What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  Since getting back together, things between us have been good—no, better than good. We spend most evenings eating out, or at the theater, or going to gigs, or having supper with friends. I’ve met Max’s colleagues from HWW. We’ve become close with Dean and his wife Chrissy. From the outside looking in, our relationship couldn’t be better.

  And yet. As I considered moving in, a tiny note of doubt still occasionally sounded in the back of my mind, telling me to give it a bit more time. Subconsciously, I was probably half waiting for a tidal wave of secondary emotions to hit at some point, and I wanted that to happen before I moved in, not after.

  But actually, it never has. So, last month, I told Max I was ready.

  “Fill this flat with whatever you like,” Max whispers into my ear now. “I couldn’t care less. The only thing I care about is that you’re here.”

  I can’t resist. “But what will your interior designer say?”

  He laughs. “I should think he’d be thrilled for me, if I’m honest. I could tell he thought the whole bachelor pad thing was a bit tragic.”

  I smile. “Have you made space in the wardrobe?”

  “Of course. A full half is now yours.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  Max takes my hand and pulls me down onto the sofa next to him. His expression is soft and keen, his marl-gray eyes seeming to search my face for something. “Luce, in all seriousness, I want you to know . . . this place is yours as much as it is mine. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re . . . staying with me.”

  I press my lips together and nod. Momentarily, I am transported back to our student years, when we’d sit together on various decrepit sofas and talk for hours about our feelings and the future, the life we had ahead of us. “God, I used to dream of this day when we were at uni.”

  He nods too. “Yeah.”

  “Not so much our first move to London . . . but more what we’re doing now. With proper careers, and good friends, and an idea of where we’re headed in life, you know?”

  Max hesitates for a second or two, then lifts one hand to brush the hair from my face. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “It might freak you out.”

  I smile. “Why?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay. Well, we always used to talk about . . . getting married, and having kids, and . . . I know we haven’t done that lately, and obviously I get why. But I guess I’m just curious . . . if you still see that stuff in our future. I mean, I don’t know what you see when you think of us in five years’ time . . . ten . . .”

  I swallow hard, an attempt to prevent my heart cleaving and my eyes filling up. But I know, actually, that I couldn’t play this cool if my life depended on it. When Max and I got back together, we agreed we’d be one hundred percent straight with each other, always. So that’s what I’m going to do. Screw it—the worst has already happened. “Of course. Every day. Getting married and having a family with you . . . I still want all that stuff, Max.”

  He swears softly, then lowers his head, resting it in his hands. I put a palm flat against his back. He is breathing hard. “I thought you might not,” he says. “I thought I might have blown the chance of that ever happening.”

  “The heart wants what the heart wants,” I whisper, with a soft shrug and a smile.

  He looks across at me, his disquiet turning to curiosity. “How many kids?”

  I let a beat go by. “Three. No, four.”

  “Big white wedding, or . . . scarper off to a beach somewhere?”

  “Both?”

  “City or suburbia?”

  “City. For now. Or then. You know what I mean. None of this is happening yet.”

  He leans over to kiss me. “I love you so much.” Picking up his phone, he angles it for a selfie. “One for posterity?”

  I kiss him on the cheek for the shot, and then we put Coldplay on and start unpacking the boxes. And every time I catch his eye, or our elbows bump, I feel happiness billow inside me as I think, Right here. Here is the guy I am going to grow old with.

  * * *

  —

  Later, Jools rings me. Max is out of the room, having had to take a call from his poor working-at-the-weekend-to-prove-himself assistant. We’ve spent the last couple of hours on the living room floor flipping through photos from our university days, laughing at the red-eye, the grainy quality, the bad composition. Heads cut off, people looking in the wrong direction. Nothing was posed back then. Selfies were still new. We didn’t really care about our clothes. We were never curated—we were captured at our imperfect, carefree best.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jools says. “But thank you for moving out.”

  Sipping from my tea, I smile. “I mean, you’re welcome, but I’m going to need some context.”

  “That girl who was moving in has changed her mind.”

  “What?” It was all lined up for today—a friend of Sal’s who works in production at the actual atelier of a major fashion designer. Jools had been so excited about her moving in, insisting whenever I ribbed her about it that it was nothing whatsoever to do with the prospect of tapping the girl up for free clothes.

  “Yeah, something about a last-minute move to Milan.”

  “Like you do.”

  “Yes, but then Reuben called that guy—the one who came to view it last year, remember, with the muffins?” Jools’s voice becomes slightly hectic and high-pitched. “You know—he turned up to view the room after you did and we had to send him away. Anyway, he’s just been round to see it again, and he’s—”

  “Did he bring muffins?”

  “Screw the muffins,” she says, “he is dreamy. His name’s Nigel. He’s going to move in next weekend. Apparently he used to be a professional pianist.”

  I dunk a custard cream into my tea, hold it down for the regulation three seconds. “So, what does he do for a living? I mean, if he’s an ex-pianist.”

  “He’s a financial auditor.”

  “That sounds promising,” I say, thinking, Sensible. Reliable.

  “Yeah, and he’s one of those people who makes proper eye contact, and actually listens when you speak.”

  I realize it’s been a long time since I heard Jools really enthuse about a guy.

  “So anyway,” Jools continues, “what I’m saying is, much as I loved living with you, Luce, Nigel definitely has more long-term potential, romantically speaking.”

  I laugh. “God, Jools! You never get all mushy about guys.”

  “I know! What’s wrong with me?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Sober as a judge.”

  “Well, then I guess it must be love at first sight.”

  “I guess it must.”

  Sixteen

  Stay

  Sunday night, and Caleb and I are sitting in the little courtyard of my parents’ cottage in Shoreley. They’ve spent the weekend in Sussex, and as Tash and Simon have been in Bristol visiting Simon’s brother, we agreed to house-sit, because Mum’s paranoid about burglars and Dad worries about their cat, Macavity, starving to death. We’ll lock up tomorrow morning before they get back, post the key through the letter box.

  They’ve seemed under strain over the past few months. Not quite themselves. Dad’s migraines have been persisting, and talk of redundancies at his company has started up again. So I was pleased when they announced they were getting away for a couple of days.

  Caleb and I are wrapped up in our big coats, scarves, and gloves. The metal of the seat I’m on feels icy through my jeans. We’ve just finished eating, a feast of local scallops and bacon fried in butter. It’s a clear night, the sky spangled with a million stars, so Caleb suggested making hot chocolates and lighting Mum and Dad’s little firepit, so we could sit out
here in the darkness and wonder at the array of hot-white constellations above our heads.

  We’ve been discussing my novel, which he’s just finished reading the full draft of. There are a few minor tweaks and edits left to make, but I wanted Caleb to read the whole thing before he goes, in case he’s got any salient feedback.

  He got the Southeast Asia job, of course. And I’m so excited for him. He’s a genius behind the camera, and he more than deserves this opportunity. He flies to Bangkok in a fortnight for orientation, and will be away six months.

  I’m going to miss him hard. Really, really hard.

  “Honestly, I think it’s epic,” Caleb’s saying. “Seriously. You are such a talent, Lucy.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, I do. The ambiguity of that ending . . . It’s genius.”

  I bite my lip. I mean, if I were to be really honest, the ending was actually Ryan’s idea, dreamed up over postsession drinks in The Smugglers. “You think?”

  “No, I know.” He leans over and kisses me. His lips are warm and sweet from the hot chocolate, and the kiss is long and deep and slow, like we’re marking the moment.

  “Thank you. Shame it’s taken me so long.”

  He draws back from me, tilts his head. “Didn’t it take Margaret Mitchell ten years to write—”

  “—Gone with the Wind.” I smile. “So they say.”

  And I suppose, in a way, I’ve been writing my novel for ten years, too. Maybe not on the page—but it’s been in my head ever since I boarded that flight at Heathrow on Boxing Day eleven years ago.

  I burrow deeper into my coat, shuffling a little closer to the firepit in an effort to ward off the icebound November air. An occasional fit of wind is laced with the briny scent of the sea as it stirs.

  Caleb leans back in his chair, gazing up at the stars. “I’d go as far as to say the world needs to read your book, Lambert.”

  I snort. “No. The world does not need to read my book. The world needs . . . equality, and human rights, and an end to corruption and famine, and—”

  “All true. But as long as books exist, yours should, too.”

  “Ah, you’re biased.”

  “Nope. When are you going to let Ryan show it to his agent?”

  I smile. The four of us—Ryan, Emma, Caleb, and I—have become pretty close over the past eighteen months. We cook dinner for one another, meet for drinks and Sunday roasts at The Smugglers, go out to see films and plays and poetry readings.

  Ryan’s been badgering me for weeks to let his agent in London have a sneak peek at my draft. But I’m not quite ready yet.

  “Soon,” I say, obliquely.

  Caleb reaches for my hand, his fingers twining with mine. “Promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t go and get published while I’m away. All right? You have to wait till I’m home. I want to be here for your big moment. It would kill me to hear about it over Skype.”

  I smile at his faith in me before slinging my head back, readjusting my eyes to the glinting galaxy in the sky. “Okay. I’ll try my very best not to achieve the impossible while you’re away.”

  By my side, he exhales. “Six months.” His breath ices the air between us. I feel him looking at me, but I don’t want to look back, because I know it might make me cry.

  So instead I just nod, and wash away the sadness with the last of my hot chocolate. “It’s going to be the best six months of your life.”

  I’ll be staying in Caleb’s cottage until he gets back. I’m so pleased he’s not giving it up. I mean, yes—it has leaks and loose tiles and bits always falling off it. But it’s cozy and ramshackle, decrepitly romantic. I picture myself sitting in it alone while Caleb’s gone, listening to the sea, the gentle rumble of the waves reassuring as a heartbeat.

  * * *

  —

  As we’re getting ready for bed, my phone buzzes. It’s Jools, about next weekend, when Caleb’s agreed to do an engagement shoot for her and Nigel in London. We’re traveling to Tooting on Friday, then I’ve organized a surprise going-away party for Caleb on Saturday night. I can’t imagine a better way of spending his last weekend before he goes.

  Jools and Nigel are getting married in Shoreley next summer, and Caleb will be taking the pictures. Before meeting Nigel, Jools never showed much interest in marriage, largely because her parents couldn’t even take their own on-off engagement seriously. But since saying yes, she’s become the white-wedding enthusiast none of us saw coming. We’ve been dress shopping and venue hunting, we’ve sampled catering and cakes, we’ve spent hours gazing at honeymoon destinations and fantasizing over gift lists. One of her colleagues even jokingly called her bridezilla last week, and she beamed as she told me, as if she’d just been promoted, or Reuben had finally paid her back all that money she’s subbed him for rent.

  * * *

  —

  In the middle of the night, I wake to a tarry, acrid smell. It burns the back of my throat like smoke, turning it raw. I lie there for a few moments, confused, trying to remember if we ate anything last night that tasted smoky.

  Then I realize. It is smoke.

  Next to me, Caleb is sitting up. “Lucy,” he says, very calmly. “I think the house might be on fire.”

  * * *

  —

  Er, Mum,” Tash says. “Do you need a brandy, or something? You look really pale.”

  Tash rushed round as soon as she heard, and I’ve taken the morning off work. I told Ivan I’d escaped from a house fire, which was a bit of a white lie, given only part of the living room was actually destroyed in the end. A socket behind the TV was overloaded and ignited in the night, but the fire service was able to put it out before too much damage occurred. We were permitted to reenter the cottage just minutes before Mum and Dad arrived home from Sussex. Luckily, Macavity was perfectly fine.

  The five of us are crammed around the breakfast bar in Mum and Dad’s tiny kitchen, shivering because all the doors and windows are wedged open. I’ve always loved this room, with its handmade wooden cabinets and uneven ceiling and cherry-red Aga. It has character. Soul.

  The stenciled words on the wall above the corkboard catch my eye. What’s meant for you won’t pass you by. I’ve been known to rib my parents about the triteness of that saying, but today it seems painfully poignant.

  Caleb’s made a pot of tea, is passing round cups. I meet his gaze as he hands me mine, and feel comfort sink through me like an anchor gently dropping.

  What am I going to do without him?

  Mum shakes her head to the offer of brandy. “No, thanks, darling. I always hated that picture, anyway.”

  Tash shoots me a funny look. Mum must be talking about the oil painting of poppies above the TV. It’s not the only thing that was burned: many other items went up in flames, including—ironically enough—the copy of Jane Eyre I was reading last night, but I guess she’s focusing on that painting because she’s in shock, or something. I’m pretty sure Dad bought it for her, once upon a time.

  “It’s just so lucky you and Caleb were here,” Mum says to me, shaking her head. “Imagine if you hadn’t been. The whole house would have gone up, and Macavity would have . . .” She breaks off, clamping a hand over her mouth, unable to continue.

  Caleb reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Don’t think about that, Ruby. We were here. That’s what counts.”

  She looks up at him, her eyes shimmery with tears. “Thank you, Caleb.” I know she’s grateful for him right now—I think we all are. If I’ve learned anything from the eighteen months we’ve been together, it’s that Caleb is someone you want around in a crisis. He’s so coolheaded, pragmatic, and dependable. Even just to look at him makes me feel calmer, somehow. A few months ago, we were on a train to Newcastle—my first time meeting his mum and younger stepsiblings—when an elder
ly passenger across the aisle slumped suddenly over in his seat, his skin completely gray. Caleb was the model of composure—clearing the man’s airway, directing the other passengers to call for help, talking a nearby woman down from her frenzied panic. The man regained consciousness by the next stop, where medical help was waiting, and we found out later that he’d fully recovered. But it made me think Caleb had missed his vocation as a member of the emergency services. It’s quite a skill to be unflappable in any crisis, I think.

  By my side, Tash is uncharacteristically quiet. She diverted here on her way to the office, which is why she’s looking so businesslike in her camel-colored coat and dove-gray suit. She seems horrified by what’s happened: at first I thought she might blame me, for leaving the TV plugged in when we went to bed, but she hugged me when I asked and said of course not, that she was just in shock.

  I know she’s been struggling with the idea of me moving out of their place and into Caleb’s cottage when he goes away, having taken so much pleasure from watching me and Dylan bond over the three and a half years I’ve been living with them. But there comes a time to move on, and I think we both know that time is now. Maybe I’ll use the money I’ve saved up to buy a place with Caleb when he gets home. Or maybe I’ll use it for something a little more adventurous. Anyway, it’s lovely to have options, and I feel a thrill in my stomach whenever I think about my future with this man I love so much.

  “Listen, kids,” Mum’s saying now, clearing her throat, “we’ve got something we’d like to talk to you about.”

  Next to me, Caleb shifts slightly. “Did you want me to—”