remember Jude Hansen?
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
No? What subject did he do?
Claire Rutt:
Business Studies, I think …
Nadia Pike:
Ooh, yes! I remember him! Lovely dark hair and blue eyes. Not muscly, but definite eye candy! Wonder if he’ll turn up?
Claire Rutt:
Sigh. Probably not. Wasn’t much of a joiner, unless you had a double-barrelled name and daddy owned a yacht … I doubt he’d be interested in a poxy reunion populated with middle-class soccer mums and civil servants.
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Hey, watch yourself! Not only does Jack play football, but I work for the local council! Nothing poxy about me, thank you.
Claire Rutt:
:-p
Sam Broughton (was Stanley):
Anyway, pity. This Jude person was just starting to sound interesting! I’m single again, you know, and on the lookout for hubby no.3! ;-)
Claire Rutt:
Not the settling-down type, I’d say. I’d heard he’s quite the jetsetter now, though, so if you like a challenge …
I stop reading then. My stomach is swirling and I feel like I’m snooping, even though this is a public conversation on an open group. I close the browser window down and shut the lid of my laptop. After a few seconds staring at the kitchen cabinets, which I notice could really do with a good scrub, I open it up again.
I don’t go back to the reunion page; instead, I just type ‘Jude’ into the Facebook search box. A list of options turn up, none of them him. I hold my breath and add ‘Hansen’.
Nothing.
There’s Joseph Hansen, but he’s eighteen and living in Montana. And a Julian Hansen who’s a professor of philosophy, with grey hair and a kind smile, but he’s not my Hansen.
No. Jude’s not my Hansen. Never was, really.
I feel as if I’ve stepped over a line by this point, but instead of creeping back behind it I start sprinting forward. I pull up a search engine and enter those two names again, whispering them in my head as if they’re a secret.
There are no images that relate, but I do find reference to a Jude Hansen mentioned in an article about high-end estate agents, but when I search the name of the firm I discover the website is down for temporary maintenance. In full Sherlock Holmes-mode now, I go back to the article and spot the name of a photographer connected with his – something to do with either selling or finding her a house, possibly both. I search her name and ‘house’, and I get another set of results. Two pages down I see a fuzzy picture, from Twitter, I think. It’s a housewarming party and in the background there’s someone who looks very much like the Jude I used to know, but it’s difficult to tell, because it’s out of focus and the photographer’s finger is over the corner of the shot.
I sit back and stare at the screen, screwing my eyes up a little to see if that helps, but it just makes everything blurrier. I imagine it’s him anyway.
So he did do well for himself, just as Becca said. And then I mentally whisper possibly the two most dangerous words in the English language:
What if …?
I’d never told anyone this, not even Becca, but the day Dan proposed to me – after we were back in one of our regular, college drinking holes, had shared the news and everybody was buying rounds and congratulating us – Jude had found me and asked me for a quiet word in the pub garden. Even though it was July, we’d had the place to ourselves because it had been hammering down. I still remember the scent of warm soil when I think of that moment.
He’d stared at me in the glow of the security light, more serious than I’d ever seen him. ‘Don’t …’ he’d said.
I’d frowned. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t marry him.’
I’d stared at him then, wondering what on earth was going through his head. Didn’t he remember that he’d been the one who’d pulled back and cooled off? ‘What? And marry you instead?’
‘Yes! I mean, no …’ He’d scrubbed his hand through his floppy dark hair and looked at me with unguarded honesty, a strange look on him, because he’d always been so careful to develop an air of knowingness.
My heart had begun to pound hard, just as it had when Dan had pulled a small velvet box from his pocket down by the river earlier the same evening.
Jude had cleared his throat and started again. ‘I mean … what I’m trying to say is that I think I made a horrible mistake.’
He’d looked at me, willing me to fill in the gaps, but I’d held my ground. Not this time. If he had something to say he was going to have to be clear about it. I had to know for sure. He’d taken in my silence and nodded.
‘I think I love you,’ he’d said. ‘And I think it might destroy me if you marry him.’ He’d screwed up his face and I’d known him well enough to know he was wrestling with whether to say something else. Finally, he’d added, ‘And I think it might destroy you too.’
As fast as my pulse had been skipping, I’d raised my eyebrows, waiting for more.
He’d shaken his head. ‘You’re right. Destroy is much too dramatic. What I mean is – ’ He’d broken off to capture both my hands in his. ‘I don’t think he’s what you need, Meg.’
Meg. He was the only person who’d called me that. I pause for a moment just to run my mind over that fact, like fingers reading braille.
‘And you are?’ I’d asked him.
He’d given me that look again. ‘I’d like to try to be.’
I’d shaken my head, more in disbelief than because I was refusing him. ‘But you’re supposed to be going off to France next – ’
‘Come with me.’
I’d frozen then, brain on overload, unable to process anything more. ‘I can’t,’ I’d said, pulling my hands from his, and I’d backed away. It would be more romantic, I suppose, to say that I’d stumbled away from him, overcome by emotion, but I don’t remember it that way at all. I remember my steps being quite precise and deliberate.
That was the last time I saw Jude Hansen. I’d left him there in the rain. I’d had to.
I close my eyes and concentrate on pausing the memory, like hitting a button on a TV remote, and then I file it away
