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