The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

      ‘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?’

      ‘In me.’

      I look at George, searching for clues that he’s joking – a twitch of his mouth, a shake in his shoulders – but he just looks beaten.

      ‘George,’ I say. ‘That ship sailed years ago.’

      ‘Did it?’

      I look at the table. The silence extends. I pick at the drinks mat. Already it’s wet with condensation from the wine glass.

      ‘So, was there a reason you wanted to meet?’ I ask eventually. ‘It’s just… you know… nothing for fifteen years and then… ?’

      George looks up and smiles at me. It’s a warm smile. Not the public smile that wins over his clients, but an intimate smile, a smile just for me, and I’m not expecting it. I raise my chin and look levelly at him. Hurt me once, that’s my bad luck, but you will not hurt me twice.

      ‘Stell,’ he says softly. And, just like that, the universe ruptures. A gaping black hole opens in front of me. No warning; no way to prepare myself. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to hear George’s voice say ‘Stell’ and I plummet head first into the black hole and land on that pile of coats in Sophie’s brother’s bedroom, George’s breath hot in my ear. I’ve almost burrowed through the drinks mat with my nail.

      ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ George says. ‘A lot.’

      I wait, heart hammering.

      ‘I don’t mean just this week. I’ve been thinking about you for a long time.’ George’s voice is quiet. ‘Always, actually.’

      I can barely breathe. ‘You could have got in touch. Before you got married.’

      ‘I didn’t know how it would be received. I mean…’

      The air goes out of my lungs. This is the closest he’s ever come to speaking about the pregnancy, the abortion, the way he left me. I didn’t hear from him after I told him I was pregnant. My memory: his feet clattering on the stairs, the front door slamming shut and George out of my life. I look down at the table, compose myself, then raise my eyes to his.

      ‘You mean… ?’

      ‘Well. We didn’t leave it in a very good place, really, did we?’

      ‘I didn’t leave anything, George. It was you who did the leaving.’ What I don’t say, although it’s running through my head on ticker tape, is: We could have made it work. We could have kept the baby.

      George holds up a hand. ‘I know. I know. And I’ve kicked myself for it every day since. But, Stell, I was young. Scared. Terrified! I didn’t know what to do.’

      ‘And I did?’

      He has the decency to stay quiet.

      ‘Let me just get this straight,’ I say. ‘I was eighteen, about to take my A levels, and pregnant. As you well know, I couldn’t tell my parents. Yet you left me to sort out – and go through – an abortion on my own. An abortion, George.’ I let the word sink in. ‘And, for the record, I didn’t know what to do either.’

      George closes his eyes and exhales. ‘I’m so sorry, Stell. If I could do it all again. If I could turn back time…’

      ‘You’d what?’

      ‘I’d…’

      ‘What? Come with me to the doctor? Pay for the abortion? Hold my hand while they sucked the baby out of me? Not get together with her?’ I eyeball him, daring him to be honest.

      There’s a silence, George looks down, then back at me. ‘What I’d do, Stell, is stay with you. I’d stay with you. Marry you. Have the baby with you. I’ve always held a candle for you, Stell.’

      I slide out of the booth, pick up my bag and leave.

EIGHT

       George

      As the dust settles after Stell’s exit, I close my eyes and exhale. That didn’t go well, did it? I don’t know: was I naïve to imagine she’d jump back into my arms if I said the right words?

      And it’s not as if I lied. Not really. Over the years, I’ve imagined what my son would have been like: I have. I’ve looked at my own baby pictures and imagined a boy with my eyes and my smile – his hair perhaps darker like Stell’s or maybe lighter like Ness’s. I’ve imagined him toddling along next to me on his cute little chubby legs, asking questions about what I do; I’ve pictured myself showing him off around the office on Family Day, carting him around on my shoulders as the women coo over him. I’ve imagined kicking a ball around the garden with him, rough-and-tumbling him on the sofa; changing nappies like a pro; getting adoring glances in the supermarket – all those sorts of things that parents do. I’d like it: I’m sure I would. I just wasn’t ready for it at eighteen, but now?

      Now I believe I am.

      I pour myself the last of the wine and sigh. In my jacket pocket I’m all too aware of the two key cards to one of the bedrooms upstairs. I fish them out and put them on the table: shame.

      So, now what? I run my fingertip around the rim of the wine glass, wondering if it’ll sing if I go fast enough. Stell fascinates me. She always has. But how do I get to her now she’s walked out on me twice? She always was a tough cookie but that’s what I like: she pushes me away and I come back for more. She’s not easy,