What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  All the stuff we’d been planning to do a decade ago, before everything went wrong.

  “I’ve been trying to hold off asking,” Max says, smiling down at his glass like he’s making a speech at a wedding. “But . . . I’d really love it, Luce, if you’d move in with me.”

  “God,” I breathe, trying to tread the line between excitement and restraint. “I’d have to see how Jools feels. They’d need to find someone else for the room, and—”

  “Is that a maybe?” Max says, his gray eyes gleaming.

  “Yes,” I say, breaking into a smile. “It’s definitely a maybe.”

  He gets to his feet, crossing the space between us and tipping his glass to mine. In this moment, we could be back in Norwich, in the students’ union bar clinking plastic pint glasses together, madly in love and planning our future, our whole lives ahead of us. I shut my eyes and fantasize—just for a second—that I’m back there, before anything went wrong, when the world seemed to be full only of possibility, an abundance of good things.

  “Well,” Max is saying, “that’s a reason to celebrate, don’t you think?”

  Pulling myself back to the present, I laugh. “How much more celebrating can two people do?”

  He gently takes the glass from my hand before leaning down, putting his lips against mine, and tugging on the cord to my dressing gown. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  * * *

  —

  A couple of hours later, I wake with a jump, my skin slippery with sweat. I blink into the blackness, trying to remember where I am. For a moment I think I am back in Sydney, in a strange hotel room, and that Nate is by the bed, leaning over me.

  I try to call out, to shout for help, but my breath is a knot in my throat.

  I fumble for a light, half falling out of bed, then make my way over to the window, where I rip the curtains open. Part of me is expecting the room to flood with daylight, that I’ll see the ominous sight of the Sydney Opera House looming in front of me.

  But outside, it is dark, except for the diffuse amber glow of Hyde Park Corner at night, backlit by a colorful jumble of Christmas lights. I swear and shut my eyes, try to calm the leaping sensation in my chest.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I spin around. But it’s only Max, of course. I draw another deep breath. “Sorry. I’m just . . . I thought I saw . . .”

  He pulls me into a hug, and we are quiet for a couple of moments. I try not to fixate on how still and soundless this room is, about how much I want to flick the TV on, or play some music. I’m suddenly feeling almost unbearably hot, too. But these windows don’t open. I have no way to escape.

  “I didn’t think,” Max whispers eventually, softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “About staying somewhere like this. That it might . . . bring back memories.”

  I shake my head, my mind beetling with frustration. “Oh no. God, it’s okay. I should be able to sleep in a sodding hotel room, shouldn’t I?”

  There is a long pause as we stand in front of the window together. It should be the most romantic view in the world, yet here I am wondering if I’ll ever feel safe in a place like this again.

  “You know, my company . . .” Max begins, then trails off.

  “HWW?”

  I feel the graze of his stubble as he nods, his chin dipped into the crook of my neck. “I have private medical insurance, and partners are covered. Partners as in girlfriends, boyfriends . . .”

  “Okay,” I say, unsure where this is going.

  “I’ve been thinking . . . you could use it to see a psychologist, if you want. I think it would cover a few sessions. If you feel like that might help.”

  I peel away from him, go and sit on the edge of the bed. Any romantic vibes have evaporated from the room now completely. “Jesus, Max. Do you really think I’m—”

  “Yeah,” he says, softly, staying where he is by the window. “I do. I think what happened to you was really serious. And I don’t think you’ve fully . . . accepted that.”

  “I don’t know what happened to me,” I remind him.

  “Well, exactly. God, Luce, isn’t that fact alone enough to mess with anyone’s head?”

  The question flickers between us for a minute or so, while I try to think of a way to save tonight. I don’t want to spend our time here discussing the state of my head, or Nate, or whether I should use HWW’s health insurance for psychiatric assistance.

  “It was just a bad dream,” I say, eventually.

  “Yeah, one that you’re still having ten years later,” he says gently. “Just . . . promise me you’ll think about it.”

  I look over at him, this incredible man who I’ve loved for almost half my life, who wants us to live together, who cares for me so deeply. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  Fifteen

  Stay

  Caleb and I are having dinner in the little courtyard garden of the French bistro in Shoreley—a little optimistically, admittedly, for late evening in May—when he leans forward and sets his glass against mine. It’s a romantic space out here, with antique brick-weave paving so uneven it makes all the tables wobble, and twinkling lights spanning the rear wall. The air is fragranced by tiny vases of sweet peas, the breeze rich with the rumble of a restless sea.

  “So . . . it came through.”

  I hold my breath. I know what he’s referring to, because we were expecting it today—his decree absolute, the final document confirming he and Helen are no longer married—but I need to hear him say it.

  “We’re officially divorced. It’s over.”

  I exhale, unsure whether to smile or stay solemn. It’s a strange thing, watching the person you love untangle themselves from someone else—who just so happens to be the person they once loved most in the world. The process has been remarkably frictionless—aside from some minor quibbling over a car and some savings—but I still feel relief spill through me like a breaking wave.

  “Is that why you suggested dinner?” I say, venturing a smile. Caleb called me this afternoon, asked if I fancied eating out tonight, and I sensed from his voice he had something to tell me.

  “Kind of,” he says, not quite meeting my eye.

  Suddenly, he looks so uncomfortable that my relief evaporates, and is replaced by that snow-cold feeling you get in your gut when someone decides to explore a darkened cellar in a film.

  But then he seems to shake it off. “Anyway, tell me about your news,” he says, abruptly changing the subject.

  I park my trepidation. “Hardly news,” I say resignedly, with a grim smile.

  After failing to make the longlist for the first-chapter competition that Ryan and Emma were so adamant I should enter last year, I finally mustered up the courage recently to enter a different competition, one I’d spotted in a writing magazine.

  The e-mail came through today, and again—the same result. Not even longlisted.

  “Maybe this is a sign,” I say glumly. “You know—a nudge from the universe to stop me pouring all my energy into writing.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Caleb hesitates for a moment or two, frowning into his wineglass. “So, what you’re saying is, people should only have to try once at a thing before they’re successful?” He looks up and meets my eye. “I think even you know that’s complete bollocks, Lucy.”

  And there’s something so matter-of-fact and pragmatic about the way he says this that I have to laugh. “All right. Maybe that sounded a bit self-indulgent.”

  He leans toward me, holding my gaze. His eyes are sweet and dark as treacle. “Look—as I see it, if you want to be a writer, you only have one option right now.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Get up, dust yourself off, and keep going.”

  I’ve recently finishe
d the whole first draft of my book. Writing the last few chapters was pretty tough—Ryan and Emma had to practically tug them out of me—but now, finally, the words are all there on the page. There’s lots of polishing still to do, but at least I finally have a full story to work with.

  And Caleb’s right. Of course he is. I didn’t come this far only to jack it all in now.

  “So,” I say, keen to stop pressing on the bruise of my rejection, “was there another reason you wanted to have dinner tonight?”

  That look again. Discomfort and unease. Something on his mind. I pull my cardigan more tightly around me, and wait.

  Is it to do with Helen? Us? His happiness—or lack of it?

  He takes a couple of moments to reply, swilling what’s left of his wine around the bottom of his glass. “All right. So, after I got the e-mail about the divorce, I had a dentist’s appointment, and in the waiting room . . . there was this magazine.”

  “Okay . . .” I say slowly, not yet able to imagine where this is going.

  “It was one of those National Geographic type of things, and there was this advert in the back.”

  He passes me his phone, open on a photo.

  The advert is for a not-for-profit cultural heritage organization that’s seeking a photographer-in-residence to document overseas cultural sites across Southeast Asia, in return for a modest salary and all expenses paid. The application deadline’s in a month, and the trip would last for six.

  “Oh” is all I can think of to say.

  I don’t often wish I drank, but a nice neat shot of something would come in very handy just about now.

  Caleb waits. I know he won’t launch into a sales pitch, and I’m glad. He shouldn’t have to sell it to me. Instinctively, I understand this is something he has to do.

  So—though I already feel selfishly sick with self-pity—I reach across the table for his hand. “You have to go for it.”

  All his features seem to soften, his expression now daubed with guilt and uncertainty. “Lucy, I—”

  “I’m serious. You have to do this.”

  He’s quiet for a couple of moments. His hand is gripping mine fiercely. “It just . . . feels pretty weird to be suggesting this when you’re literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  I feel my forehead crumple slightly, succumbing to the weight of my emotions. “Look, I know they say love is about compromise, but I don’t think that should ever mean giving up on your dreams.”

  He lets his head drop forward, releasing a long breath as he does so, and I realize he’d been nervous about telling me. “I guess the timing just seems off, somehow.”

  “No—the timing’s perfect.” I squeeze his hand. “Caleb, seeing this advert on the same day as your divorce being finalized . . . That can’t have been coincidence. It’s meant to be. You have to do this.”

  He raises his head now, swigs back some wine. As our gazes meet again, I try not to think about how much I’m going to miss him.

  “It’s still all theoretical at this stage, anyway,” he says. “I’ll have to apply, and there’ll be loads of competition, and—”

  “You’ll get it,” I say, already absolutely confident that this is true.

  His smile is bashful. “Well, we should talk. About what it would mean, and you know . . . if you’d want to fly out to join me—at any point along the way?” He phrases this last part like a question.

  We’ve discussed Nate a lot over the past six months, ever since I disclosed to Caleb what happened in Australia. At first, it felt weird to be talking about something I’d kept inside for so long—but at the same time, unexpectedly cathartic. Caleb never avoids the subject, shuts it down, or flinches from it because it’s hard to put into words. He wades right into the middle of it, repeatedly encouraging me to share my feelings, and even—after many weeks of conversation—asking me whether I could ever conceive of taking a trip abroad together. It’s actually started feeling strangely soothing to discuss it lately, to share my dread and sadness with someone whose only goal is to help me overcome it.

  Still. My head is responding to his question with a firm no. And yet . . . I sense my heart flexing with the unfamiliar sensation of temptation.

  “Sorry,” he says, when I don’t reply straightaway. “Getting ahead of myself.”

  “When would you have to leave?”

  “Early December. So even if I got it, we’d have half a year before . . .”

  “It would make me . . . really happy. To see you go out there and do all that.” Despite my premature sadness, I feel my whole body smile at the thought of it. “I’d be chuffed to bits for you, honestly.”

  “But I’d miss you so much,” he whispers. His eyes are glimmering with reflected candlelight.

  I brave a smile. “Yeah, but just imagine the reunion.”

  He laughs and rubs a hand through his hair. “God, yeah. Imagine that.”

  * * *

  —

  So, would you actually consider going out there?” Jools whispers to me, the next morning. She and Nigel have made a rare last-minute trip back to Shoreley for the weekend, and I’m walking with her along the promenade, a few steps behind Caleb and Nigel. It’s just before midday, and after a late start we’re heading to the crab shack for lunch.

  “No,” I say. “That would be a bit too long-haul for me. Plus, I feel like it’s something he needs to do by himself. It’s a work thing, you know?”

  “But . . . ?” Jools guesses with a smile.

  “But maybe . . . Maybe I’d be up for a short break to Europe sometime. A long weekend. Something like that.”

  She slips her arm through mine. “I’m so pleased you told him, Luce. About what happened in Australia.”

  I nod as above our heads, seagulls orbit steadily, seeking unsuspecting tourists’ chips to snatch. The tide is high now. Weekenders have filled the promenade and the remaining slice of biscuit-colored shingle, ambling four or six abreast, making an early start on oversized cones of artisan ice cream.

  “He’s just so . . . calm and logical about it all, you know?” I say. “Like, he gets all my pain and heartache, but he also really wants to help me move forward.” I gaze at Caleb’s back as we walk. He’s laughing at something Nigel’s said, gesticulating like he’s doing an impression of someone or something.

  “Nigel’s exactly the same,” Jools says. “He’s making it his mission to help me build bridges with the . . . let’s say, more dysfunctional members of my family.”

  “Imagine if I’d moved in with you, Jools, last year. I mean, no offense—but you would never have met Nigel, and I’d probably never have called Caleb back.”

  She smiles. “Actually, I think we’d have all found our way to each other eventually.”

  I smile back at her. I love that idea. “You reckon?”

  “I know.” And then she hesitates, like she’s hanging on to the sentiment, not quite wanting to let it go. “Oh, I can’t wait any longer.”

  I frown. “Wait for what?”

  “Nigel!” Jools calls. He and Caleb turn, and now she’s waving them frantically back toward us with one hand.

  “You can’t wait for what?” I say, touching her arm.

  Jools ignores me. “Can we tell them now?” she says to Nigel as he and Caleb reach us.

  Nigel smiles, like he’s amused by her sudden flustering. “Sure, if you want to.”

  “Tell us what?”

  Jools turns to face me, taking both my hands in hers. She looks beautiful as always, with her pebble-smooth skin and her mermaid’s hair catching and lifting in the sea breeze. She glances at Nigel again. “I’m sorry, I know we said we’d do it over lunch, but . . . I can’t hold it in anymore.”

  “Jools!” I exclaim, laughing with frustration and anticipation.

  She releases my hands, then moves over to Nig
el. She slings an arm around his waist, takes a breath, and looks up at him. Above our heads, the sun brightens suddenly as it evades a cloud, as if to gild her announcement. “We’re getting married.”

  I gasp. My knees threaten to fold with surprise and delight. By my side, I feel Caleb grab my hand.

  “We know it’s quick,” Nigel says, looking down at his wife-to-be. It was their one-year anniversary this week, just a couple of weeks after our own. “But—”

  “—when you know, you know,” Jools says, beaming.

  I throw my arms around her so I can squeeze her as tightly as humanly possible, then I do the same with Nigel. He and Caleb man-hug, then we all come together as a foursome, our arms around one another. I feel as though my heart’s just been torpedoed, but in the best way ever.

  Jools is totally right. When you know, you know.

  Go

  “Your poor flat,” I say to Max, standing back to survey the mound of boxes we’ve just finished lugging in from the van—a mismatched jumble of supermarket cardboard that once held crisps, nappies, cereals, orange juice. There are a couple of vast IKEA bags too, plus several stuffed black bin bags. I look as though I’m en route to a car boot sale, not moving into the world’s most beautiful flat.

  “It’s all right,” Max says, deadpan, rubbing his chin. “I mean, I presume you’ll be unpacking at some point?”

  I laugh. “The stuff inside them isn’t much better, believe me.”

  He sneaks up behind me, slipping both arms around my waist. “Is this why you put off moving in for so long? You thought I’d stuff-shame you?”

  Yes and no, I think, even though I know he’s only joking. It’s May now—six months since Max first suggested I move in. At first, I mainly felt bad for Jools—after all, we’d only been living together for seven months, and I was already considering shacking up with my new boyfriend. It felt weirdly unsisterly, though of course Jools never made me feel that way. And so I sat down and had a word with myself, tried to dig down into why I was really feeling hesitant—and I realized that in the back of my mind, perhaps it still just felt too soon. Max was the man I loved most in the world—but he was also the person who’d betrayed me in the worst possible way.