by Holly Miller
“Oh God. What did you do?”
“Well, Reuben was out, and me and Sal were mortified, obviously. And bless him—he tried to give us the muffins, but we felt too awful about it. So now I’ve just got this image of him walking off down our front path with his little muffin basket swinging from his hand . . .”
“Now I feel guilty.”
Jools shakes her head. “Please. It was Reuben’s fault. You know what he’s like.”
“He doesn’t mind me moving in, then?”
“Reuben? Of course not. Actually, if he didn’t have a girlfriend, I’m pretty sure you’d be his type.”
I laugh. “Why’s that?”
She looks thoughtful. “His last two girlfriends have reminded me a bit of you. But I’d never recommend him. He’s too much like my ex. I’m pretty sure he’s on something more often than he’s not.”
Jools would know: she’s from a family of loving but self-declared, permanently wasted hippies. Her childhood was somewhat chaotic, so her approach to adolescence essentially involved pedaling as far and hard in the opposite direction as she could—becoming the neat, organized, and fashionable adult she is today, with a penchant for stylish interiors involving no tie-dye or dreamcatchers whatsoever. She says it’s why she’s drawn to “normal” and “sensible” men, the ones with steady jobs and minimum baggage. Her most recent boyfriend was shaping up to tick all the boxes—banker, mortgage, no significant exes—until one night he confessed to moonlighting as a naked waiter and a growing reliance on class A drugs.
But every now and then, I am treated to a delicious glimmer of the person Jools used to be, before she became a fan of practicality and pragmatism. A person who believes in fate, trusts in gifts from the universe, and loves to indulge the idea of meant-to-be.
She puts a hand over mine now. Given the amount of handwashing involved in her job, I’m always struck by how staggeringly smooth her skin is. “So. When do we mention the elephant in the room?”
I blink at her. “What elephant?”
“What elephant. Max, of course.”
* * *
—
Max. We met on the first day of moving into university halls in Norwich. I was studying English literature, Max was studying law, and we bumped into each other in our shared kitchen. Neither of us was in there for a specific purpose—like making tea or filling up the fridge—but we were the first to arrive, and Max seemed as eager as I was to start making friends, to not be left behind.
If love at first sight exists, I’m sure I felt it right then. Max said afterward he felt it too. When my eyes met his, for a few delicious moments, instead of either of us speaking, our gazes simply danced.
“Hello,” he said eventually, like he’d had to remind himself how to speak. “I’m Max.”
“Lucy.”
He smiled. Casual in jeans and T-shirt, he looked as though he’d had a good summer. He was broad and tall, with skin that was deeply suntanned, and blond hair grown out enough to carry a kink.
I’d put a lot of thought into my moving-in outfit, eventually opting for a green dress that showed off my own tan, the likes of which I haven’t achieved since.
“What are you studying?” he asked, leaning back against the sink.
For a few ludicrous seconds, I couldn’t remember. What am I studying?
At my hesitation, Max laughed. I can still conjure up the sound of it, all these years later: easy and loose, as though he were the happiest person in the world. Straightaway, it put me at ease.
“Sorry. English literature. I’m a bit nervous.”
“Me too,” he said. He must have been being kind, because he didn’t seem nervous at all. “Hey, would a drink help? Got beers in my room.”
“Sounds good,” I said gratefully.
We decamped to his room, just down the corridor from mine—me on the single bed and Max sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He’d already tacked up some pictures—friends, I noticed, he had lots of friends—and he’d had the foresight to bring a little fridge with him, so the beers were already cold. Over the next few hours, we got through all six of them.
Beyond Max’s closed door, we could hear other students moving in, parents leaving, the pump of music. The growing swell of conversation and the clinking of bottles. But neither of us suggested venturing out of his room to join in. Right then it was just us, and Max’s bedroom was the whole world. It felt beautifully illicit, hiding away in there together when we were supposed to be mingling and being our most outgoing, gregarious selves.
He was relieved to have finally left his hometown of Cambridge behind, he told me. He’d never known his dad, wasn’t close with his mum, had no siblings.
I decided it would be insensitive to regale him with the story of my parents’ fairy-tale romance, once he’d said that. But then he asked.
“It’s kind of a crazy story,” I said, fingering the label of my beer bottle.
Max leaned his head back against the wall, but kept his eyes on me. I was enjoying the feeling of it—him watching me. Intense, but in a good way. “Aren’t the crazy stories always the best?”
“Well, they met on holiday when they were twenty. Dad was supposed to be going to Mallorca, but the travel agent messed up and sent him to Menorca instead. So my parents ended up in apartments next door to each other.”
Max smiled.
“Long story short, it was love at first sight, and my mum fell pregnant with my sister on that holiday.”
Max straightened up a little. “Seriously?”
“Yep. Classic holiday romance.”
He caught my eye. “Not quite classic . . .”
I laughed. “Okay, maybe not quite. But they were head-over-heels.”
“Did they . . . I mean, was the pregnancy planned?”
“No. But they just . . . knew how they felt about each other. So they came home, got married, had Tash—my sister—then a couple of years later, I came along.”
“That’s amazing. They’re still together now?”
“Married twenty-two years and counting.”
Max ran a hand through his hair. “That is nuts.”
I beamed. I loved telling that story, subverting expectations. I would relate it as proudly as if it were my own.
“I mean, that’s setting . . . a ridiculously high bar,” Max said then.
“For who?”
“Only anyone you ever meet.”
Our eyes locked, and I felt a blush of heat spread over my cheeks.
But Max hadn’t seemed to notice. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t got pregnant on that holiday?”
“You mean, would they still be together?”
“Yeah. I guess I just . . . What if they’d each gone home, and lost touch, then met other people, and . . . ?”
“I know. I might not even exist.”
He winced. “Sorry. Haven’t offended you, have I?”
I knew already that nothing Max said could offend me. Or if it did, it wouldn’t have been intentional. He seemed too nice for that. I shook my head. “Not at all. Actually, my mum and dad have talked about that loads. The what-ifs.”
“I mean . . . if they were each other’s first loves . . . how do they know? That there’s no one else—”
“They just do.”
Our eyes met again then, but this time, Max got up to fetch us each another beer. “So, what do you want to be, Lucy? When you graduate.” He passed me a bottle, then sat next to me on the bed, our shoulders touching like we’d known each other for years.
I thanked him and swigged. “A writer.”
“What kind of writer?”
“I want to write novels.” I smiled. “Do you know what kind of lawyer you want to be?”
“Commercial,” he said, without hesitation.
I tried to
look as though I understood, then gave up and laughed. “Sorry. That means absolutely nothing to me.”
“Let’s just say,” he said, “commercial law pays well.”
I nodded. “Is that why you’re doing it? For the money?”
“Kind of.” He shrugged. “My mum never had much, so—”
“Sorry, it wasn’t a criticism.”
“No, I know.” He waved my apology away.
By now the light had more or less vanished from the room, and we were sitting in the gloom.
“Do you want to go out and join the others?” I asked him. “Sounds like it’s getting rowdy out there.”
“Actually,” Max said, “I’m really enjoying just sitting here with you.”
I’m enjoying sitting here with you, too, I thought.
Eventually, we fell asleep together on his single bed. I woke up several hours later in the middle of the night. Our bodies were curled up against each other, big spoon and little spoon. We hadn’t kissed, we hadn’t even really touched, but I had the strangest feeling, as I crept back to my room at three in the morning, that I’d met the man I was destined to be with.
Five
Stay
In the week since our—what would I even call it—date?—I’ve been indulging in some light virtual stalking of Caleb. There’s not much in the way of personal stuff online—his social media is all set to private—but I do learn he’s won a lot of accolades for his photography.
I unearthed a photo of him at some awards ceremony last year, his arm around the waist of a dazzling, sylphlike woman with olive skin and glistening dark hair. Magazine editor Helen Jones joined her husband Caleb on the red carpet, the caption said.
Of course, this then kicked off a frenzied search for “Helen Jones + magazine editor,” which revealed she edits an achingly cool interiors magazine called Four Walls, based in London. It’s one of those inexplicable coffee-table bibles exclusively for cutting-edge people—more book than magazine—that recommends things like concrete floors and replacing all your internal walls with glass. Google Images also confirms that Helen Jones does not take a bad photo. This is unsurprising, really, for a woman who’s been with a man as handsome as Caleb, with whose own image I am now worryingly familiar.
“Maybe him being recently separated is a bad sign,” I said to Tash, as we watched Dylan go berserk at soft play on Sunday morning, two days after Caleb and I met up again.
Tash rolled her eyes. “Please, will you just stop with your signs? People are allowed to be married and then separate, Lucy. It’s really old-fashioned to think that means he’s damaged goods.”
“Who said anything about damaged goods?”
“You, with that expression on your face. Listen, half the dads at Dylan’s school are divorced, or separated. And most of them are really nice.”
“Everybody has to be nice at school. It’s hardly the done thing to air all your deep-seated commitment issues at PTA meetings, is it?”
Tash smiled and sipped her green tea. “I’m only saying, just because his marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s fundamentally dysfunctional.”
I sipped my coffee and trained my eyes on Dylan, who was currently wrestling his way heroically through a ball pool.
She turned to face me, eyes suddenly greedy for juicy details. “So, come on. What happened the other night? Did you kiss? Did you—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “We just hung out at his studio, then we went for a drink, then he pecked me on the cheek and I got the bus.”
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “So, what—you don’t think there’s any chemistry?”
Oh, there was definitely chemistry. I could feel my stomach leap whenever I so much as pictured Caleb’s face. “There is,” I said slowly. “It’s just . . . he walked me to the bus stop, and there was a big queue, and it didn’t seem quite right to start snogging in front of it like teenagers. You know?”
She looked relieved. “Oh, yeah. Makes sense.”
A beat passed.
“You’re sure you don’t recognize his name?” I asked, even though we’d already been over this. “You didn’t go to school with anyone called Caleb?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nope. Definitely not.”
“Weird. I could swear I know him from somewhere.”
“So, are you seeing him again?”
I nodded. “He’s got a few things on this week, so we said Friday.”
I caught Dylan’s eye as he beamed at us, clapping enthusiastically against my thigh with my free hand.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” Tash said warmly. “I mean, he wrote down his number on the only thing he could find and slipped it into your coat. I think that’s so romantic.”
I smiled. I suspected there was another reason why Tash was so keen on Caleb: because she was even more keen for me to forget about Max Gardner. I could tell it had been playing on her mind ever since I told her I’d run into him outside The Smugglers; she’d even idly asked me a couple of times if I’d heard from him since.
But I haven’t, and I’m increasingly thinking about that moment outside the pub as nothing more than a brief flashback in time. That maybe the person I was meant to meet that night was Caleb, who I can already tell is so different to Max. I’m excited to see where it goes, and determined to keep anything to do with Max Gardner firmly in the past.
* * *
—
On Friday morning, Caleb messages to ask what I fancy doing later. I suggest making the most of the warm evening with a walk on the beach and fish and chips, which we can eat on the wall of the promenade overlooking the sea.
It’s sort of a Shoreley tradition, to get chips from Dave at the Shoreley Fryer and then eat them on the wall, legs swinging, watching the waves sneak up to kiss the shingle. We all did it as kids with our families, then as teenagers with our friends, and now we’re doing it as adults with our dates.
We share a can of Fanta, and a large cod and chips between us, because Dave’s portions are famously grotesque. We sit on the wall, our feet dangling above the beach. Caleb’s height means that, side by side, my feet only reach halfway down his calves.
“Do you mind if I ask why you split up with your wife?” I ask, once we’ve talked about school, and our childhood homes, and the best place to get good coffee in town. In front of us on the beach, couples are walking arm in arm, kids and dogs careering across the pebbles, grasping kites and footballs and strings of seaweed. The hue of the evening sky is slowly softening from blue to lilac, the clotted-cream clouds gradually blushing pink.
Caleb prongs a chip from the tray we’ve balanced on the wall between us. “Not sure I can really boil it down.”
“Did you marry young?”
He waits for a couple of moments, then nods. “She was my second-ever girlfriend. We met when I was twenty-one, married two years later. But by last year, we were fundamentally just . . . different people.”
I nod, take a swig from the Fanta can.
“Actually, you know, I’m making it sound a lot simpler than it was. When we met, we had this five-year plan to move back here, to Shoreley.”
“Is Helen from Shoreley too?” I say without thinking, before feeling myself swiftly turn purple with embarrassment.
Caleb enjoys the moment, which I can’t really blame him for. “Well stalked,” he says, laughing.
I dab a chip fiercely into ketchup. “Okay, okay. I might have had a quick look for you online.”
“Just teasing. I’d definitely have stalked you if I’d known your surname.” He pauses. “Which is?”
“Lambert,” I say, coyly.
“Okay, Lucy Lambert. No, Helen’s not from round here, but she is a country girl. She’s from Dorset. Anyway, we had this plan to spend a couple of years traveling, then move back to Shoreley, buy a cottage
, and . . . I don’t know, grow our own potatoes, or something. Get a goat and some chickens. After ‘finding ourselves’ halfway up Machu Picchu, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
He smiles, but it cracks a little, and I suddenly wonder if it’s a bit insensitive of me, asking him to rake over all this a mere six months after it ended.
We stare out at the view. The tide is low now, the shingle a pale flurry of pebbles hemmed by a shimmering stripe of sea. As the sun sinks through ribbons of cloud and sky, long shadows spring from beneath the feet of the beachgoers, and for a few minutes, everything appears dipped in liquid gold.
Caleb starts talking again. “Anyway, I guess . . . just as I was starting to feel uncomfortable in London, Helen was settling in. She’d made lots of friends, she had this big high-powered magazine job, and she was getting a bit obsessed with . . . you know, status and stuff like that.”
“Which you’re not?”
Caleb laughs and rubs a hand through his hair. “Do I look like I worry about status? Please say no.”
“You’re doing well for yourself.”
“I get by. I don’t drive a Mercedes, I can tell you that much.”
Unexpectedly, an image of Max in his crisp suit jetting off to the Seychelles floats into my mind. And—not for the first time since spending time with Caleb—I feel sure I’m enjoying myself more with him than I might have done seeing Max again.
“We were just different people, in the end,” Caleb concludes.
“Was it amicable? When you separated.”
He looks across at me. “Not really.”
“And are you . . . ?” I break off, the words planning to divorce dissolving in my throat. Because really, is that any of my business? “Sorry. It’s probably a bit weird to be talking about this stuff on a—”
“On a what?” he whispers, but before I can reply, he is leaning across and kissing me. It’s a kiss so good it makes my heart thump—full and intense, undercut by the sea breeze and the tang of salt and vinegar. A kiss that makes me forget everything else, that makes the whole world drop away, until there’s just the two of us, getting lost in each other, set on fire by this incredible sunset.
