The Other Us. Fiona Harper

pause. I can almost hear him thinking his response over.

      ‘I dunno. Just for a walk, I expect.’

      Totally understandable. And I would have believed him, I really would, if when he looked at me he hadn’t worn that same expression he always used in our future life, the one that accompanies his oh-so-innocent declaration that he’s off down the pub with a long-lost mate who is actually having a second honeymoon in Prague.

CHAPTER TWELVE

      The flat is empty and I sit down on the sofa in the dark. The ugly sunburst clock above the electric fire ticks.

      I did it. But I don’t know whether to feel sorry or relieved.

      I don’t know what to do now. This is the first time since I’ve been living this crazy … whatever it is … that I’ve veered completely off script. I was still friends with Becca, still doing my uni course, still with Dan. But now I haven’t just amended a bit of dialogue, skipped a scene or fudged a bit of stage direction; I’ve completely changed the ending.

      I think about that night – the other night like this. The two realities couldn’t be more different. In that one I was laughing, happy, full of hope. In this one I’m just … numb. And wondering why my almost-fiancé is lying to me about where he’s going.

      I shiver as I recall the look on Dan’s face.

      I thought the fibs, the sneaking around, had been a new thing. What if it isn’t? What if he’s been doing this the whole time and it’s just taken me this long to catch on?

      I screw up my face and squeeze my eyes shut, as if by doing so I can stop the spinning in my head. I can’t believe that’s true. It doesn’t fit with the steady, reliable, slightly boring Dan I know. But then I think of women who find out their husbands have had a secret family on the side for years, or whose husbands have committed rapes or awful sex offences and they truly have no idea.

      Maybe I made the right call after all.

      The numbness fades a little and just the tiniest smidge of peace seeps in. I breathe out. I haven’t burned my bridges yet, I suppose. I’ve just told Dan I need time, which is just as well, as I need at least a week to work out what I’m going to do.

      A thought flashes through my head: Jude.

      Dan’s proposal wasn’t the only surprise on this night. My heart skips into a higher gear.

      I need to see him, I realise. I need to hear him say those words again. Not just because I’m keeping my options open, but I need to know I haven’t romanticised that scene after all those Facebook-prompted fantasies. If I’m really going to change my future, I need to be sure.

      I stand up, grab my handbag from where I dumped it near the door and head out again. It only takes me ten minutes to make the usual fifteen minute stroll to the Queen’s Head. When I push through the heavy oak door with the etched glass panel, I stop in my tracks, confronted by two colliding realities. I look over at the corner where Dan and our friends had gathered that night, laughing and celebrating, and there seems to be an emptiness, even though all the tables are filled.

      I order a lager and black, take a quick sip and then head out to the pub garden. It’s started to rain now. Hard, like it had been that night. A heavy shower after a sunny day had sent all the drinkers scurrying back inside. Not bothering to cover my head or put up the umbrella I have in my bag, I look around, and then I look again. My stomach goes cold.

      He’s not here.

      Of course he’s not.

      He has no reason to be. I’m not thinking this through clearly.

      Jude only came to the pub because he’d heard Dan and I were there. If I don’t say yes to Dan, word won’t have got round the college grapevine. The tiny flame of hope I’ve been carrying inside since I walked out my flat door falters and flickers. I sit down on the end of an empty picnic bench, deflated. It had all seemed so easy in my head.

      I could look for him, I think, as rain splashes into my hair and runs down my scalp.

      I could, but I go back into the pub, find a wall to prop myself against and drink my lager and black, ignoring the chattering people around me. But maybe that won’t be the same either. Jude doesn’t know he might lose me forever. Without that very specific kick up the backside, he probably won’t come looking for me at all.

      I drain the last of my half pint and stand up. I have to try. I can’t just let this life drift by without fighting for it. I did that with the original one, and look how happy I was.

      I plant my empty glass down firmly on the bar, then walk through the crowds and out back onto the main road. I turn and head in the direction of the college, the Student’s Union bar, to be more exact. Jude is a bit of a regular.

      I shake my head as I walk, not only to clear the rain from it but to clear my mind. I was so stupid. Complacent. Letting so many chances slip by me. They say youth is wasted on the young, but not this twenty-one year old. Not this time.

      I trudge out of the Student Union. I’d been in there for about an hour, nursing a warm and rather sweet white wine. Thank goodness student prices and minus-twenty-four years of inflation meant I only paid about a pound for it. I’d have been miffed otherwise. I really can’t understand how I stomached the stuff.

      No Jude.

      The rain has stopped, but the pavements are slick and shiny. I frown as I start to walk, not really caring which direction I go. I thought this would be easy: pick a man and that would be it. Heads or tails. Jude or Dan. I hadn’t really considered I might end up with neither.

      When I look up I find myself at the edge of the lake, just short of where the reeds provide a natural barrier to prevent inebriated students from tumbling into the water. The rain has stopped now, the dark clouds pressing on towards central London, leaving the lake still and the grass sparkling clean. I spot a smear of sludgy green poop on the edge of my shoe and I start to try to use the damp lawn to wipe it off, but it’s been freshly mowed and all I succeed at doing is adding grass clippings into the mix. I’m so busy doing this I don’t notice someone walking up beside me. I’m precariously balanced on one leg, and when he speaks it surprises me so much I almost topple right into the lake.

      ‘Meg?’

      It’s only his hand shooting out to grab my arm that stops me. As it is, my shoe – a rather old and ill-fitting suede ballet pump – flies off my foot and into the reeds. Seconds later, I hear a distinct plop. We both stare at where my shoe has just sunk below the surface of the dank water and then I turn to find Jude smiling at me.

      I don’t smile back, not yet. I’m too nervous. There was me, hoping I’d dazzle him so much that he’d suggest running off to the South of France for the summer without the news of my impending marriage to spur him on, but any hopes of being poised and elegant and desirable have just disappeared into the duckweed with my shoe.

      ‘Hi,’ I say softly.

      ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he says, the smile growing ever more mischievous.

      My lips curve a little too. No, we really shouldn’t.

      ‘How are you?’ I ask, and I’m aware I sound a little breathless. I’m hoping he’ll think it’s because of the shoe incident.

      ‘Good.’ He looks me over. ‘That Dave isn’t doing a very good job of being your knight in shining armour.’

      I turn to face Jude, still hanging on to him, because I’m balancing on one foot. ‘Actually,’ I say, looking him straight in the eye, ‘he’s applied for the position permanently. He asked me to marry him tonight.’

      That wipes the smile off Jude’s face. He stares at me, and then it’s as if someone’s flicked a switch. I see the charm he turns on so easily for others beaming bright