What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

Well, I could never have competed with that.

  I look again at the flyer Tash showed me last week, pinned up now on the kitchen corkboard, and feel a fresh and unfamiliar rush of conviction. Come on. You can make this work.

  I just need to take a breath, and put my trust in the universe. It’s an approach that’s worked pretty well for me in the past: I got the job at Figaro because Georgia happened to drop a bag full of shopping in front of me on the street and, as I helped her pick it up, I cracked a joke about the poorly written pack copy on her box of granola. A mere twenty-four hours before I met Max for the first time, I opened a fortune cookie that said Love is on its way. I have an excellent track record with four-leaf clovers and double-yolk eggs.

  My faith in all this stuff is partly hereditary—my mum and dad met on holiday when they were twenty after the travel agent messed up and sent my dad to Menorca, not Mallorca. They even have the words What’s meant for you won’t pass you by stenciled onto the wall of their kitchen. I’m willing to let the cringe factor slide, because I’m so onboard with the sentiment.

  Once I’ve finished eating, I head up to my bedroom and take another look at the only item I brought home from my travels nine winters ago. A single notebook, bound in leather. I’d bought it specially before I left the UK, intending to fill it and return with at least something to show for the disaster that had been the preceding three months.

  Flipping through it again now, I’m transported back to every place I was sitting while I was scribbling across its pages—a beachside café in Morocco, a park in Singapore, a bar in Kuala Lumpur. And then I’m confronted once more with what happened in Australia, the sour and uncomfortable reality that just a few hours after writing this last paragraph—I finger the page now in regret—a man would flash a double-take smile at me in a bar, and tell me his name was Nate.

  And what about Max? Reacquainting myself with this book has reminded me just how much I loved him back then, how he hovered in my mind as I wrote. I remember how long it took me to get over him. How many times I’ve thought of him in the intervening years, wondering if I’ve missed out on being with my soulmate.

  Have I been monumentally stupid in opting to stay here? Should I message him—or is the fact he’s now on holiday a sign to forget him? Might I have missed a second shot at lifelong happiness?

  As I’m shutting the notebook with a sigh, my gaze alights on something else, something that startled me when I happened across it this morning.

  A beer mat, with Caleb’s number scribbled on it.

  Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t hung around in The Smugglers last week, after I sprinted off to chase after Max. I felt bad about it—just up and leaving, abandoning our conversation like that—but I never got the chance to apologize.

  It was only today, as I got ready to meet Ivan and put my work coat on for the first time since quitting, that I discovered Caleb had slipped a beer mat with his number into the pocket.

  I flip the beer mat now between my fingers a couple of times, recalling with a smile the gentle probe of his eyes, his friendliness, how his laughter made my stomach fizz. And before I’ve even really thought about what I’m doing, I find myself dialing his number.

  He takes me by surprise when he answers, somewhat curtly. I’d assumed he’d let an unknown caller go to voice mail. “Yep?”

  I feel my stomach plunge. “It’s . . . It’s Lucy. From the pub. The Smugglers, last week? You wrote your number on a beer mat?”

  His gruffness turns instantly to brightness. “Lucy. Hello. I did. Nice to hear from you.”

  “I only found it this morning. The beer mat.” I falter, wondering if perhaps I should have messaged him instead of calling. Nobody calls anybody these days, unless they’re the wrong side of fifty, or a member of the emergency services.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, with a hint of abashment. “I think that might be just about the cheesiest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Oh God. He’s changed his mind. He regrets giving me his number. I knew I shouldn’t have called.

  “I’m really pleased you called,” he continues.

  “You . . . You are?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. I was starting to think I might have to go back to The Smugglers tonight on the off chance you’d be at the bar again.”

  A little eddy of pleasure rushes through me. I smile. “Well, as it happens, I am free tonight.”

  I can hear him smiling too. “Excellent.”

  * * *

  —

  Caleb was at work when I called, so he suggested we meet at his studio, in town. It’s inside a converted terraced house, one of those old whitewashed ones tucked down a cobbled side street, all sloping walls and creaking floorboards and beams low enough to head-butt.

  After he buzzes me in I climb a narrow, winding staircase and pop my head around the door marked with his name.

  I don’t know what I was expecting—lots of lights and tripods, maybe, and some of those weird white umbrellas—but the studio is in fact just a small room, with stripped wooden floorboards, white walls and white furniture, along with a potted plant, coffee machine, and massive Mac computer. I can’t even see Caleb at first, until he pokes his head out from behind the monitor, which is about the size of your average cinema screen.

  Smiling, he gets to his feet. “Hello again.”

  He’s even more handsome than I remember, casual in a pair of dark jeans and faded navy blue sweater.

  “Nice studio,” I say, feeling slightly shy suddenly.

  He laughs. “Thank you. Although I do realize I must have come across like a bit of a tosser, suggesting we ‘meet at my studio.’ ”

  I laugh too. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about it.”

  We both pause for a couple of moments, taking each other in.

  “You look nice,” Caleb says.

  God, so do you, I want to say. Where did you spring from?

  I agonized this afternoon over what to wear (is this a date? Isn’t it?) before eventually aiming for the midpoint between comfort and style in a gray cotton smock dress, sheer tights, and heeled boots. And some bright red earrings, for a pop of color.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Um, I got you something.” He passes me a paper carrier bag.

  I peer inside, and laugh. The bag is filled with packets of Scampi Fries. He must have gone out specially this afternoon to buy them.

  “Wow. Thank you. That is a truly superior gift.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, have a seat. Just need to press send on one e-mail, then I’m all yours.”

  The nearest chair is one of those wire-basket-type affairs of the kind that frequently feature in interiors magazines. I’m slightly worried it’s going to have a sausage-factory effect on my backside, but I flip down the cushion propped up against the back of it, whereupon it becomes much comfier than it looks.

  “So, Lucy,” Caleb says, showing no interest at all in attending to his e-mail. “You were in the middle of telling me why you quit your job, when I saw you.”

  I wince, recalling the way I sprinted out of the pub to chase after Max. “Listen, about that—”

  “You really don’t need to explain.”

  “But I want to.”

  I meet his gaze. His brown eyes are kind. “Okay,” he says.

  “The guy I saw . . . was an old friend. I hadn’t seen him in years. I was really enjoying talking to you, but—”

  “Likewise.”

  “I just had to . . . run out and say hi. Sorry, though. You must have thought I was pretty rude.”

  He laughs, affects agreement. “Oh, absolutely. But weirdly . . . I still wanted you to have my number.”

  I smile. “Well. Thank you.”

  “I would have waited for you to come back actually, but I had to meet someone.”

  I hesitate for a
moment, confused.

  “I was waiting for a mate when I saw you,” he explains, “but I’d got the wrong pub.”

  Serendipitous, I think but don’t say.

  “Anyway. Your job . . .”

  “Oh. Well, essentially, they promised me a certain role, then hired someone else for it.”

  “Ouch. So, what’s your plan now?”

  I release a breath. “You know how you said suggesting we meet here might make you seem like a bit of a tosser?”

  He laughs. “Yep.”

  “Well, I can probably top that.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I’ve decided to . . . write a novel.”

  “What are you talking about? That’s cool.”

  I bite my lip. “Thanks. Have no idea if I can even do it, though.”

  He leans back in his chair. “How long are you giving yourself?”

  “Not sure,” I say, realizing as I’m speaking how little of a plan I actually have. “I’ve got a part-time job at that gift shop to tide me over. Pebbles & Paper.”

  Caleb’s face lights up when I say this, and all at once he looks like he’s struggling to hold back a laugh.

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  “I’m barred from that place.”

  “How can you be barred from a gift shop in Shoreley?”

  “I had a sort of . . . heated debate with the owner.”

  “Ivan? About what?”

  “Oh, he was selling these wooden trinkets that he claimed were handmade by a local carpenter. Unique, bespoke, all that bollocks.” Caleb makes liberal use of air quotes as he speaks. “So I bought my mum a couple of bits for her birthday. Came to seventy quid. Except it turned out my stepsister had a load of stuff from the exact same range. Bear in mind she lives in Newcastle and has never set foot in Shoreley.”

  I smile. “Oh no. What did you do?”

  “Well, I went down there and politely suggested he stop lying to his customers. And I might have mentioned Trading Standards, which was when he got all sweaty and defensive and barred me.” He laughs. “I mean, it’s not even like I’ve been barred from a pub or a cool nightclub. It’s Pebbles & Paper.”

  I shake my head, start laughing too.

  “Sorry. Being a bit tactless, aren’t I?”

  “Not at all. It’s good to be prepared.”

  “So.” He’s still not touched that e-mail. “What kind of novel are you writing?”

  I hesitate, wondering if I should even really be describing what I’ve written as a novel at this point. Over the past week, I’ve managed to inch my way through a sum total of fourteen pages. A few thousand words. But as for being able to call it a novel quite yet . . . well, that feels like a bit of a leap.

  My shyness notches up a touch. “Oh, just girl-meets-boy stuff. Fairly standard.”

  “Since when was girl-meets-boy ever standard?” Caleb says, and then my eyes meet his, and for a moment we are just looking at each other, and it feels weirdly lovely and comfortable in a way I can’t quite define.

  I clear my throat. “So, how long have you been a photographer?”

  “Um, over a decade now. Eleven years.”

  “Nice.”

  “Dropped out of art college,” he says quickly—I’m not sure why at first. Maybe he thinks the numbers have made him sound older than he is.

  I smile. By my calculation, we must be nearly the same age, give or take a couple of years. “Rarely meet fellow dropouts.”

  “You too?”

  I nod. “English literature.”

  “What’d you do instead?”

  I swallow, skirt the full truth. “Went traveling.”

  “Really?” He leans forward. “Where did you go?”

  “Oh, just the usual gap-year kind of places. Europe, Morocco, Australia.” I keep talking, before he can ask me more. “How about you—why did you drop out of college?”

  He laughs. “Impatience.”

  “What kind of photography do you do?” I get to my feet and wander over to the back wall, where there’s a tiny, stiff-looking sofa and a large black folder on top of a small coffee table. “May I?”

  Caleb nods, so I lift the cover and peek inside.

  “That all needs updating,” he says, as I start to turn the pages. “But . . . lifestyle and portrait, mainly. A lot of corporate work. Weddings, occasionally. Whatever comes my way, really.”

  The photos are incredible: some striking images of a red-haired girl sipping coffee in a café, dogs whirling on a beach, a couple walking beneath an umbrella on a gray, wet day that Caleb’s managed to make look spectacular, the rain like glitter in the air. “These are amazing.”

  “Thanks,” he says, sounding as self-conscious as I did when he asked about my writing. “I’ve been meaning to frame a few. Jazz this place up a bit.”

  I look up. “You’ve not been here long?”

  “Well, long enough. Six months.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “London. I moved back here when I separated from my wife. I grew up in Shoreley, so . . .”

  Separated, I think. That’s not quite divorced, is it?

  I feel him watching me. “That was my clumsy way of telling you I’ve been married.”

  I shut the folder carefully. “Happens all the time.”

  He lets loose a breath. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Go

  Just a week after walking out of Figaro and making my decision to give London a go, I find myself moving in with Jools.

  The house is on a quiet street in Tooting—or at least, quiet for London. It’s just off the high street, bookended by the hospital at one end, and a pub at the other. I happen to know from previous visits that the pub excels in the three essential criteria of any decent public house: quality quizzes, live music, and a cracking Sunday roast. Jools and her housemate Sal, who’s a midwife, go there for food if they can’t be bothered to cook.

  I’ve had a knot in my chest for the past few days, wondering if I’m doing the right thing, moving to London; if I should have taken some time out to think before jumping straight back into another job. If staying with Tash and working in that gift shop and writing a novel might actually have been a better way to go.

  It would have been a lot less stressful, for a start.

  Earlier this week, I called the Supernova recruiter and explained my situation, and I’ve been invited for an interview, a week from Friday. Not that I have the faintest clue how to persuade them I’m a talented writer—other than my makeshift portfolio, I don’t have an awful lot going for me. Hardly any real-world writing experience. A degree I dropped out of, six months before graduation. I mean, this is Supernova—solar systems apart from anywhere else I’ve worked.

  At the house, Jools shows me up to the double room Cara’s vacated. It’s identical to Jools’s, only this one looks over the street at the front—plus it lacks the stylish artwork and hip furnishings, of course. The space is bare except for a bed and chest of drawers, but it feels pleasingly blank-canvas. Somewhere I can make my own. It’s roomy and high-ceilinged, with a bright wash of April daylight spilling in through a large bay window. I’m weird about light, can’t stand gloomy rooms.

  I look out over the street, my ears adjusting to the background hum of buses and cars and reversing vehicles. So different to Tash’s place and its canyon-grade silence. Here there’s always something moving, someone nearby. I find it comforting, but it still feels a little like culture shock.

  Jools loops her arms over my shoulders from behind. She’s freshly showered after her shift, the familiar scent of her body lotion comforting as cashmere. “Welcome home,” she whispers, and I feel the tightness in my chest loosen slightly.

  It’s going to be okay. Jools is here. You have an interview for your dream job. This is a clea
n slate, a fresh start. Time to make the most of it.

  * * *

  —

  Sal and Reuben, Jools’s housemates, are out, so Jools and I head to the pub to celebrate my first night.

  “This is definitely the best place you’ve ever lived, Jools,” I remark, as we settle down in a corner—white wine for Jools, sparkling elderflower for me. The pub’s busy, and the air is laced with that strangely comforting scent of hops and frying food. It’s a proper pub, albeit with a slightly gastro vibe, reminding me a bit of The Smugglers.

  “Oh God, by a mile. Remember Camden?”

  I smile at my friend, her hair still damp from the shower. She never blow-dries it—she doesn’t even own a hair dryer—and in about thirty minutes’ time it will have magically lifted into thick, glossy waves. She’s completely makeup free, the day scrubbed clean from her face. Jools is a natural beauty, the type of girl who wakes up with whipped-butter skin, her molasses-brown eyes newly brightened by sleep.

  It would be easy to resent her for this. But Jools is the best person I know. Always has been.

  “You mean the garage,” I say. It actually was a converted garage, and not a very good one at that.

  “And that landlord in Bethnal Green.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Don’t-Mind-Me.” Her landlord would let himself in unannounced with alarming frequency, until Jools reported him, whereupon she was instantly evicted.

  “I’m sure I heard someone say he was arrested recently,” Jools says.

  I shudder, think of Nate. “Oh, don’t.”

  Jools sips her wine. “Yeah, I’ll definitely look back fondly on this place.”

  “How’s the saving going?”

  “Slowly. Be another couple of years at least. Hey—I forgot to tell you,” she says, setting down her glass. “When Cara said she was leaving, Reuben arranged for a friend-of-a-friend to come over and see the room. Without telling us, of course. But he forgot to let him know you’d got it. So this poor guy turned up on the doorstep with a basket of muffins, to view the room.” She clutches a hand to her chest. “Can you imagine?”