used to be right.
I stop and pretend to look in the window of an estate agent, my eyes roaming over the properties for sale until they focus on my own reflection in the glass. It’s the pull of the past, I tell myself. That’s all it is. Yes, he may have been not just ‘the one’ but ‘the one and only’ fifteen years ago (I cringe as I see in my mind’s eye the page of ‘Stella Wolsey’ signatures), but a decade and a half has passed. I’ve moved on: I’m a successful woman in my own right.
Yes, I nod to myself in the glass: all this is about is a shared past; an understandable desire to link with a person who knew me years ago – nothing more. I have so much history with George. He used to know me better than anyone else on the planet. He still knows that part of me; you can’t take that away. We saw each other every day of our childhoods. It’s got to be worth something.
It’s got to be worth an hour in the pub with a glass of wine. Hasn’t it?
I used the word ‘desire’ back there. I noticed that.
I turn and walk on.
*
The pub is popular, well known for its food. Up a creaky staircase, six quirky bedrooms turn it into a boutique hotel. George is there before me, a bottle of wine on the table, and a whisky in his hand. He looks smart in a suit with a garish tie and he’s picked – as I knew he would – one of the discreet alcoves at the back of the bar; a place where we’re least likely to be disturbed. He doesn’t stand up to greet me. I slide onto the bench seat opposite him and he reaches for my hand across the table.
‘Hey. Thanks for coming.’
I let him squeeze my hand for a moment before withdrawing it. His skin feels cool, softer than I remember. Hands that don’t do dishes.
‘You’re welcome.’
George looks at me. Takes me all in, and I watch him. His thirties really do suit him.
‘You look amazing,’ he says eventually. I’m glad to hear it but I’m not going to tell him that.
‘Thanks.’ I look pointedly at the wine bottle. ‘I’d love a glass.’
‘I’m so sorry!’ George bustles into action. ‘Forgive me.’ He pours two glasses then pushes one towards me. I pick it up and inhale the scent of the wine. A good one; probably the most expensive on the wine list. We clink glasses and I take a slow sip, roll it around my mouth, swallow and exhale.
‘Nice.’
George nods.
‘So – how are things? How’s Ness?’ I ask after it becomes clear he’s not going to speak. He’s looking a little starstruck, to be honest.
‘She’s good, thanks,’ he says.
‘No kids?’ I know it’s below the belt, but… as I said: part-defiant.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. ‘No.’
I take a sip of wine.
‘And how about you?’ he asks. ‘You went into catering, I gather?’
‘Yes.’
He names my firm. ‘Impressive.’
‘But I don’t cook so much these days.’
‘No. I imagine not,’ he says.
‘I’m in the office, running the business. I have a good team that does the work on the ground for me now.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘It’s a new challenge. I like that. And I get to sit down a bit.’
George laughs. ‘You always did like a challenge.’
‘And how about you?’ I ask. ‘How’s business?’
‘Can’t complain.’ There’s a pause. ‘Our success means I have more of a chance to do stuff for charities. You know, fundraising. Awareness campaigns. Have you heard about our annual charity drive? It’s global. Involves all our clients. Last year we raised nearly a million quid.’
‘Fantastic. Yeah. I see the odd thing in the paper.’ It’s an understatement. You’d have to be living under a rock not to be aware of Wolsey Associates’ global charity drive.
George looks up, a smile lighting up his face. ‘You read some of the articles?’
I exhale. ‘Oh, you know… I speed-read the odd one now and then.’
‘I always imagine you reading the articles when they come out.’ He looks so earnest it’s embarrassing. ‘I don’t know. I guess I just hoped you would be interested.’
‘In your business?’
