# The One That Got Away

Annabel Kantaria

Everyone has one. An ex you still think about. The one who makes you ask ‘what if’?Fifteen years have passed since Stella and George last saw each other. But something makes Stella click ‘yes’ to the invite to her school reunion.There’s still a spark between them, and although their relationship ended badly, they begin an affair.But once someone gets you back, sometimes they’re never going to let you go again…

Born in 1971, ANNABEL KANTARIA is a British author and journalist who’s written prolifically for publications throughout the Middle East. She lives in Dubai with her husband and two children. The One That Got Away is her third novel.


Natu Kantaria – a light in our lives;

forever in our hearts

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PART I

ONE: Stella

Two

THREE: George

FOUR: Stella

FIVE: Stella

SIX: George

SEVEN: Stella

EIGHT: George

NINE: Stella

TEN: George

ELEVEN: Stella

TWELVE: George

THIRTEEN: Stella

FOURTEEN: George

FIFTEEN: Stella

SIXTEEN: George

SEVENTEEN: Stella

EIGHTEEN: George

NINETEEN: Stella

TWENTY: George

TWENTY-ONE: Stella

TWENTY-TWO: George

TWENTY-THREE: Stella

TWENTY-FOUR: Stella

TWENTY-FIVE: George

TWENTY-SIX: Stella

TWENTY-SEVEN: Stella

TWENTY-EIGHT: George

TWENTY-NINE: Stella

THIRTY: Stella

PART II

ONE: Stella

TWO: George

THREE: Stella

FOUR: George

FIVE: Stella

SIX: George

SEVEN: Stella

EIGHT: George

NINE: Stella

TEN: George

ELEVEN: George

TWELVE: Stella

THIRTEEN: George

FOURTEEN: Stella

FIFTEEN: George

SIXTEEN: George

SEVENTEEN: Stella

EIGHTEEN: George

NINETEEN: Stella

TWENTY: Stella

TWENTY-ONE: George

TWENTY-TWO: Stella

TWENTY-THREE: George

TWENTY-FOUR: George

TWENTY-FIVE: Stella

TWENTY-SIX: George

TWENTY-SEVEN: Stella

TWENTY-EIGHT: George

TWENTY-NINE: Stella

THIRTY: Stella

THIRTY-ONE: George

THIRTY-TWO: Stella

THIRTY-THREE: George

THIRTY-FOUR: Stella

THIRTY-FIVE: George

THIRTY-SIX: Stella

THIRTY-SEVEN: George

PART III

ONE: Stella

TWO: George

THREE: Stella

FOUR: George

FIVE: Stella

SIX: George

SEVEN: Stella

EIGHT: George

NINE: Stella

TEN: George

ELEVEN: Stella

TWELVE: George

THIRTEEN: Stella

FOURTEEN: George

FIFTEEN: George

SIXTEEN: Stella

SEVENTEEN: George

EIGHTEEN: George

NINETEEN: George

TWENTY: Stella

TWENTY-ONE: George

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PART I

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.

TWO

I’m up at the bar, my back to the room, listening to a woman I used to sit next to in French class tell me about the successes of her three marvellous children when George and Ness arrive. I suppose I’ve been there for forty-five minutes – an hour tops. I hear the door open and the bar seems to stop, to pause, as everyone turns to see the golden couple walk in. My peers may deny it, but they’ve all googled him; everyone in the room knows who George is these days. There’s a collective intake of breath as my classmates absorb the fact that George and Ness are actually here: that George Wolsey really did click on the ‘going’ button and that he and his picture-perfect teenage sweetheart wife really have come to see them. I know what every single one of them is thinking: OMG, I have to get a selfie with him.

George breaks the pause. His voice rings around the wine bar, somehow drowning out the music which, up to this point, has been abrasive. I turn to face the room.

‘Hey! Long time!’ he says in that affable voice I remember from the sixth form, and I see his smile, the way it envelops everyone in the bar, making them feel wanted, included, valuable: a missing part of George’s wonderful life. He rubs his hands together and his voice takes on the tone of a game-show host. ‘So how’s everyone tonight?’ Seeing what happens next reminds me of the day we placed a little pile of iron filings next to a magnet at school. Vroom. George is surrounded.

I turn back to my companion.

‘So tell me again about the music lessons. How exactly did you decide on clarinet instead of oboe?’ She’s only too happy to explain the process of choosing the right instrument for your child and the lesser known benefits of learning music at a young age but I notice that, as she answers, she keeps a keen eye on George and Ness, and it makes me want to kick her in the shin. We get through a few more minutes of football and ballet and how the eldest son’s in the top maths set then my companion suddenly whispers, ‘OMG. He’s coming over!’

For a second, I actually think she means her son.

‘No!’ she giggles, giving me a nudge. She flicks back her hair. ‘George Wolsey!’

‘Stella Simons?’ George’s voice is right behind me so I take a breath and turn to face him, a pleasant smile on my face as I absorb the sight of George Wolsey aged thirty-three. His teeth are straightened and whitened; his skin tanned, possibly from an Indian Ocean hideaway, or maybe from a bottle. Either way, it’s clear he’s a rich man in his prime; a man who knows he looks good.

‘Hello, George,’ I say.

‘Stella! It is you! I’m so glad you’re here!’ George leans in with a waft of cologne, and I close my eyes and tilt my cheekbone to touch his in the most impersonal of air kisses but, as his mouth comes into the proximity of my ear, he whispers, ‘I’d know that arse anywhere.’ His hand touches the small of my back and I feel the heat of his breath in my ear.

Now, there are many ways this reunion could have gone; many ways in which George could have behaved with me after an absence of fifteen years but, given the fact that he hasn’t seen me for a decade and a half – not to mention the terms on which we last parted – a comment about my backside is not what I’m expecting and, honest to God, it throws me.

‘Lovely to see you,’ I say. ‘But, if you’ll excuse me—’ I nod vaguely at the room ‘—I was just about to…’

I skirt past George and launch myself into the bar. It’s not a wise move: I end up face to face with Ness. At first glance, she looks like an even better, glossier version of her beautiful self – the best possible Ness there could be – but there’s something slightly out of kilter from how I remember her face looking and I realise in an instant that it’s Botox, and quite possibly some fillers, too, that’s changed her contours. Ness’s teeth gleam like a row of Japanese pearls and I clock, too, her perfect nails. Ness’s complexion is glowing but, up close, I see how much make-up she’s wearing and there’s a brittleness about her eyes. It’s not this, though, that everyone notices: it’s her hair. Ness’s magnificent hair has a life of its own and I see now that it’s even more impressive than it used to be. In another world, I’d ask her what her secret is.

She looks me up and down, this vision of perfection that is Ness Wolsey, then she speaks.

‘Stella! How lovely!’

She leans in for one of those girlie hugs around the neck and I get a whiff of some rose-based perfume as her cheek brushes mine. The scent is nauseatingly sweet.

‘It’s been – what? Fifteen years?’

I don’t grace this with a reply: it’s the fifteen-year reunion, after all, and the bar is full of banners and silver balloons proclaiming the fact. ‘So how’s life treating you?’ she continues. ‘You always were going to run the world. Did you succeed?’ Her voice is smooth, but I see a vein pulsing in her neck. She knows what happened – of course she knows.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m in catering.’

‘You always were baking cakes,’ she laughs. ‘Lucky you to do something you enjoy.’

‘Yes. I’m doing fine. No complaints.’ I don’t tell her the name of my company – a name she’ll definitely recognise. Neither do I mention that it’s the largest private catering company in London; that its annual turnover could wipe out the debt of a small country. ‘And, well – congratulations to you,’ I say. ‘You’ve… done well.’ I force a little laugh to detract from the fact that we both know the only thing she did well was to marry George.

Ness takes a swig from her wine glass and I notice two things: first, that it’s a small glass and, second, that she’s nearly halfway through it. She’s barely swallowed her mouthful when George swoops, grabs the glass out of her hand, and replaces it with a glass of sparkling water, making me think ‘alcohol problem? Interesting.’ George heads back to the bar without saying a word and Ness, unfazed, gives a little shrug.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ She smiles, and her pretty dimples blink at me, taking me straight back to those dark days in the sixth form. I smell medical disinfectant, see the shine of steel, feel the stiffness of a green gown against my skin. ‘It’s all good.’ She nods towards George, back at the bar, and gives a little sigh. ‘Been married fourteen years now. You know how it is.’ She pauses, glances at my left hand. ‘So, how about you? Got anyone special these days?’

I smile. ‘Not at the moment.’

Ness puts her hand on my arm as if she understands how desperate I must be. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘We’ll find you someone. The right one’s out there somewhere. You just haven’t found him yet.’ She pauses. ‘Maybe there’s even someone here for you tonight.’ Ness rolls her eyes around the bar taking in what she presumably sees as a cast of men with whom I at least have some shared history.

‘Maybe,’ I say, seeing a room full of married thirty-three-year-olds in Friday-night casualwear, ‘but I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to find out. My taxi’s waiting. Have a lovely evening.’

I practically run out of the door.

THREE

George

‘Yes!’ says the woman Stell was talking to at the bar. ‘So he’s been picked for the rugby squad and now we’re hoping he’ll make the First XV!’

I’m standing with my back to the bar, leaning my elbows against the counter so I can scan the room for Stella while absorbing the chit-chat from this woman who clearly fancies me but is yet to realise that talking about her kids isn’t the way to get me to fuck her. My eyes roam the crowded room; I’m searching for that arse in those jeans, and the cling of cashmere on those incredible tits. Failing to see Stell, I turn my attention back to the woman at the bar.

‘There’s a lot to be said for playing sport at that age,’ I tell her with a smile. ‘Keeps them out of mischief. Not that I’d know!’

Where the hell is Stell?

‘But you don’t have any children of your own?’ The woman pauses, drops her voice a notch and I see her eyes gleaming, keen to absorb any confidences I might want to share. ‘I hope there isn’t a…’

‘A problem?’ I ask smoothly. I drop my gaze then look back at her. ‘I suppose there is…’

She leans in, all ears, and I look at the floor in an attempt to keep my face straight. She’s so close I can smell the scent of her skin; feel the warmth coming off her. It would be so easy – so easy – to lead her round to the car park out the back for a quickie. Not that I would, of course; not with Ness here. Just hypothetically. I look up and search for her hand. I take it in mine, look her in the eyes and blink, as if holding back tears. ‘I suppose there is a problem,’ I say quietly.

‘I’m here if you need to talk,’ she breathes, inching her face even closer to mine and squeezing my hand. Now I can smell the wine on her breath; see the little dots of mascara gathered beneath her lower lash line. I lean in even further and whisper into her ear, my lips touching her skin; teasing.

‘Well, it’s just that…’ I pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing it right.’ I step back and hold my other fist at hip height and thrust my pelvis suggestively a couple of times towards her. ‘Know what I mean?’ I give her a big wink.

I watch her expression change as she realises she’s been had, then I burst out laughing as she turns away, embarrassed.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, George!’

‘Come here!’ I say, pulling her in for a hug. ‘Just kidding. Just a bit of banter!’ I kiss her hair, enjoying the scent of it and the soft feel of her in my arms, then I let her go, clinking my glass to hers. ‘Cheers, darling! You have a great night!’

I saunter across the bar, slapping people on the back and shaking hands as I go, working my way over to Ness. She’s with a group of girls – women, I suppose now – she used to hang out with at school: the popular ones; the netball team; the pretty ones; the smart ones. This was her crowd. She looks good. She’s in her element; the queen of them all.

‘All right, sweetheart?’ I ask, giving her a showy kiss on the cheek and snaking my arm around her waist. ‘I trust these lovely ladies are keeping you entertained?’

‘Yeah, all good. You?’

‘Just going to the little boys’ room.’

I unwind my arm and slip through the double doors that lead to the bathroom. There, in the service corridor, even though it’s muted, I can still hear the racket from the pub; the screech of voices straining to be heard over other voices; the thump of the music in the background. The floor’s slightly sticky and, under it all, there’s the smell of old coats and stale beer. I pull out my phone and message Stell.

‘Where are you?’

I wait but, when she doesn’t reply, I type again. ‘I can’t see you.’

I’m still there in the hallway, staring at the phone, when the door to the pub kicks open. Ness, her glass in her hand, is framed in the doorway, her hair backlit and slightly wild, and she looks for a second like a modern-day Medusa. Neither of us moves. Then, quickly, I slide my phone back into my trouser pocket, knowing as I do so, that there’s guilt written all over my face.

‘I’m just going to the loo,’ I say to her, ‘then we’re leaving.’

‘But I was just…’

‘No buts. I’m done here.’

FOUR

Stella

Back in Hampstead, I wave to the doorman and press the button for the lift. My phone chimes as I step into it and I ignore it: I’ve long stopped bothering to try to get a connection on the ride up to my apartment. The lift pings and I shove the key in my front door and breathe in that familiar bergamot smell of home.

I kick off my heels and saunter into the bedroom to change before pouring myself a glass of wine and collapsing onto the sofa. The blinds are open and I can see the glittering lights and sodium glow of London stretching beyond the blackness of Hampstead Heath. I lean back and relax, circling my ankles and enjoying being home. My phone chimes again. I look. It’s a Facebook message from George. Two in fact.

George Wolsey.

I stare at the name for a minute. I’ve never seen his name on my phone or in my inbox. It used to be letters. Paper envelopes or folded pieces of paper with my name written in his scruffy, boy-writing. Birthday cards. Postcards. Once, a Valentine’s card. The sight of his name in my inbox makes me feel as though we’re travellers – astronauts who’ve made it from a distant galaxy in which technology doesn’t exist.

Oh, George. Good at school. A sportsman. Quietly good-looking. Average intelligence. Excess confidence. A bit of bluster. He played the game. But even I wouldn’t have picked him out to be the most successful product of our year. He didn’t even go to university – he got offers, yes, but he changed his mind after getting a summer job at an advertising agency. From what I’ve read about him, I imagine that he lived and breathed the business; worked his way up, charming people left, right and centre. And now – now if you sing a tune from an ad – any ad that you hear on television or radio – the chances are that Wolsey Associates is responsible.

But that’s not why George is in the media; that’s not why we read interviews about him and see the odd picture of him rubbing shoulders with pop stars, artists, ‘it’ girls and actors at various black-tie events. No, what George is most known for these days is the pro bono work and the fundraising initiatives his agency does for children’s charities. It’s all about corporate responsibility for George now. As I said: he plays the game.

But what game is it he’s playing tonight? I open the first message. Where are you?

And then the second one. I can’t see you.

I put the phone down and take another sip of wine. Should I reply? Why not? Why not let him know that I left him? Typing with my thumb, balancing my phone in the same hand, I write back. At home.

Before I close Facebook and put the phone down, George has answered. You left already? I wanted to see to you.

You saw me.

I wanted to speak to you. Properly. Why did you leave?

‘None of your business,’ I say to the apartment. I put the phone down and head back to the kitchen for some cheese to accompany my wine. I have a salty Old Amsterdam and some Beaufort D’Ete, which I take out of the fridge almost reverentially. The phone pings again, and then again and again. I take my time cutting the cheese and arranging it on a plate. I pick up a crisp linen napkin and top up my wine glass. Back on the sofa, I put my plate on a side table and pick up my phone.

Stell?

Looking good, by the way.

‘Gee thanks,’ I say out loud. I think for a minute about sending George a witty reply but decide not to in the end. There’s nothing to be gained from reopening this path of communication. George has been out of my life for fifteen years and I’ve done just splendidly without him.

I take my cheese and wine into the bathroom and turn on the taps, adding a generous slug of bath oil. I peel off my sweater, my jeans, my underwear and my jewellery and climb into the bath, letting the warm, oily water slide over my skin. I close my eyes and picture the bar I’ve come from this evening. What’s happening at the reunion now? I wonder. Has it become wild, even the quiet ones drunk and dancing, or did everyone leave early, rushing back to partners, children and the thought of an early-morning start for rugby practice? Who’s George talking to? Is he doing the rounds, dutifully remembering everyone’s interests and quirks, or sitting morosely at the bar nursing a whisky as he messages me? And where’s Ness in all this? I sip my wine and enjoy my cheese, happy to be alone in the peace of my bathroom.

The phone rings: an unknown number. It can only be George. The sod.

‘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

Stella

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

George

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

Stella

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?’

‘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, but I’m not giving up. Chasing Stell makes me feel alive – it’s harmless and it’s not as if Ness is pregnant yet. I’ll rein it all in when she gets pregnant – I will – but, for now, something’s missing in my life and I could do with something to put the fire back in my veins.

‘Challenge accepted, Miss Simons,’ I say out loud. I polish off the wine in two swigs, then I pull out my phone and speed-dial Ness.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey!’ She sounds surprised.

‘What are you up to?’

‘I was going to watch a bit of TV and take a bath.’

‘Well, change of plan. My client cancelled. I’m on my way. Any chance you can rustle up a bit of dinner and we could…’ I leave it hanging, leaving her with the thought that I might shag her later.

‘OK.’

‘I’ll be home inside the hour.’ I pause. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you, too.’

NINE

Stella

Hand on heart, it feels good to walk out on George. It feels like the moment I’ve had coming for the last fifteen years. Admittedly, it’s not as bad as being left pregnant aged eighteen, but leaving him at that table feels symbolic. It feels like retribution. Closure.

I go back to my life, focus on my work, get on with running the little part of the world for which I’m responsible. Occasionally, in spare moments on the Tube or in a taxi queue, I think about George; I practise saying his name in my head and think about what he told me. It takes me time to come to terms with my new knowledge; time to absorb the fact that George didn’t get over me. There was a time when I longed to hear that he loved me, but now the words are out there, rolling around in the present day, they sound wrong. George is married and I’ve moved on. I don’t need George in my life.

But.

This is not any married man we’re talking about. This is George.

My George.

He said we should have had the baby.

I go about my business and I tell myself that it’s all very well that George still feels something for me but that’s his problem, not mine. George is not available, and I don’t do married men. Besides, I’ve made my stance clear: I’ve walked out on him twice now. The serendipity of that is not lost on me.

It could all end there. It should all end there.

But George has both the money and the tenacity for grand gestures. The day after I leave him in the pub, my secretary knocks on my office door. It’s almost lunchtime and my day’s one of pretty much back-to-back meetings. I’ve worked out how much time I need to prepare for each meeting and asked not to be disturbed. I’m irritated when I look up to wave her in. She’s carrying a box out in front of her as if it’s full of live puppies.

‘What is it?’ I’m short with her, trying not to lose the thread of my thoughts.

‘A delivery,’ she says. ‘Gourmet Lunch Co.’

‘Not mine.’ I turn back to the computer.

‘It’s got your name on it.’ She checks the label, reads out my name, company name and address. ‘I’ll leave it here.’ She places it on my desk, along with a set of office cutlery, and leaves.

When the door’s shut, I open the box. The smell that releases makes my mouth water. Inside, there are a couple of chargrilled chicken skewers arranged on a salad of lentil, feta and aubergine.

I turn back to my work and my phone buzzes. George. Did lunch arrive?

My lips twitch. I don’t want to smile, not even to myself, but who bar George would send food to the boss of a catering company? Only he would know me well enough to guess I rarely make time for my own lunch.

Why did you send it?

I want to take care of you.

I don’t need taking care of.

Everyone needs taking care of.

Maybe when I was 18 but not now.

Touché.

I don’t reply.

I’m saying sorry, George types.

I put my phone on silent and get back to work. But George doesn’t stop with one lunch. Food continues to arrive on a daily basis. Once, I pick up the fork, tempted to eat, but there’s something about putting food that George has chosen for me in my mouth that feels as if I’m letting him in; accepting something that I can’t allow myself to accept. I’m the feeder, not him. I tell my secretary to consider the deliveries hers.

Next comes a parcel delivered by hand. My assistant places it on my desk with a raised eyebrow and I look at the rectangular package, wrapped in luxurious paper. The cream silk ribbon is perfectly tied. It can only have come from George, though I imagine he didn’t wrap it himself. All morning, I leave the parcel on my desk, wondering whether to send it back, but then, around lunchtime, my resolve weakens and I gently tug the end of the ribbon to release the folds of paper. I’m expecting something new and shiny but, beneath the paper, my fingers touch something that’s softer, more worn: a used copy of a novel I loved as a teenager.

Sitting at my desk, I flick through the familiar pages, remembering the excitement with which I’d read the story for the first time. There’s a bookmark inside and I know before I turn to that page what I’ll find: it marks a paragraph about love I’d read aloud to George when we were seventeen. It’s only later, when I’m flicking through the book again that afternoon, that I realise the copy George has sent is a first edition. I place it reverentially back on my desk and nod. I’m impressed. The book is a thoughtful gift yet I don’t know if I should thank him. Well, of course I should thank him. But I know what George is like. If he sees any weakness in me, any chink in my armour, he’ll storm into it like the rugby player he used to be. I stick with simple.

Thanks for the book, I text him.

You’re welcome, he replies, and I just know that he’s smiling.

*

The next day, I’m wrapping things up at work when my phone buzzes. The sound’s loud in the silence of the office. It’s late – dark outside – and everyone’s gone home. I check the screen: an unknown number. I stare at it for a second, weighing up whether or not to pick up. It could be a new client, or perhaps a cold call. I’m about to leave and I don’t want to get into a long conversation. Even as I think all this, the phone stops buzzing. I put it back on the desk, but it starts up again almost immediately.

I pick up. ‘Stella Simons speaking… Hello?’

The line crackles a little, then a female voice comes on. ‘Stella! Hello! How are you?’ Pause. ‘It’s Ness.’

I lean back in my seat, lift my chin and squint my eyes at the blackness outside the office window. ‘Hello.’

‘It was lovely to see you the other night,’ says Ness. ‘Really nice.’

I give a polite laugh.

‘Wasn’t it amazing to see how everyone’s turned out?’ she says. ‘And yourself – of course! I’ve googled your company now.’ She laughs. ‘I didn’t realise that was you! Marvellous! I always knew you’d go far!’

Another small laugh from me.

‘I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years!’ Ness continues. ‘Gosh, did you see Julia and Sarah? It’s incredible that they’re still friends! And that their children are friends too! Do you still see anyone from school?’

‘No.’

‘No, we neither. We don’t have time, really, to be fair…’ Her voice trails off and I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing: namely, that Ness’s time is dedicated almost entirely to looking good on George’s arm.

‘So…’ she says, and I close my eyes, sensing that she’s finally coming to the point. ‘Do you think you’ll, um, stay in touch with George now you’ve reconnected?’And, as she asks this, I realise the reason that she’s called is because she’s worried. 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. I walk faster to distract myself, the clip of my heels ringing out against the noise of the traffic.

He’s in the same booth as he was last time; again, a bottle of wine on the table. I note that this time two glasses are poured and it occurs to me that, last time we met, he might have thought that I wouldn’t turn up. When he sees me, a smile washes over his face and he stands to greet me; gives me a hug, pulls back and kisses my cheek. Not an air kiss. A proper kiss. Lips on skin. My eyes close. Unintentionally.

I slide onto the bench opposite him and slip out of my suit jacket. Underneath, I’m wearing a sleeveless silk blouse.

‘Wow,’ says George. ‘You look… different.’ He’s not seen me in glasses before. I lower my gaze and look at him over the narrow tortoiseshell rims.

‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.’ I stretch my arms up over my head to release my hair, which has been in a bun all day, and shake it out over my shoulders. It’s a flirty move and it surprises me that I do it. ‘So, how are you?’ I say.

‘Comme ci, comme ça.’ George gives a Gallic shrug. I can feel his eyes on me, sliding over the bare skin of my arms and my throat.

We make small talk for a while, but below the words lies a subtext. The important discussion is non-verbal. Decisions are being made. When I can take it no more, I shift in my seat.

‘George,’ I say. ‘Why are you here with me?’

He leans back in his seat and exhales. ‘We’re… having a drink?’ His face lights up as he smiles.

‘No. I don’t mean that. I mean why are you here in Hampstead – miles from your home, from your wife – having a drink with me? I know you weren’t up here for work. Give me some credit.’ I see from his expression that I’m right. ‘What do you want from me?’

He has the grace to give me a coy look. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

I close my eyes, then open them again. I’m going to give decency one last shot. ‘But you have Ness,’ I say. ‘She’s beautiful. She always was the beautiful one.’

George’s face collapses. ‘Oh, Stell… is that what you think?’

I shrug. ‘This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what you’re doing here.’

‘I know. I know how it looks. “I’m a lucky man; why risk it?” and all that, but…’

‘But what? You chose. You had your choice, and you chose Ness.’

‘Stell. That’s unfair.’

‘Is it? Really?’

George closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he starts to speak. ‘I’m not happy, Stell. The marriage isn’t in a good place.’ He shakes his head. ‘Marriage!’ he snorts. ‘I say “marriage” as if what Ness and I have resembles that in any way, shape or form.’ He waits but I don’t say anything so he carries on. I’m running my finger along the grain of the table while he talks. ‘It used to be good, when it was just the two of us and we had nothing. But she changed the moment the money started rolling in. She has no career. She’s nothing but “Mrs George – Mrs Advertising”. She does nothing all day except pamper herself so she looks good. She’s like a footballer’s wife. What do you call them? A WAG. Totally vacant.’ He knocks his knuckles against his temple. ‘Nothing there. It’s taken over who she is, Stell; it’s all about her image, how she looks. I’ve forgotten what the real Ness even used to be like.’

I let his words settle, then I say, ‘I see.’ I’m not going to pass judgement on anyone else’s marriage, and I’m certainly not going to sit here criticising Ness with her husband, tempting as it is.

‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ George says when he realises I’m not going to say anything else, ‘that my success is only public? Everyone thinks I’m this huge success but, privately, I’m falling apart. If only they could see what goes on at home. It’s like the Cold War.’ George puts his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

The word ‘divorce’ springs to mind but it’s not my place to say it. I give George a weak smile. I will not get involved in other people’s marital spats.

‘I can’t leave her,’ says George. ‘What would she do without me? I’m her provider.’

I look at the table.

‘I know, I know,’ says George. ‘I’m too soft. Everyone tells me that.’ He sighs. ‘What I want from life has changed. I’m learning that sometimes things that look the best on the outside aren’t perhaps the best on the inside.’ George looks meaningfully at me and, despite the backhanded nature of this compliment, I can’t look away. He reaches for my hand across the table and the touch of his skin on mine fascinates me. Gently, he strokes the palm of my hand with his thumb. We stare at each other, communicating on a level that has no words. Then I pull my hand away and smile brightly.

‘So, how’s business?’ I ask. The conversation moves on. We finish the wine, drink another bottle; stick to safer topics. George flirts a little, and I don’t stop him. Around 10 p.m., he reaches for my hand again, and I let him take it. He leans towards me, his eyes searching my face.

‘Stell,’ he says, and I know what’s coming. I realise now that I’ve known all along why I picked this pub below the boutique hotel the first time; why I came here tonight, what I’ve known all along was inevitable. ‘Stell,’ he says again. ‘I want you. Come upstairs with me.’

Right words, wrong order, but I forgive him the slip – it’s been seventeen years since that night, after all. I look into George’s eyes, those hazel eyes I used to know so well. I search them and I see regret, desire, and, if I’m not mistaken, love.

‘Please?’ he asks.

I lower my eyes. Inhale. Exhale, then I look back up at him.

George slides a key card across the table. ‘Go now. I’ll come up in five.’

It’s not stealing if it should always have been yours. I take the key card and head for the stairs.

TWELVE

George

There’s no time for me to reflect on what happened with Stell: the very next day is my wedding anniversary and Ness, it turns out, has booked us a romantic dinner à deux sliding down the Thames on a luxury river cruiser. She’s even arranged a cake. It’s coming towards us now: a chocolate gateau held majestically aloft by a beaming waitress. Ness moves a candle out of the way and takes my hand across the table.

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ She smiles. ‘This is why I’ve been trying to stop you ordering dessert. I thought they’d never bring it out.’

I squeeze her hand. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ But I do. I hate showy, public displays of affection: the forced happiness. The hope – followed, inevitably, by the disappointment. It’s just so married; so ‘meh’.

‘I know you wanted a quiet dinner, but – well, it’s fourteen years!’ Ness is pleased with herself. Has she done this because she knows I’ll hate it, or do I just think that because I know I deserve to be punished?

The waitress arrives, places the cake reverentially in the centre of the table, arranges a knife, two plates, and there it is: ‘George & Ness’ entwined in dark chocolate italics across a slab of white chocolate atop the cake. Naff, naff, naff.

‘Congratulations,’ says the waitress. ‘Happy anniversary.’

Our fellow diners turn quietly back to their own dinners.

‘Shall I?’ I ask, picking up the knife.

‘Just a little.’

I cut two slices, one marginally smaller than the other, and pass one to Ness.

‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

‘Happy anniversary. Another year survived.’ Ness laughs.

‘It’s good,’ she says, after tasting the cake, and she’s right – it is. Gooey, moist and utterly delicious. I wolf it down.

‘Did you ever imagine we’d get to fourteen years?’ Ness asks.

I look at her. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘It’s not that difficult. Back then – when we were eighteen – did you ever imagine us this far down the line? Or did you just think about the present? You know, a bit of fun for the time being. Not really imagine the far distant future?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘What about you? Did you?’

Ness plays with the cake on her plate, pushing it about with her dainty little cake fork. Then she looks up at me.

‘Yes, of course I did. When I got married, I knew – hoped! – it was for life. You don’t enter into marriage imagining it’s not going to be for ever. Do you?’

‘Of course not. So, in answer to your question: yes. I did.’ I smile at her. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

She sighs. ‘Oh nothing.’ She picks up her wine glass and holds it to her cheek before draining it in one. ‘Right, where’s the bathroom?’

While she’s gone, I pull out my phone. I’m desperate to speak to Stell; find out what she’s thinking after last night. The sex blew me away. When I message her, she replies immediately and I type frantically, knowing I only have a couple of minutes. Last night clearly broke some sort of barrier between us but I don’t know if she sees it as a one-off, or the start of something new. I try to lead her on, to goad her into talking about it, but her responses are frustratingly ambiguous. Each reply she sends leaves me desperate for more and, for five, maybe ten, minutes, I lose track of where I am and why. When I look up from the screen, I realise that Ness hasn’t come back.

Gotta go, I type reluctantly to Stell, while hoping that my disappearing might leave her wanting more, then I stand and look around for Ness. I can’t see her in the dining room, so I push open the door to the deck and see her, finally, standing at the railings, staring out at the water. She looks completely, unbearably, alone.

I slip my arms around her waist from behind, getting a face full of hair as I do so, and squeeze her against me, feeling the softness of her waist, where it dips in under her breasts.

‘Hey, gorgeous. Do you come here often?’ I whisper in her ear, as I nibble her ear lobe. She’s stiff for a moment and then I feel her relax into me.

‘I was waiting for you,’ I tell her, but she sighs and closes her eyes.

‘I needed some air,’ she says.

‘It’s lovely out here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. London’s so beautiful. You get such a different perspective from the river.’

I rest my chin on her shoulder so my eyes are the same level as hers and I get the same view she’s getting. She’s right. London is beautiful at night. The moon’s not quite full and it reflects off the water as the boat moves along, barely breaking the surface. We stand in silence for a few minutes and suddenly I’m imagining that it’s Stell in my arms, not Ness. That we’ll go home together and it’s Stell I’ll make love to, Stell who’ll be the mother of my child. Oh God, could that ever be possible?

‘I love you, Mrs Wolsey,’ I say.

Ness gives a tiny laugh. ‘I love you too, Mr Wolsey.’

‘We’ll be docking soon,’ I say. ‘Come inside. Let’s have coffee.’

We walk back in with our arms around each other.

THIRTEEN

Stella

The evening in the pub with George is the beginning, of course, of an affair. More than that: a love affair.

But, love or no love, it means the start of a series of meetings in discreet London hotels. For my own convenience as much as for his, I stop asking George to come all the way to Hampstead. We start meeting in central London. Snatched moments: lunchtimes; afternoons. We have our favourite meeting places as well as what rapidly becomes a ‘regular’ little boutique hotel in Mayfair, where we act out the pretence that we’re married. The hotel realises, I imagine, what’s really going on, but the staff play along happily enough. George buys a second phone; pays cash at the hotel. If it wasn’t such a cliché, it might be funny.

I’m surprised by how right everything feels. For the first time since I was a teenager, I slowly give myself up to love, enjoying the feeling of well-being with which it infuses me; lapping up the knowledge that I am loved.

But there’s a sticking point. An elephant in the room.

He’s not mine.

I try not to think about Ness. I’m not the one, after all, who stood at the altar and promised to be faithful. I don’t know how George does it, but, if I concentrate hard enough, if I squeeze my eyes shut when I’m lying in his arms and if I focus on the rhythm of his breathing and inhale the scent of his skin, I can just about pretend that Ness doesn’t exist; I can force her from my mind and inhabit a world in which, for an hour or two, for a stolen evening here and there, it’s just George and me.

I can lie entwined with George, and imagine that he really is mine.

As he always should have been.

I try not to dwell on how right I feel in George’s arms; about how our bodies remember from all those years ago how well they fit together. I really try not to. I throw myself into work; I have client meetings, I’m driving our expansion into corporate clients. It’s during this period that I land some brilliant new accounts. People notice. Professionally, I’m on fire.

But then, insidiously, the alien feeling that I no longer want to be alone creeps into my consciousness like the lavender-infused curls of steam I’m watching rise above my bath one evening. I’ve a glass of wine balanced on the edge of the tub and the radio on a chill-out station – this bath routine is my favourite part of the day, but tonight there it is: the notion that it would be absolutely right for George to be pottering about in the bedroom. Just like that, the thought pops into my head and then, once it’s thought, I can’t un-think it. I sink under the surface of the water and imagine George coming into the bathroom; I imagine him plucking a warm towel off the rack and holding it out to me. Me stepping into it, George enveloping me with it, then scooping me up and carrying me into the bedroom and, as I imagine this scene, my whole body relaxes.

But this – this feeling that George should not just be in my apartment but in my life – is disconcerting. I’m a loner. Don’t get me wrong: I can deal with people well enough but, at the end of the day, I like my own space. Sharing my life is not something I’ve dreamed of since I was eighteen years old: ironically enough, not since I was a schoolgirl imagining her life with George Wolsey – and that was presumably just because I knew no better. It’s quite ridiculous if I think about it that, aged thirty-three, I’ve gone full loop. I have to be careful when I’m at work, not to daydream of how this life together might play out, but I’m not very successful. Like a creeping fog, George seeps into my day-to-day thoughts.

I picture a house in the country. Not an old heap with rattly single-glazing and leaky pipes but a barn conversion, perhaps, modernised inside. Lots of light and space; the kitchen glossy white; an office for each of us to work from home a couple of days a week. I’ve always wanted to write a book. The business is ticking over nicely. I could easily take a step back and make time to write. I see myself facing an expansive view of green fields; sucking the end of a pen as I think about my next sentence. But I also picture a small cottage by the sea, roses tangled around peeling blue window frames; a golden retriever running ahead of George and I on the cold, hard sand. Sometimes I imagine a luxury apartment on the river, its picture windows overlooking the glittering lights of the Thames as George and I stand on the terrace on a Friday evening nursing ice-cold gin and tonics. It doesn’t matter, I realise, where we live: the important ingredient of this fantasy is George. George and Stell, back together, growing old together. George and Stell together for ever.

Trying to focus on my work, I see George, in jeans and a black sweater, padding into my home office mid-morning with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and ‘that’ look in his eye… I snap my attention back to the computer screen but it’s minutes before my mind wanders again, this time down the corridor of the barn conversion, to an annexe off our bedroom where there might be… I breathe in deeply – it’s not too late!… a little nursery. White, with accents of colour. Blue or pink? I don’t mind.

I don’t know what sex our baby would have been.

I like to think a boy. A tiny version of George, his face crumpled and new.

But I’m no marriage-wrecker. Walk away, I tell myself. Walk away now.

FOURTEEN

George

We meet, one night, for dinner. An unobtrusive restaurant that I know, with lighting so low it takes a minute for our eyes to adjust, and a lot of red velvet and ostentatious décor. There aren’t many tables, but plenty of very private booths. At first glance, the restaurant doesn’t look busy but, as we walk through, it becomes apparent that almost all of the booths contain couples – many of them, I imagine, here purely to snatch time away from prying eyes. It’s that kind of place to be honest: much as I’d love to show off that I’m with Stell, I’m hardly in a position to go somewhere conspicuous – not with the chance that I might be recognised.

Stell’s energy is off-kilter tonight; nothing I can put my finger on – she’s just not her usual self. I follow her into our booth, squishing onto the bench seat alongside her, and my hand finds its usual place on her leg under the table. I stroke up and down her thigh through the thin fabric of her skirt, feeling the line of her stocking as the waitress asks if we’d like any drinks to start.

‘Champagne!’ I say, pointing to a good label on the wine list.

‘Champagne?’ Stell raises her eyebrows at me once the waitress has gone.

‘What?’ I raise mine back at her, mock innocence.

‘Are we celebrating something?’

I put my hand on the side of Stell’s face, pull her towards me and touch my lips to hers. The scent of her makes me tremble with the memory of being inside her.

‘Us,’ I say. ‘We’re celebrating us.’

She pulls away just enough so her lips move against my mouth.

‘There is no “us”, George,’ she says quietly. ‘You know that.’

I kiss her again, tasting her bottom lip with the tip of my tongue. ‘But there is. We’re here. Now. Or am I dreaming?’

She pulls away properly this time; smooths my hand off her skirt, suddenly prim. ‘George. Please. You and me? We’re an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. We don’t exist in the outside world.’

I smile. ‘Of course we do. We’re here, aren’t we?’ I pinch my arm. ‘Ouch. See?’

Stell sighs and shakes her head. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Here we are!’ says the waitress, presenting the champagne bottle with a flourish. I nod. ‘Would you like me to open it?’

‘Yes please,’ I say, and we watch patiently while she fiddles to remove the foil, then twists the bottle until the cork works its way loose. She pops it discreetly, then carefully fills two flutes, making sure they don’t bubble over. I slip my hand back onto Stell’s leg under the table and give it a squeeze, but she doesn’t look at me.

‘I’ll just get a cooler for that,’ says the waitress, so we wait, once more, till she’s back and the bottle’s settled in an ice bucket. I pick up a flute and hand it to Stell, then I raise my glass to her.

‘To us.’

‘To smoke and mirrors, and the illusion of us,’ she says.

I take a sip. ‘One day, Stell. One day we’ll have it all and, together, we’ll be glorious.’ I don’t know where they come from but, once the words are out there, I like them. I give a little nod to confirm I mean them, but Stell rolls her eyes.

‘Oh, spare me the advertising talk. We both know exactly what this is.’ She looks pointedly at the other couples hiding in booths. ‘Let’s not make it out to be more than it is, George. It’s all it ever was with you and me: sex. In secret.’

‘No. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.’

‘How am I wrong? Tell me!’ There’s fire in her eyes; a challenge. ‘Why are we hidden away in this sleazy restaurant? Why aren’t we at the theatre, at some fantastic society party, or out with your friends?’ She slumps back on the seat. ‘You don’t have to answer that. The least you can do is give me the honour of not pretending this is anything more than it is.’

‘But Stell…’ I’m at a loss for words. This was supposed to be a romantic night out, not a battle. I put my hand on hers. ‘Is this our first fight?’

‘It’s not a fight, George. It’s just me calling a spade a spade and you being a prat. I’m under no illusions here.’ She takes a glug of champagne. ‘I’m your mistress. Nothing more.’

‘But…’

‘But what?’ She spins to face me. ‘But you’re going to leave Ness? Oh please! Spare me the crap! It’s not going to happen. Let’s not pretend it is. This—’ she nods her head to the room ‘—this is all we have. All we’ll ever have. This and seedy hotel rooms.’

‘They’re jolly nice hotel rooms!’

‘You know what I mean, “Mr Jones”!’ She pauses, takes a breath and I see she’s summoning her strength. ‘And you know what?’ she says, quieter now; self-assured. ‘I’m worth more than this.’ Another pause. ‘I can’t – I won’t – go on like this.’ A breath. ‘I think we should end it.’

I stare at her, appalled. ‘No. No-no-no. I’ve not got this far with you to end it before it gets off the ground.’

‘What gets off the ground? What exactly? What do you have in mind here? Because I’m not seeing it. I’m seeing you married to Ness and me running around to your beck and call and, frankly, that’s not who I am.’

I take her hand. I can’t lose her now.

‘Stell. Princess. Look at me. Look me in the eye and listen to me. My marriage is dead. It has been for years. Ness and me, we… we live separate lives. We sleep in different rooms.’ I imagine this scenario as I talk, convincing myself as I go that this is how it really is. It’s as if I’m telling a story. ‘Yes! Different rooms. And, if you want to know: it was me who moved out of the bedroom, not her.’

‘Really?’ She wants to believe me. I can see that she really wants to believe me.

‘Anyway, the point is,’ I say, warming to my theme, ‘I want you to know that this is not about you. Yes, you may be the catalyst that makes me actually get up and want to do something about it, but Ness and I started down this road long before you came on the scene; long before the school reunion.’ I laugh. ‘God, Stell. When I saw your name under “Going” – wow. I was like a kid waiting for Christmas to come. And then – seeing you there at the bar! I couldn’t get over to you fast enough.’

‘And then I left.’

I close my eyes, remembering how I’d searched for Stell. How the colour had leached out of the evening when I’d realised that she’d gone. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And then you left.’

‘Sorry,’ she says, and I realise that she’s softening; that I’m starting to win her over. ‘I didn’t know what to make of that “arse” thing,’ she says. ‘I don’t do affairs. I just don’t.’

‘And nor should you, my princess. Listen, sitting here tonight, I promise you it won’t be for much longer. All right? But please don’t leave me. I know it’s not nice, what we’re doing, and I know it’s not “you”. I know you’re worth more, so much more. It’s far from perfect, but it won’t be for ever.’ I lift her chin so I’m looking into her eyes. ‘But what is it they say? All’s fair in love and war?’

She stares at me, her eyes searching mine.

‘Did you say love?’ she whispers.

I kiss my finger and touch it to her lips. ‘Yes, princess,’ I whisper back. ‘I said love.’

God, I’m good.

FIFTEEN

Stella

As far as my colleagues are concerned, there’s nothing unusual about me being the last one left in the office. At 6.15 p.m., my assistant pops her head around the door.

‘Don’t stay too late, birthday girl!’ she says. She hesitates a fraction in the doorway and, although I can see she wants to, she knows better than to ask if I have plans. I wonder if she’s thinking she should invite me out for a drink herself: again, she knows better. The remnants of the birthday cake the team made for me sit on the meeting table.

I smile and shake my head. ‘I won’t. Just finishing up here.’

‘Good. ’Night then!’ she says.

‘’Night.’

I wait for her to leave the building before snapping into action. All day I’ve had an overnight bag stashed under my desk. I take out my make-up bag and, in the bathroom, I go over my face, carefully touching up my foundation, darkening my eyeshadow and, finally, painting my lips siren red. I lock my office door on the way back in, and close all the blinds. My dress – bought specially for the occasion – hangs in a dust cover on the back of the door. Feeling not unlike a schoolgirl changing into her miniskirt in the school loos, I slip out of my suit and pants and into the dress, smoothing it over my bare hips as I step into the shoes I bought to match. Finally, I apply my signature scent to the pulse points on my wrists and throat, then I spray it liberally into the air above my head and let the cloud of fragrance envelop me, scenting my hair and clothes. George has, I know, an exceptional olfactory memory.

Finally, I take a look at my reflection in the glass of the office door and give myself a little nod: I’ll do. It’s the first time I’ve made such an effort specifically for George. But then I’m impressed with the way he’s managed my birthday. First, he remembered. Had he forgotten, I wouldn’t have said a thing – I’m not one to make a fuss of these things – but he remembered. And he’s made all the arrangements for tonight himself.

‘Wear something nice, Stell,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you somewhere special.’

That’s all I could extract from him, even in those vulnerable post-coital moments when his brain turns to mush. I wonder how far this is going. Is tonight to be the night we finally get to sleep a full night in each other’s arms? We’ve talked about it – dreamed about it – yet never done it. Will he manage to get away?

My phone beeps and I see that the car George has arranged to take me to the mystery destination is waiting. I gather up my things and lock the office before slipping into the car.

‘Evening,’ I say to the driver. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’

‘Yep,’ he says, misunderstanding my meaning, and I realise I don’t want him to know that I don’t know where I’m going myself, so I sit silently, trying to second-guess my destination at every junction. The car finally pulls up outside a smart hotel adjacent to Hyde Park.

‘Here we are, miss,’ says the driver. I reach for my purse. ‘Don’t worry. It’s on account,’ he says and I feel a surge of gratitude to George. This is how dating should be. My heels click on the marble as I walk into the lobby and my hair – blow-dried at lunchtime – bounces with every step. I feel like a film star and I’m expecting George to appear stage left or right, beaming and ready to escort me to dinner, but I don’t see him so I wander towards a cluster of tables and perch on a seat, where I people-watch while I wait. Hellos and goodbyes play out; airport taxis pull up and leave; bellboys whisk luggage from car to reception and back again. Aware then that time is passing, I check my watch: 7.20 p.m. The table’s booked for 7.30 and George told me it was important we were on time. I message him but the message isn’t read. I can see that George hasn’t been online for thirty minutes. Is he on the Underground? It seems unlikely; he’s more of a taxi guy. I check my phone obsessively until 7.25, when I stand up and walk over to reception.

‘Hello. You have a restaurant reservation for Stella Simons tonight… can you tell me which restaurant it’s in?’ I love that the receptionist doesn’t raise an eyebrow about why I might have a reservation and not know where: she simply picks up the phone and finds out, then directs me down to the signature restaurant – the one that’s spearheaded by ‘that’ celebrity chef who’s currently generating much buzz and column inches for his unique style. Since I’d arrived at the hotel, I’d hoped it might be that one that George had booked, but I would never presume. Nice.

At the entrance to the restaurant, they’re expecting me.

‘Miss Simons?’ asks the maître d’, then escorts me to an anteroom, where I’m introduced to two well-dressed couples clutching glasses of champagne. Until this moment, I’ve held out hope that maybe George is waiting for me at the restaurant, perhaps with some sort of surprise lined up. The surprise, unfortunately, is that he’s not here. A waiter hands me a flute of champagne.

‘One more guest?’ the maître d’ asks the waiter quietly. He looks at his watch. ‘We wait a few more minutes, but…’

I smile vaguely at the other couples and give a little shrug. It’s not me who’s late.

The maître d’ moves to the front of the room.

‘Welcome to the Chef’s Table experience,’ he says reverentially. ‘Tonight we have for you a very special experience. A unique experience. You will start the evening with a tour of the kitchens, during which you can see and experience for yourselves the high-octane atmosphere of a Michelin-starred kitchen. Then we will take you to the chef’s table where you will be joined by our executive chef, who has prepared a special eight-course tasting menu for your enjoyment. We have, too, a dedicated sommelier for you tonight who has paired each dish with a wine from our cellars.’ The two couples make excited faces at each other and I check my phone one more time: George is still offline. The maître d’ rubs his hands together, then turns to me. ‘Madam… the other guest… your companion… will be here soon?’

I shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I hope so…’ I hold up my phone as if they all can see George is offline. ‘He’s not responding. But he’s never late, so…’

The maître d’ nods. ‘We will wait five minutes.’

The other couples turn to each other and start to make small talk. I put my phone to my ear and move away from the group with a smile, disinterested in where they work and how much they’re looking forward to this evening. While they chat, I pace. Honestly: it’s excruciating. I’m relieved when the maître d’ steps forward with a pained look on his face. He gives a little bow.

‘I hope you don’t mind if we begin. The kitchen is expecting us now and it’s important that we…’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Please. Let’s start. I’m sure my companion will be here any second.’

As we walk around the kitchen, looking into pots and listening to the executive chef detail a little about the history and conception of each dish, my mind’s not on cooking but on George; I’m half expecting his hand on my hip at any moment as he steps up behind me and joins the tour. A shiver runs through me as I picture him realising that I’m not wearing any underwear.

‘This is a recipe I initially learned from my grandmother,’ a chef is telling us as he hands around tiny saucers of rabbit. I throw the morsel in my mouth in one go, registering subconsciously how the meat’s so tender it practically dissolves on my tongue. I’m not a fan of game, but the taste is exquisite. Why isn’t George here? Has something happened to him? He wouldn’t miss an experience like this through choice. He must either be caught up in traffic or some sort of security alert, sick, or have had an accident. I balance my phone in my hand beneath the saucer, waiting to feel the buzz of a message come in, yet I’m surprised when it finally does. Even though the chef is speaking, I ditch the saucer on a countertop and pull up the message. Princess. I’m so sorry. I’m not going to make it. Will make it up to you. Promise. X

The group moves ahead as I type my reply.

What happened? Are you OK?

I’m fine. It’s Ness. She’s sick. I have to go. Will try to message later.

Ness.

My heart’s suddenly hammering and I see red. I know it’s a cliché but I really do. The room seems to recede as my vision clouds. I shove my phone back into my bag without gracing George’s text with a reply, and I go over to the group, a bright smile on my face. I should have been an actress.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say loudly so everyone can hear me over the bustle and noise of the kitchen. ‘I’m going to have to leave. My partner isn’t able to make it after all. Have a lovely evening!’

‘Oh no!’ says one of the women. She turns away from the group and I can see she looks genuinely concerned. But the pity in her eyes hurts me more than George’s no-show. ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she says. ‘You’re here now and we won’t bite!’

‘Well, only the food!’ says the other woman. They giggle.

‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’ll reschedule.’

‘Aww, come on!’ The first woman tries to grab my arm and pull me over but I shrug her off.

‘It’s fine. Really. All the more for you. Have a lovely evening.’

I spin on my heel and leave the kitchen. I stop briefly in the anteroom, where the waiter’s tidying up the champagne glasses.

‘Did my companion guarantee the booking with a credit card?’

‘Yes… yes, it’s policy.’

‘He can’t make it, so please charge whatever cancellation fee you need to his card, thank you.’

‘I’m afraid at such late notice, you will be charged the full price.’ The waiter shakes his head apologetically.

‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘And, while you’re at it, please send the group a bottle of champagne. That one we had earlier? Just add it to the bill, thanks.’

I walk back through the hotel lobby and signal for a black cab, barely registering the activity going on around me. My mind’s racing: I’m remembering Ness’s phone call to me after the reunion; the warning tone in her voice: ‘Will you stay in touch, do you think?’

While the taxi weaves its way through Friday-night London traffic, I open Facebook on my mobile, and there, in among the notifications, I find Ness’s message: ‘Happy birthday, Stella! Hope you’re having a lovely evening! Xx’

Sick? She’s not sick: she’s clever. George! I think. How can you be so gullible? And then, as the taxi draws up outside my apartment block, I remember a simple fact that sends me to the wine bottle before I even take my shoes off: he’s not mine. Ness has every right to pull rank on my birthday because George is not mine.

SIXTEEN

George

When I put the key in the lock, I don’t know whether I’m worried about Ness or angry with her for making me miss Stell’s birthday dinner. I’d told her I had a very important ‘client dinner’.

‘Please can you come?’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been throwing up all day and I… I just need you.’

‘I can’t, hon. I’m sorry, but these people are in town for one night only.’

‘Can you send someone else?’

‘I would if I could, hon, but it’s me they want.’

‘George, please? I need you.’ Her voice was hoarse from vomiting.

‘Is there no one else you can call? Just till I get home?’

She’d gone quiet then, and I’d caught myself: am I such a monster that I won’t go to my sick wife when she needs me? Because I’m out with my lover? I’d paced the office, torn between burning desire to see Stell and the duty I felt to go home to Ness.

‘I’m sorry. Of course I’ll come. You’re right. I’ll get Adam to go to the dinner. I’m sure the client won’t mind and – well, if they do…’

‘. . . if they do, perhaps they’re not the sort of client you want.’

‘Exactly.’

And so I stop at Waitrose on the way home and pick up a bunch of guilt flowers for Ness.

‘Honey!’ I call as I push open the door but there’s no reply. The light’s on in the living room so I look there first and, bingo, there she is, sprawled, fast asleep on the sofa, her hair spread all over the cushions. I stand over her for a minute, wondering whether to wake her up or just make her more comfortable there on the sofa, when I notice something in her hand and my whole body stiffens. A pregnancy test.

‘Oh my God! Ness! Is it? What is it? Are we… ?’ I squeeze my hands into fists, not sure whether to take the test from her hands or wait for her to tell me. Ness’s eyes snap open and she pushes her hair out of her eyes as she struggles to sit up, her hand clamping back around the test. Slowly, she registers me standing there and her face breaks into a huge smile. She holds the test out to me.

‘Here, look.’

‘What is it? What does it mean?’

‘Read it!’

So I look at the test, and I see that it says one word and one word only: ‘Pregnant’.

‘Oh my God! Ness! Does this mean… ?’

She nods.

‘Oh my God! There’s no doubt?’

‘Well. You can get false negatives, but I don’t think you get false positives, so…’

‘I’m going to be a dad?’

‘Yes.’

I fling myself down on the sofa next to her and scoop her into my arms, hugging her to me and kissing her face and her hair. She clings on to me.

‘You’re happy about this?’ she asks.

‘Of course I’m happy! Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ I swear I want a baby more than she does; I long to see that little crumpled face that looks like a brand-new, old-age version of me. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it! You clever thing! How?’

‘George! You know exactly how!’

‘But – when?’

‘You remember that night your client cancelled? I reckon it was then.’

‘But why now?’

‘Oh I don’t know, George! Stop analysing it! Maybe the time’s right. Maybe the stars aligned and a pink unicorn sprinkled some fairy dust over our house. I don’t know.’

I look at her and maybe I’m imagining it but already there seems to be a radiance about her. Suddenly I feel very protective of her. She’s carrying the most precious cargo in the world: my child.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to bed. You need your sleep now, more than ever. You both do.’ I take her hand and lead her up to the bedroom where we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

At the very back of my mind, behind everything else, just one dark cloud: Stell.

SEVENTEEN

Stella

I don’t contact George again after my birthday. He texts a little – though not as much as I’d have imagined, to be honest – but I delete his messages as soon as they come in, without even reading them. Was he the one let down on his birthday? Humiliated in front of strangers?

Instead, I spend all weekend alone. When the chips are down, you can rely only on yourself in this life. Remember that! I tell myself. Walking on the heath and passing time in coffee shops, I take the full blame for the debacle of my birthday night and berate myself with every step. George was played by Ness. This I see, and he’s an idiot not to see. But there’s a reason why I never get involved with married men and it’s just as valid with George as it is with anyone else. Yes, he was my George and yes, he should be my George, but he’s married. End of.

‘It’s sleazy, Stella, it’s seedy and it’s not you!’ I say out loud lying on my sofa on Sunday afternoon. ‘I don’t care who he is, it stops now.’ I get out my old notebook with the wedding dresses and the signatures and throw it in the bin without looking at it, then I toast my decision with a glass of good wine and some olives and start to feel a little better.

By the time I return to work early on Monday morning, I’m almost myself again, excited about what the coming working week will bring as I head towards the office, and then I see him – George – standing outside the office door looking absolutely freezing despite his winter coat. My first instinct is to run into his arms, then I remember what he did and I want to dodge him and walk the other way but he’s looking out for me and already he’s seen me. I stop and look at him.

‘What brings you here?’

He takes a step towards me, his hands held out. ‘Stella. Stell. Please.’ I notice that his knuckles are rudely red next to the white of his fingers. His nose, too, is red, and his face is pinched with cold. He stamps his feet on the pavement, his breath coming out in clouds.

‘Please what?’ I say.

‘Please don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like this!’

‘I’m not being like anything. I’m just trying to unlock the office. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I have a company to run – as do you.’ While I fumble for the keys in my bag, George tries to pull me round and hug me but I stand stiffly, my face averted. He lets his arms drop.

‘I’m sorry about your birthday,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am, but I couldn’t help it.’

‘OK,’ I say, unlocking the door. ‘Have a good day.’

‘Is this it?’ he asks. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ His voice is sodden with sadness and something catches in my chest.

I turn to face him. ‘How’s Ness?’

A micro-pause. ‘She’s much better, thanks.’

‘What was wrong?’

‘She was sick. Vomiting. A bug, I guess.’

‘Did you see her throw up?’

George flinches. ‘What?’

‘She wished me a happy birthday on Facebook that morning. She said, “hope you’re having a lovely evening – kiss, kiss”.’

‘You can’t read anything into that!’

I shrug. ‘Whatever.’

‘She was sick, Stell. Don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’ I know it sounds arrogant to assume that Ness feigned sickness to stop him seeing me on my birthday – especially when she doesn’t know about our affair – but I know I’m right.

‘You know she’s already warned me off you?’ I say. ‘She called me after the reunion. Did you know that?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. She’s not stupid. Did you actually see her throw up? Did you see vomit come out of her mouth? Even once?’

George shakes his head slowly. ‘Look. Whatever you’re implying, you’re wrong. Trust me.’

We stare at each other and I realise there’s something he’s not telling me; that there’s more to this and that, in our little trio, I’m the only one who doesn’t know. I look away.

‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ness, and I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But just know that she’s manipulating you. Don’t be gullible. That’s all I’m saying.’

Saying the words out loud, I feel so mean; so petty. ‘Why am I even standing here on the pavement discussing with you whether or not your wife was sick? The point is you say I’m your “everything” but I’m not. Not at all. I’m only your “everything” when it suits you. As I said before, it’s not who I am. This is not my life and I will not continue like this!’ I’m embarrassed to realise I’m shouting.

‘Stell. I’m sorry. I stuffed up.’ He’s scuffing the pavement with his toe.

‘Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Now I have to get to work. Have a good day.’

I give George a peck on his cold cheek, then I open the door and step inside the office reception. I try to shut the door behind me but he holds it.

‘Stell, please.’

We tussle for a moment and, again, I’m struck with how undignified this is. Never in my life have I aspired to be a woman who tussles with her lover on the doorstep of her office. I peel George’s cold fingers off the door.

‘Let go, please, George. I need to get into work. Goodbye.’

I shut the door in his face.

EIGHTEEN

George

Stell stops taking my calls and refuses to answer my messages. She doesn’t even check Facebook – all my messages sit there unread. It’s as if she’s blocked me from her life – and of course that makes me desperate. Like an addict, I check all my social media obsessively, monitoring whether or not she’s online. If she is, I never catch her.

So I try to focus on Ness, but the initial excitement about the pregnancy starts to wear thin: she’s capricious, sick a lot, tired all the time, and lets me know in no uncertain terms that I can forget about sex until she starts to feel better. It’s too early for a scan so we don’t even have one of those grainy pictures to look at. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

Meantime, on the long evenings in front of the television when Ness is in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Stell. Do I love her? I want her. I want to possess her. I want to be the most important thing in her life. I need to be the most important thing in her life; I need her to look at me as if I’m her sun, her moon and her stars. I’m obsessed with her. Is that love? I think so.

And then another thought: what if it was Stell, not Ness, having my baby? The thought makes me catch my breath. I close my eyes and imagine me and Stella in bed, my hands sliding over the tautness of her swollen belly, feeling the movements of my child under her skin. I imagine making love gently, gently to a pregnant Stella.

I’m not religious, but I say a little prayer. Please, God. Somehow.

And then reality slams me in the face. The love of my life is expecting me to leave my wife, but my wife is pregnant. I know I’ve sunk low sometimes, but leaving a pregnant woman? I can’t do it.

So what can I do? How can I buy myself time?

Could I tell Stell that Ness is sick? Something that means I have to stay with her for a few more months to ‘support’ her and ‘help’ her? I stare blankly into the middle distance, tapping my forehead as I work through my ideas. If Ness was allegedly going for regular treatments, I could even come to her antenatal appointments. I’d come out of it smelling like roses on both sides.

And then the solution hits me: cancer.

A curable one, of course: I wouldn’t want to give Stell the impression Ness is dying. I don’t want to tempt fate. But yes: cancer’s a good bet. A small one, caught early but requiring seven or eight months of treatment.

Sad face: I’m so sorry, Stell, but I can’t leave her right now.

Yes, it’s perfect. I give myself a silent high-five.

And so, I wait outside Stell’s office again. All afternoon, I sit in the Greek-run sandwich shop across the road, one eye on my coffee, one on the office door. But, as afternoon turns to evening and darkness sets in, I start to wonder if she’s even there. Then, around eight, just as I’m about to give up, I see the door open and, finally, it’s her. I sprint across the street.

‘Stell!’

‘How long have you been waiting?’ Stell locks the office door as she speaks, her eyes not meeting mine.

‘Since half-four.’ I nod at the sandwich shop. ‘I was in there quite a bit. Great coffee. Kept me awake.’ Instinctively, I reach to touch her arm, but she jerks it away from me and starts to walk down the pavement towards the Tube station. I dash to catch up.

‘Stell. Wait!’

‘What? I told you how it’s going to be. I don’t do affairs.’

‘I know. Please come with me. Come for a quick drink. I need to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘About stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘There’s something I need to tell you. About Ness.’

She stops and turns, a flash of hope in her face. ‘What is it? Have you left her?’

I swallow. ‘Not here. Come with me.’ I tug at her arm, and am surprised that she lets me guide her by the elbow to the nearest bar. We stand awkwardly as I order drinks. Below ground is a second bar that’s quieter. Like a couple on a first date, we each carry our own glass down the spiral staircase, and I lead Stell over to a table. We’re the only people there yet suddenly the room seems tiny – claustrophobic – and the walls close in on me, the paint a dark red that makes me think of torture, burning and hellfire.

We settle, then I pick up my drink, well aware that, should she ever find out about Ness’s pregnancy or my lies, it could very well be the last time I ever have a drink with her. I look at her: at her glossy hair, her eyes, the cool paleness of her skin, the long legs slanted to cross under the table. I stare at her, taking it all in: I can’t lose her. I can’t.

Neither can I tell her the truth.

I lift my glass. ‘Cheers.’

We clink glasses but Stell puts hers straight back down. She’s on the edge of her seat, her coat still on, a smile playing around those gorgeous lips.

‘So. Tell me,’ she says. ‘What about you and Ness?’ Her tone is playful and I know she’s waiting for me to say that I’ve left her; that I’ve moved out and started divorce proceedings.

I rub the back of my neck. ‘Stell. This time without you has been hell. It’s made me realise that it’s you I love; it’s you I want to spend the rest of my life with.’

She raises her eyebrows at me but doesn’t say anything. I have her attention. I drop my voice and reach for her hand. ‘I want everything with you: the wedding, the house, growing old together… you know it was always supposed to be…’

‘A baby?’ Her voice is a whisper. ‘Do you want a baby with me?’

I close my eyes. ‘Yes. I want to have a baby with you.’

Stell sits perfectly still. I can see she’s holding her breath. I pull her into my arms and stroke her hair. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I need you in my life. We’ll make it happen, I promise.’ I pause. ‘Please remember that. Because there’s something else I have to tell you. And it’s not good.’

She exhales. ‘OK?’

‘I’m going to leave Ness. That is one hundred per cent certain.’ I pause. ‘But the bad news is it might take a bit longer than I thought.’

‘How come?’ Stell takes a sip of her drink and puts her glass down hard. A little wine slops onto the table. I stare at the splash on the dark wood of the table, and then I start to speak in a monotone.

‘She found a lump in her breast. She’s had a mammogram and a scan and it’s not looking good.’

‘Oh my God.’ Stell presses her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘The doctor was very concerned,’ I say. ‘They’re going to do a biopsy.’ Stell’s hanging on to my every word.

‘We’re hoping it’s early stages,’ I say, almost convincing myself. ‘But the main thing is, she’s in the right hands now.’ I hope she doesn’t question me further. What I’ve now said is the sum total of my knowledge about breast cancer.

Stell’s nodding. ‘That’s good. There’s a good chance of beating it if you catch it early.’

‘I know. I’m trying to keep her spirits up but obviously there are a lot of unknown quantities at this stage. The point is I just feel I would be a real schmuck to leave her right now. I just couldn’t live with myself. I think the doctor said that if treatment was needed, it would likely go on for a few months. So I need to be around for a while longer. Take her to appointments and look after her if she’s sick at home. She’s got no one else.’

As I say this, I’m thinking ahead to when the baby’s born. Then what will I do? I’ll worry about that later. Solutions always magic up from somewhere. The point is that, for now, I’ve staved off a crisis. And Stell is reacting just as I hoped she would.

‘Is this why you couldn’t come for my birthday?’

I nod. ‘Exactly. She’d just found out. She was in pieces. Understandably.’

She puts her hand on mine. ‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I get it. You’d be a monster not to stay.’

‘Thank you, princess,’ I say. ‘Just say you’ll be there for me. Say you want me. That’s all I need to hear from you. We’ll get through this, I promise.’ I lift her chin so I’m staring into her eyes.

‘Yes,’ Stell whispers, and I touch my lips to hers.

‘I love you,’ she says.

Bullet dodged, Wolsey. Bullet dodged.

NINETEEN

Stella

I practically skip to the Tube station. OK, I feel bad for Ness, but I don’t have the slightest doubt she’ll make a full recovery. As George says, she caught it early and she’s getting treatment. Knowing George, it will be with the best private doctors around.

But the news about Ness pales into insignificance when I think about the other things that George said. As I strap-hang home, the train throwing me about as it speeds through its tunnels, I’m barely aware of my surroundings. All I can think of is George’s words.

I want to have a baby with you.

These are the words I longed to hear, alone in my bedroom at eighteen with a ball of cells multiplying in my belly. They’ve been a long time coming and they fall on me like balm, unlocking something that lies deep inside me. While I try consciously not to nourish it, this seed George has planted starts to take root.

I want to have a baby with you.

I push it away but it comes back, bigger and stronger:

I want to have a baby with you.

*

We’re soon running at full speed again. If George is attending appointments with Ness, he shields me from them. We barely speak about her, and he never misses dates he’s arranged with me. Meanwhile, since the night he told me about her lump, something’s changed: we’re closer. I no longer feel like a mistress stealing moments, but a wife-in-waiting. We make love with our eyes open, drinking in each other’s face, and I feel like I can see into George’s soul. I feel myself softening; a sense of ice melting. I’m less obsessive at work – I delegate more while I let myself daydream about what it might be like to have a family.

Even George notices a difference in me. I’m kinder, more pliable and I start to feel that this life, this love, really could be mine. It’s like a shedding of layers – the layers of protection I’ve worn since the day George walked out on me. I start smiling at strangers. I find myself looking at other people’s children, noticing for the first time not their raucous screams but the joy in their smiles, the pearly whiteness of their tiny teeth and the pudginess of their squidgy little hands.

One lunchtime I’m in Boots, being jostled by the lunchtime crowd. The heating’s up too high; industrial fans are blasting hot air into the store. I’m sweating under my coat and suit, the air’s too dry on my skin, and my hair’s gone static. I find myself in the vitamins section. Before I know it, I’m holding a jar of folic acid supplements in my hand and wondering if I should buy them. I feel naughty, like I’m a teenager caught by my mum with a packet of condoms in my hand. Folic acid is for those respectable women who plan babies – to date it’s never featured in my life plans, but George’s words have pierced me deep inside: I can’t stop thinking about getting pregnant and, if I have a baby, I want it to have the best chances in life. I’m passionate about this: an apology, perhaps, to the baby whose life I prevented from starting.

I stand still, people pushing past me down the narrow aisle, and I remember the feeling of those first days of pregnancy: the tingling breasts, the unshakeable feeling that there was something growing in my belly. Back then, it caused nothing but horror but, now, I long to feel it again. I smile to myself: this time I’ll do it right. I put the tablets in my basket and take them to the checkout, where I catch the cashier’s eye. She doesn’t say anything, but she smiles, and I know she knows. I feel like I’m joining a secret club.

Maybe now the time is right.

TWENTY

George

Stell’s late to our hotel one day and I loiter about the room wondering what to do. It crosses my mind to wait, naked, on the bed but, as I’m undoing my trousers, I think maybe that’s too presumptuous. So I stand at the window, watching the street below, but the angle’s not right for me to see the hotel entrance so I can’t see if she’s arriving.

Time stretches. I make an espresso, clicking a pod into the machine and inhaling the aroma as the machine vibrates and coffee splashes into the cup. When I hear the click of the door – half an hour late – I’m pacing the room. I turn and catch my breath as she wafts in: that face; that hair; those eyes; those lips – where Ness has curves, Stell is all drama, edges and adrenalin. My cock stiffens.

‘Princess!’ I cross the room in two strides and stop in front of her. She makes no apology, no explanation, for her tardiness – neither do I want her to. We stand, centimetres apart, for a moment, taking each other in, then I lean in, push her hair back from her face and kiss her softly on the lips. ‘How are you?’

She doesn’t reply, just steps around me without speaking and starts to undress, slowly removing her clothes in what I’m sure is a tease show until she’s left only in stockings and heels. Then she lies back on the bed and starts to touch herself, her hands sliding over and into the flesh I’m desperate to taste. All the while she does it, she’s watching me with her eyes half closed, moaning. I move to join her, my hands on my belt buckle, but she shakes her head.

‘Oh no. Not yet.’

Dear God, she makes me watch until I can’t bear it, then, finally, she rolls onto her front and slips a pillow under her hips.

‘Fuck me.’

I realise, as I come, gasping, inside her, that in the heat of the moment I forgot to use a condom.

As we lie together afterwards, I stroke her taut belly, so different to Ness’s, which, while I can’t yet feel the bump, is starting to thicken. ‘Oh God, Stell, I’m so sorry.’

She smiles. ‘Are you really? You said you wanted a baby with me.’

Before I can reply, she jumps out of bed and heads into the bathroom and I lie there contemplating how I’d cope with both my wife and my lover pregnant. If you sat me down and made me pick one of them at this point, I’m pretty sure I’d pick Ness. Not so much through love but because she’s carrying my child and it’s the right thing to do. Just think of the bad press I’d get for leaving her pregnant. But, wow, if Stell was pregnant too, it would change everything. The thought is both terrifying and and exciting.

I’m this far into my thoughts when she reappears wrapped in a towel. I watch as she steps back into her clothes. She sits on the edge of the bed as she rolls her stockings back up her legs – usually she makes a show of it for me – it’s often a sticking point that delays my return to the office but today she does it matter-of-factly, turning her body so I can’t see the stretch of her legs as she eases the stockings up her thighs and I wonder if she’s cross with me about the condom; if it’s reminded her of that awful time when we were eighteen. Sometimes she’s so difficult to read. She re-buttons her blouse and slips back into her skirt. Then she stands in front of the mirror and puts her hair back up ready to return to the office. I’m still naked on the bed watching her – drinking her in – my hands behind my head.