Ten Years On (7 page)

‘Olly‘s real passion though was writing.’

‘Did he get anything published?’

I picture Olly writing at his desk, music playing in the background. This was the script that was going to be his big break, he’d say. ‘You’ll be able to paint again, Becca, we can move out of our shoebox. I will make it,’ he said, urging me to have faith in him.

‘He was about to send …’ I stop dead when I see Joe striding across the restaurant towards the bar. It’s that same confident walk.

‘Becca?’ Annie says.

He glances across to our table, looks at me. I smile and for a second see a flicker of recognition in his eyes and am sure that he is about to come over, but then there’s a blankness in his expression and he walks away. Annie swings round to see what I’m distracted by. ‘Did he see you?’ she asks.

*

I’m convinced he saw me, though Annie is saying she’s sure he didn’t, that he’s busy running his class, and, ‘Let’s face it, Becca, you’re the last person he’s going to expect to see in here after ten years. He might not even recognize you.’

Yet Annie had recognized me. In the past ten years I haven’t changed dramatically in looks. I’m still five foot seven, my chestnut-coloured hair is much the same, just shorter, falling a few inches below my shoulders. Skin is creamy, blue eyes the colour of denim, mouth is wide and teeth fairly straight thanks to the help of a cruel orthodontist, and I still have a dimple in my right cheek. I used to have two, but lost one. My father had said I was being greedy and that I had to share my dimples with other pretty girls.

I think he did see me, and he
ignored
me.

My telephone rings. ‘Sorry, Annie, I’d better … it’s my sister.’

Pippa asks if I can babysit tonight. Todd is flying in from New York early and wants to take her out to dinner.

When I hang up Annie asks me if I am OK. ‘I mean, stupid question, but … are you worried about telling Joe about Olly?’

Yes. He blanked me. ‘I’ve stuffed everything up,’ I say, feeling my bottom lip wobble. I think about Joe, our
friendship falling apart, the way I’d reacted towards him. I think of Bristol, how we were all so young, with bright futures ahead of us. I remember that late-night conversation after Kitty’s New Year’s Eve party, what we’d all be doing in ten years’ time … ‘Sometimes I’m so angry with him, Annie. I begged him to sell that bike. Why didn’t I stop him?’

‘Now listen here, it’s not your fault.’

I press my head into my hands. ‘I’m thirty-one and what do I have to show for it? I have nothing. Not a bean! I don’t know why I’m here, what I’m doing, I’m …’ I stop, unsure whether to continue, but then something inside me snaps. ‘I feel useless not working and I’m terrified of having this baby by myself and I’m angry,
furious
with him for putting me in this position – Why did he gamble with his life? Why was he so distracted that day? – and I miss him, oh God I miss him, it’s so …’

‘Fucking unfair?’

‘Fucking unfair,’ I say, relief flooding my voice.

‘You probably think I have the perfect life too,’ Annie says, after we have discussed how some people seem to breeze through with no hiccups. ‘Like my sister,’ I’d claimed, trying not to sound too jealous, but the truth
is, I am, just a little. I think I always have been, but have bottled it up since childhood.

Annie continues. ‘You must think I’m one of life’s natural breezers. So beautiful and talented …’

‘Well, you are.’ I remind her how lucky she was to be Maid Marian in our school play because she was the one that got to kiss Nick Parker, who played Robin Hood.

‘Well, think again. I’ll talk you through my life. Are you ready?’ Annie leans both elbows against the table as if she means business. ‘For starters, I’m married to a dentist …’

I don’t know why, but I find this funny. ‘Ouch!’

‘Exactly. In bed he’s asking me if I flossed after brushing my teeth – that’s about as exciting as it gets between the sheets. And after Richie’s played football on a Monday night you can probably smell his stinky socks from Australia.’

I smile, somehow not believing Annie is unhappy with Richie, but wanting her to continue nonetheless.

‘My beautiful shop is about to go down the credit-crunch plughole, I feel guilty about not spending enough time with my kids, for being a working mum, so I probably do a bad job at both! Half the time I want to run off, screaming, into the sunset and never come back.’

‘Not bad, Annie, but you still can’t
quite
compete with me.’

‘Rarely do I have a minute to myself to even brush my hair, and speaking of hair, mine must be the most difficult in the whole bloody world,’ she says, gesturing to her frizzy blonde curls, which do have a life of their own.

Both of us laugh. ‘You still can’t compete,’ I tell her, my eyes watering.

‘I had a pretty fine stab at it though, didn’t I?’ She offers me a handkerchief. ‘Look, it’s going to be all right, Becca,’ I hear her saying. ‘You will get through this, you will … it is awful, but you do have something. You have a child. You have Olly’s child.’

Edoardo and a couple of the waitresses are clearing up the tables, the restaurant quiet after the busy rush of lunch. Annie had to leave, but we promised to keep in touch. I flick through a wine brochure, glance at a photograph of Joe on the introductory page. ‘He’s left, Becca,’ Olly had said, after he’d visited me in Florence for three weeks before returning to Bristol for his finals. I had left university to study art in Italy for a year. ‘I knew he was unhappy, that he was dreading studying next year after we’d all buggered off, but I didn’t think he’d
leave the country without telling me!’ I could hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I don’t have his parents’ number, do you? I don’t think his mother’s been well, but he’s not answering any of my messages. Has he called you?’

‘No,’ I said, unsettled. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for months.’

I look at the photograph again and can see how Joe has filled out in the last ten years. His cheekbones aren’t as pronounced, and he has flecks of grey that stand out in his dark hair, but it’s those slate-grey eyes that I recognize. I read, ‘After an Introductory Wine Tasting course at Maison Joe, I guarantee you will be able to dazzle your friends with all your knowledge of the major grape varieties …’

I look towards the stairs, and just as I am thinking that Joe’s class have been down in that cellar drinking for bloody hours, one by one students start to emerge, some walking in straighter lines than others.

My mouth feels dry. I drink some water.

‘Can I get you another peppermint tea?’ Edoardo asks, clearing the table next to mine.

What I really want is a neat gin.

Joe heads for the bar. He seems agitated, in a hurry.

Maybe he didn’t see me earlier.

‘I’m off,’ he says.

Edoardo nods. ‘How is your father today?’

‘Not great. Mavis called, said he was trying to play golf in the sitting room.’

‘Go over, Becca,’ that voice says, ‘Find out why he lost touch …’

‘She was terrified he’d break a window,’ Joe continues, heading towards the door. Get up, Becca. Move. This feels like some terrible auction, when I should be making a bid, but instead I’m sitting with my bidding paddle, paralysed …

He’s at the door. He’s not going to turn round … ‘Back soon …’

‘Becca, say something!’

‘Joe?’ I call out, just before the hammer is about to fall.

My heart is racing as I walk towards him, still not sure he recognizes me. Self-consciously I touch my hair. He probably thinks I’m fatter too. ‘It’s Rebecca. Becca.’

His eyes remain on mine. Is he in shock or does he
still
have no idea who I am?

‘How are you?’ There’s no warmth in his voice, little recognition in his eyes.

‘I’m fine.’ I smile, trying to appear self-assured.

He glances at his watch.

Unnerved, I ask, ‘Do you need to go?’

‘Two minutes,’ he offers, his tone sharp. Both of us walk back to the bar. I can tell Edoardo senses the atmosphere, but he does well to hide it, humming as he dries up some glasses.

Two minutes …

‘I was having lunch with Annie … I think you know her? I saw you in the distance, but you were busy, I don’t think you saw me.’

It’s coming out all wrong, and I only have a minute now.

‘Wow! This place! It’s amazing,’ I continue, wanting the ground to swallow me up. I grab hold of the wine list, pretend to read it, saying how impressive it looks and …

‘You’re holding it upside down.’

I redden, turn the list the right way up, laugh at myself.

Oh dear God.

I point out how lovely the decor is.

‘Decor? Who ever says the word “decor”?’ the voice objects. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Joe isn’t saying a word; he’s just staring at me.

‘Excuse me if I appear shocked, but I didn’t imagine I’d see you again,’ he says finally.

When I dare to look at him I see Joe all those years ago, leaning against the door that very first evening when he moved into our house at Bristol. Then we’re in the kitchen, laughing as he’s giving me a cooking lesson. I see us in fancy dress, late that night, sitting down on the bench, talking. I picture the look in Joe’s eye when I’d asked what he wanted.

The telephone rings. Edoardo tells Joe it’s Peta, before taking a cloth and wiping down the tables.

‘Tell her I’ll call back. I need to go. It was good to see you,’ he says in a way that suggests he wants little more to do with me.

‘Joe, wait, just one second,’ I say, urgency now in my voice. ‘The reason I’m here …’ I clear my throat; start again. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Olly.’

‘How is he? Is he here?’

‘Joe, say something.’ Edoardo looks over to us, sympathy in his eyes.

‘I’m so sorry, Rebecca.’ He curls his hand into a fist. ‘He was one of my closest friends. I didn’t get to say goodbye.’

‘I should have told you. I wasn’t thinking straight, I had so much to organize with the funeral and—’

‘Don’t worry,’ he cuts me off. ‘We lost touch years ago. I’m responsible for that.’

‘It wasn’t all your fault.’

‘Rebecca, my leaving Bristol, it wasn’t just about you,’ he says, his tone hardening. ‘I left Bristol, I lost touch with Olly, because I was screwed up.’

I take a sip of water. ‘Right.’

‘How long are you here for?’

I tell him I’m not sure. It’s complicated. ‘You see, I’m pregnant. I’m having Olly’s baby.’

Joe doesn’t utter a word. When I tell him Olly died before he knew he was going to be a father … ‘I’m very sorry, Rebecca,’ he says, his eyes softening when he sees my tears. He presses his head into his hands, lost as to what to say. ‘I’d like to write to Olly’s parents. Do you have their address?’ is the last thing he says to me before we part, and I have no idea if I shall see him again.

8

As I drive to Pippa’s in Mum’s car, part of me is relieved that I have seen Joe and that he knows about Olly, but I also feel uncomfortable at how distant he was. Though what did I expect, especially after they way we’d left things at Bristol? That he would hold me in his arms?

I’m thankful to be babysitting tonight. I need the distraction.

Pippa lives approximately five miles out of Winchester, towards Stockbridge, in a small hamlet called Northfields. One potholed road, called The Street, runs through the hamlet in the shape of a horseshoe, leading back to the main road. She’s married to Todd, American and a successful businessman. She and Todd bought a plot of land with a dilapidated barn, which they converted into their large and beautiful home. Pippa once ticked Olly off for calling it a bungalow. ‘But it is
pretty much a bungalow,’ he’d said to me later that night.

Todd and Pippa met in London about nine years ago. Pippa had just returned from America. She was an excellent tennis player, with a world ranking of five hundred and forty-five, but she wasn’t quite good enough to play at Wimbledon and other Grand Slam events. She’d also confided in me that she’d lost that hunger to win. ‘I’m tired of training, Becca. I want to have a normal life.’

So it was time for her to get a job. She found secretarial work in a jaded sports agency that needed major consultancy help from Todd. He strode into her soulless grey office; they clapped eyes on one another and lightning struck. Todd was thirteen years older than twenty-two-year-old Pippa, and he seemed so worldly-wise and debonair. He was also rich. Flowers and gifts were lavished upon her on a daily basis, but no marriage proposal was forthcoming. ‘What’s taking him so
long
?’ she once asked me.

‘What’s the hurry? People don’t get married young these days.’

‘But you and Olly seem close,’ she said, almost implying that if it was a race I’d be in the lead.

Olly proposed to me on my twenty-fourth birthday.
He’d taken me to our local bistro, where our friendly waiter had iced in chocolate around my pudding plate, ‘Will you marry me?’ It was perfect. Todd proposed to Pippa the following week during their Caribbean holiday. They were on the beach when a light aircraft flew overhead, high in the sky, a streamer trailing the words ‘MARRY ME!’

‘I always knew I’d fall for an older man,’ she’d said when she brandished her eye-boggling diamond-and-sapphire engagement ring in front of us, before saying, ‘Let’s see yours, Becca.’

I can still see her squinting at my finger as she said, ‘Oh, isn’t it sweet!’

Olly never truly forgave them for casting our engagement into their shadow.

After becoming Mrs Todd Carter, Pippa worked at the sports agency for a couple more years until she became pregnant at twenty-six. After the birth of the twins, they moved down to Winchester to be close to Mum and Dad. Pippa had never really liked London, not like me. She didn’t have a strong network of friends, didn’t like hanging out in the pub or going to nightclubs, and what with Todd away so often on business, she felt it would be a lonely place to push a pram.

*

I park the car in the gravelled driveway, next to Todd’s convertible BMW. I notice how part of the garden is now enclosed, with a trampoline, climbing frame and what looks like a rabbit hutch in one corner.