The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

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.

TEN

       George

      Around 10 a.m. I stick my head out of my office and call my assistant. I’ve been in the office since 8.30 and haven’t done a shred of work.

      ‘Rachel! Can I borrow you for a minute?’

      She looks up from her desk. ‘Shall I bring any client files?’

      ‘No. Just yourself and the project book.’

      She raises her eyebrows and goes over to the filing cabinet where she keeps what we call the ‘Project X’ book.

      I pace my office while I wait for her. There are other things I should be thinking about but the need to conquer Stell is consuming me; it’s all I can think about, night and day. I’m treating her as if she’s a major client I need to win over. And, in a way, she is.

      Rachel closes the door behind her. ‘How did it go down? The car?’

      ‘He didn’t say.’ I’m chewing on a little flap of skin at the edge of my nail, careful not to let slip that it’s a woman I’m trying to impress. ‘They have to have liked it, though. Right?’

      ‘I should imagine so. And the other things? The book? Did the world’s pickiest CEO realise it was a first edition?’

      ‘Yes, he said thank you.’

      Rachel smiles. ‘Good. It took for ever to track that down. So – now what’s the plan? Maybe it’s time you tried to have a one-to-one meeting?’

      I sigh. ‘I’ve tried. I just keep getting blanks.’

      ‘Maybe they’re just not interested. Maybe they’re going with someone else, or they don’t need advertising at this stage.’ Rachel sighs. ‘Come on, George, it’s not as if we need their business specifically. Maybe it’s time to draw a line under this one.’ Rachel looks at me then and, as she reads my expression, her face softens. She cocks her head to one side.

      ‘Who is it? Is it really a potential client?’

      I close my eyes and exhale.

      ‘Is it a woman?’

      I shake my head. ‘Just someone I was at school with.’

      ‘And you need to settle an old score? Getting their business would mean a lot to you?’

      I smile. ‘Something like that.’

      A look passes between us. I know that she knows I’m lying. I’m sure she suspects it’s a woman. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to cover for me when Ness calls. But she’s way too professional to admit it.

      ‘Right,’ she says, opening the notebook. ‘Let’s see. What have we done so far? What else can we do? Opera tickets? Theatre?’

      I go over to the window and stare out, my hands in my pockets. ‘You know what, Rach? I think you’re right. I think it’s time I tried for another face-to-face meeting.’

ELEVEN

       Stella

      I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

      I look at the message George has sent. In the format of a yes/no question, it’s brave, risking as it does a direct rejection. It’s the second time he’s asked me to meet him since I left him in the pub and I don’t feel that, in the subsequent weeks, I’ve given him much to go on. He’s got balls, I give him that.

      I put the phone down and let my thoughts roam. There’s no way George is going to be in Hampstead for work. I know enough about him to know that his life is highly unlikely to involve him coming up here at any point. I’ve googled him, of course I have.

      I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

      I pick up the phone. Sure, I type. But perhaps, too, this is the moment it all starts to go wrong. Perhaps this is the tipping point of this story because I know, as I agree to meet George, that my own intentions are greyer than four-day snow.

      I don’t know how this is going to play out. It’s not like me at all.

      *

      I have to leave work earlier than usual in order to make it back to Hampstead in time for eight, but that’s the only concession I make to the evening’s arrangements. The perversity of the meeting place is not lost on me: we’d both save time if I just suggested we meet in the West End, but I want George to have to put himself out a little. I go straight to the pub from work. Today, I’ve had meetings all day – a sponsorship deal and a couple of big corporate accounts – so I’m in a suit, heels, stockings. I don’t let myself examine why I decide to let George see me dressed like this instead of nipping home to change: I don’t want to know my motivations.