What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  “I’m not saying I’d want to break up,” I say, because I’m desperate to make that clear. “We could make it work, long-distance for six months. It just depends on how you’d feel about that.”

  He laughs lightly, rubs a hand along his jaw. “Er, I think I’d feel pretty crap about that. Wouldn’t you?”

  I try to picture it—Caleb calling me late at night from some bar on the other side of the world, WhatsApping me from a mountain peak, sending e-mails from a hostel in the middle of nowhere. And it feels all wrong. The idea of being parted for six months sits like a brick in my stomach. But it’s been his lifelong dream to see the world, and I’m certainly not about to be the one who holds him back. I know too much about unfulfilled ambitions to do that.

  “Of course,” I say, quietly, sipping my tea. “But I’d wait for you. We’d make it work.” And I know we would, because the alternative . . . well, as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t one. Caleb is my person. There’s no one else in this world I’m meant to be with.

  He gets up, then paces a quick circuit of the tiny room before returning to the sofa. “Honestly, forget about it—it was only an idea.”

  I sit up a little straighter. “No, it’s your dream—”

  “Yes, one of them, but I’ve met you and you’re more important to me than indulging a bit of wanderlust.” He takes my hands. “What we have is too special to jeopardize.”

  I shake my head. “Caleb, this is one of the reasons you and Helen split up—having different ideas about what you wanted from life. You can’t sacrifice your dreams for me. Six months apart would be hard, but that shouldn’t be a reason for you not to go.”

  He nods, like he’s thinking about it. “I guess I’m just wondering why you dismissed it so quickly. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t traveled before. Won’t you at least even think about—”

  “Believe me, nothing could persuade me to step on a plane right now.”

  And it must be something about the way I say it—the edge to my voice, the chill in my tone—that makes him pause. I feel his eyes on me, taking in the stiffness of my shoulders, my shifting gaze.

  “Please, talk to me, Luce.”

  I glance at him, then make a slow exhale. Why am I fighting so hard to hide a part of myself, my past, from the man I love? And perhaps it’s because the fire is roaring, and the tea has soothed me, and I feel utterly loved and secure, that I feel able to take a breath, and finally start to talk.

  * * *

  —

  When I’m finished, Caleb doesn’t speak for a really long time. We just sit and listen to the sound of the fire spitting and crackling in the wood burner until eventually, I can’t take it anymore. “Say something.”

  He rubs a hand through his hair. “I . . . I’m trying to find the words.”

  “It doesn’t have to be anything profound or meaningful. Honestly. I mean, I’ve dealt with it.”

  He drums his fingers rapid-fire against the arm of the sofa, like what he’d really like to be doing is tearing Nate to pieces with his bare hands. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Luce. This is . . . why you don’t drink?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He looks across at me, his expression stricken. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because . . . I hate talking about it. And I don’t want what happened to rule my life. I’ve dealt with it, and—”

  Almost absent-mindedly, he moves one of his hands to gently grip my knee, a gesture that feels reassuring and protective. “You know he’s still stealing from you.”

  I recoil slightly, a hot flicker of defensiveness in my throat. “No, he’s not.”

  “Well, you don’t want to ever set foot on a plane again . . . what is that if it’s not stealing experiences from you?” His voice is gentle, but the point he’s making hits me right in the gut.

  “I’m working through it in my own way.” I set down my now-empty mug on the coffee table.

  “I get that, and I wouldn’t ever presume to tell you how to handle it. But it makes me furious, to be honest, to think that bastard’s grounded you here for the rest of your life.”

  “Plenty of people don’t travel. It’s ridiculous to assume you can’t have a fulfilling life without going abroad.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m saying. I wouldn’t care if we stayed in Shoreley forever, but I’d hate to see you make that decision out of fear. Are you . . . afraid that it’ll happen again?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “Because you know I would never let anything happen to you.”

  “Caleb, it isn’t that I need you to protect me. It’s more . . . subconscious than that. I get nervous just thinking about it, the experience wouldn’t be worth the stress—”

  Caleb suddenly takes my hand. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but there’ll be a way to take something positive from this.”

  “Something positive like what?”

  “Well, at the very least,” he says, “not letting that arsehole win.”

  Go

  “So, come on—is this your weirdest birthday ever?” I ask Max with a smile.

  “Christ, no. When I was a kid Brooke dropped me off with this random family down the road and I spent the day watching back-to-back episodes of Bottom.”

  I stare at him, regretting my flippancy. “Oh. That’s . . . awful.”

  He laughs. “Ah, it’s all right. They let me eat my body weight in crisps.” He glances around the ballroom. “And things are looking up now, right?”

  It would be hard to argue with that. Max and I are at the bar in the ballroom of a swanky Hyde Park hotel, attending the London Rising Star Awards—40 Under 40. The awards, run by a national newspaper, name forty peer-nominated under-forties living and working in London, and flying high in their particular industry. Mortifyingly (certain business journalists have gone wild for this story, which makes me think they need to get out more), Max and I are both on the list.

  Max’s award recognizes his fast-growing reputation as one of London’s fiercest property litigators, due to his recent work on a number of high-profile cases. Well, I say high profile: unless you subscribe to The Lawyer and have a niche interest in property disputes, you’re unlikely to be up on them. My award was for my contribution to “A Whole New World,” the climate-change fairy tales campaign I worked on with Seb for the wildlife charity. (He’s here somewhere too, with his girlfriend.) The reward of a promotion at Supernova has so far eluded me, but then again, I have only been there six months. It seems a little early to be demanding a pay rise. Though Zara’s pleased with the positive publicity and the uptick in client inquiries off the back of the work, I’m pretty sure she’d say I’ll need to do a lot more than create one decent campaign before she’ll consider me for promotion.

  “So,” Max says, pulling me close. “I think we should take a moment to appreciate the fact that only six months after starting at Supernova, you’re already winning awards for your writing.”

  “Stop,” I say, mock bashfully.

  “No, I’m serious,” he whispers. “You’re smashing it, Luce. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Well, it’s better than being a starving novelist, I guess.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  I think about my long-abandoned notebook, how tough it would have been to ever make that idea pay. I smile back up at Max. “Yeah, I’m pretty happy with how things have worked out.” In the middle of the crowded bar, I pull him into his millionth happy-birthday kiss of the day, prompting someone nearby to mutter, “Oh, get a room,” in an upper-class accent.

  Max laughs. “Now that is an excellent idea.”

  “That wasn’t me,” I say, out of the side of my mouth.

  “No—I actually am going to get a room,” Max says, gray eyes sparking with mischief. “Back in a sec.”

  I grab
his hand. “Wait, what? The rooms here probably cost—”

  “I’m sorry,” he says matter-of-factly, cutting me off, “but that dress is way too incredible for a twenty-minute cab ride home.”

  * * *

  —

  In the end, the dress only stays put in the lift up to our room because I keep swatting Max’s hand away and laughing. “Don’t! Someone might come in.”

  He leans his head back against the lift wall and groans. “Why. Is. It. Stopping. On. Every. Floor?”

  “See? A cab would actually have been quicker.”

  Max exhales dramatically, though the way he catches my eye in the mirror as he does so makes my stomach tug with lust. He’s in black tie tonight, and though I’ve always admired how he looks in a suit, I have to say the extra level of suave is really doing it for me.

  The hotel’s been decked out for Christmas—all baubles and garlands and oversized foil bows—even though it’s still only November. There was a Christmas tree the size of a national monument in the ballroom, and they’re playing carol instrumentals in the lift.

  “Imagine if we got trapped in here,” Max says, “and the last music we ever heard was the pan pipes cover of ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ ”

  “Oh, don’t.”

  “I can just picture the headline: Britain’s Smuggest Couple Perish in Festive Lift Tragedy.”

  I know he’s joking really, but I find myself wondering if he might actually be right—if we are in danger of becoming just a little bit smug. Dressed in our finery, clutching our awards, dropping hundreds of pounds on a hotel room for the night, just because we can. Is this the life I’m supposed to be living? I think to myself, as I stare at the sight of us in the lift mirror. The thought arrives unbidden, out of nowhere. Suddenly, we seem to look like strangers—a couple I don’t recognize at all.

  The lift pings for our floor. “Finally,” Max murmurs, feeling for my hand, our key card between his teeth. I shake off the sensation of unease, allowing the heat of anticipation to spread through my stomach instead.

  What was that all about? I think, as we make our way along the corridor.

  Our room is a level of plush the students in us still pause to draw breath at. Floor-to-ceiling views of Hyde Park, Art Deco décor—all blush pinks and mint greens—with furniture edged in rose gold and a bathroom clad in marble. The carpet is so soft and thick, it almost swallows my feet.

  I notice a box of chocolates and a vase of dusky roses on a table near the window. “Max. Did you—”

  “They threw them in when I told them it was your birthday,” he says, slipping his arms around my waist from behind and kissing the top of my collarbone.

  I laugh. “But it’s your birthday.”

  “Oh. My mistake,” he whispers, and in the next second my dress is a glittering black puddle on the floor, his dinner jacket and bow tie going with it, and we’re falling into bed together for the second time today.

  * * *

  —

  Did you hear from Brooke?”

  We’ve ordered mocktails to the room, which are pleasingly creative and pretty tasty. I’m relieved by the brief distraction they’ve provided, because something about this room—its opulence, maybe, or the freshly cleaned scent—reminds me of another room, long ago, in Sydney.

  “Nope,” Max says. Though it’s pretty warm in here, we’re both wearing our complimentary toweling robes. We put them on as a joke at first, because I said I thought parading about in matching white dressing gowns was all a bit Swiss Toni. But now I have to admit Max looks quite hot in his, though I shouldn’t be surprised, really—he looks hot in pretty much anything. “We don’t really speak much.”

  I perch on the miniature couch next to the window, tucking my legs up beneath me. The room is dark now, the only light from a standard lamp in the corner. “I know, but . . . not even on your birthday?”

  From the bed, Max shakes his head. “She doesn’t really go in for stuff like that. Doubt she even remembers when it is. But . . . maybe it’s better that way. I send her flowers on her birthday every year—some stupid overpriced bouquet she probably dumps straight in the bin so she doesn’t have to put them in a vase. But it’s cursory, just a gesture. She probably wouldn’t notice if I never sent them again.”

  I consider briefly how crazy it is that Max could have had such a dysfunctional childhood and yet . . . here we are, tonight, seemingly with everything we could ever want.

  I sip from my mocktail. It buzzes on my tongue, the sugar and sparkle of it spinning through my stomach.

  “Was there ever . . . ?” I begin, and then trail off, unsure how to continue.

  He waits. I feel the warmth of his gaze as he watches me.

  “Was there ever a moment when you were a kid, when you were tempted to go the other way? You know—blank everything out, or make yourself feel better somehow by—”

  “Going off the rails?” Max says, lawyerly effective as ever in summarizing my meandering train of thought. I’ve heard him do this on the phone sometimes, smoothly cutting clients off when they start to ramble, which is good of him, considering his hourly rate.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  From beyond the window, we hear the muted wail of an ambulance siren.

  Max nods too. “I guess so. I did get in with the wrong crowd one year.” He laughs lightly. “I think about that quite often, actually. Brooke wasn’t around, we didn’t have any money, and I started to think that maybe . . . this was how my life was meant to be, you know? Just a bit . . . crap. And when I went back to school after Easter, I started being a bit mouthy, I think, and my PE teacher, Mr. Janson . . . he pulled me to one side one day, and asked me to join the athletics team.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. I’d been expecting him to say he’d been given a good talking-to, threatened with expulsion, or something.

  Max gets off the bed and crosses the room to the desk beneath the mirror where the Bluetooth speaker is, pairing it with his phone. Music fills the room and with it, my heart: it’s an old Tom Baxter album, one we’d listen to on repeat at uni.

  “I can see now that it was actually a stroke of genius,” he says, walking over to the bed again and sitting down with his back against the headboard. “Because I was pretty good at running, and there were . . . girls there who I wanted to impress, and other boys who I wanted to beat, and . . . I swear he saw what was happening to me and came up with a way to step in. I started training after school instead of tagging buildings and smoking and drinking. So, it turns out Mr. Janson sort of saved me.”

  “Good old Mr. Janson. Wonder what he’s doing now.”

  “Still teaching,” Max says, with a smile. “I e-mailed him last year to say thank you. I’m going to take him for a pint when I’m next in Cambridge.”

  “Do you know what happened to the crowd you were hanging out with?”

  A solemn nod. “One’s dead, actually. And another lad’s inside.”

  I feel a twist of anger in my stomach toward Brooke, for neglecting Max so badly. What a stroke of luck, I think, to have been saved by a single teacher’s brainwave that summer.

  “You’re so lucky,” Max says, putting a hand behind his head. “Having parents like yours.”

  I nod—I agree, of course I do, though it’s with a touch of regret. Because in a parallel life, my mum should be taking on Brooke’s role now—mothering Max, lavishing him with love, treating him like the son she never had. But that won’t happen—at least, not in the way it might have done, since Tash.

  The last time my parents saw Max was a whole decade ago—they’d been to visit me at uni in Norwich, not long into my final term. When Max and I got back together this April, it had felt too early to reintroduce them, and soon after that came the revelation about Tash. I’ve been half-pondering the idea of inviting him back to Shoreley with me this Christmas, but that kind of chut
zpah needs military-grade preparation, and I haven’t yet had the headspace to think it through.

  It makes me sad to know that what happened will always taint us, a stain created by carelessness that will never quite scrub clean. On the face of it, my family have accepted Max and me, but I worry that—over time—a natural distance will open up between us all, if I sail off into the sunset with Max, the man who did a thing none of us can actually bear to talk about.

  My phone buzzes. I glance down at it: Jools. She’s ranting about Vince again, who, after she broke it off with him last month, has been struck with the revelation—which had previously eluded him—that Jools is the love of his life, that he wants them to be exclusive (what a guy), that he wants them to move in together.

  I mean, says Jools’s message, the absolute RAGING CHEEK of him.

  “What will you do?” Max says.

  “Hmm?” I look up from my phone, then feel bad, setting it down on the little gold table next to me. It is his birthday, after all.

  “If Jools moves in with . . . What’s his name again?”

  “Vince. Vincent.”

  “Yeah. I mean . . . would you stay in the house?”

  “Oh, she won’t move in with him. He’s just crying because she dumped him. He virtually confessed to having been seeing other people right up until she ended it.”

  Max smiles, and for a moment, I can’t quite interpret his expression. “Humor me.”

  A beat. “About what?”

  “Well, say Jools did move out . . . would you consider moving in with me, for example?”

  I stare at him. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? I admit it has crossed my mind, the fantasy of living with Max—reaching out to touch him every day when I wake, sneaking into the shower together before work, hearing the turn of his key in the lock after a long day. Doing those twee coupley things that feel stupidly exciting the first time around—cooking supper together (fancy pasta, always fancy pasta), clearing space in the wardrobe for my things, play-fighting over the remote, buying trinkets we both love for the home we’ll make together.