What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  I look awful, I know it. Like a ghost of myself. And the only thing that would bring me back to life would be if Max were to walk through that door again right now.

  * * *

  —

  How you holding up?” Dean kisses me on both cheeks. He smells of spicy aftershave, and I am suddenly conscious of my state of unwash. He passes me a coffee and a paper bag from Gail’s. “Thought you could use some sustenance.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Gail’s is my favorite, but I’m not sure I can stomach cake at the moment. We head into the living room, where I sit down in an armchair, drawing my cardigan around me. It’s May now, warm, and London is at its gleaming best, exultant with early-summer skies and sun-dappled parks and drinking at dusk. But my mood is more suited to January: gray, cold, never-ending.

  Like always, Macavity springs silently onto my lap. He’s been clingy ever since Max died, and I’m convinced he’s pining for his lost companion. I take so much strength from the warmth of his little body against mine, from the rhythmical, comforting percussion of his purring. He has loved Max too, I often think. He understands. Max’s hands have stroked the same patch of coat I am stroking now. Macavity is like my little lifebelt, tethered by time to the man I love.

  It’s Saturday, I’ve realized—early afternoon, and another warm day. Sunlight is glancing off the furniture, my reward for having cleaned up. This time last year, Max and I might have been walking hand in hand through South Bank, the Thames shifting and heaving beside us like a serpent. We might have lunched in Borough Market, picked up some things for dinner, then meandered back to the flat eating our favorite gelatos, our hearts and bellies full.

  I motion for Dean to sit, which he does, on the sofa. He’s wearing Ray-Bans pushed up onto his head and a T-shirt, his face faintly bronzed from the last couple of weeks’ sun. I suppose he’s been out somewhere with Chrissy and his daughter, enjoying some much-needed family time. Because it’s Saturday, and life goes on. Or at least, it does for Dean and Chrissy, and they’d be crazy not to make the most of every single second.

  I’ve got to know them well over the past year or so. Chrissy works in television, is high up at a production company specializing in factual entertainment. We’d become quite a tight little foursome, hanging out at our flat or at their house in Chiswick; picnicking on the Common; enjoying long, lazy weekend lunches; walking the Thames Path on Sundays with their daughter Sasha on her little bike. It’s hard to know how our friendship will change, now that Max is gone. I suppose, inevitably, it will. I’m fairly sure there’ll only be so many times they’ll let me play gooseberry: that’s not how socializing’s supposed to work.

  I messaged Dean after finding the ring. I had to know the story, and I was pretty sure Dean would have it. He and Max had become super close in the years since leaving uni—perhaps because as everyone’s friendships evolved, broke up, or moved on, they discovered they had even more in common as adults than they did as students.

  “Can I see it?” he asks now.

  I pass him the box. He lifts the lid, then smiles, like it brings back a warm memory. “That’s the one. I helped him choose it. Hatton Garden. It’s five carats, emerald cut—”

  “When?” I whisper.

  Dean is never lost for words, but he takes a really long time to answer. “The week before he died,” he says, eventually, his voice gentle as an echo.

  “Did he say . . . how he was going to . . . ?”

  Dean smiles faintly, then shakes his head. His blue eyes look watery. He’s lost weight too, since Max died. Chrissy told me recently he’s been working nonstop. “He mentioned some ideas. Like doing it at the Observatory, or the Eye, or the Shard. But to be honest, I think he probably would have just dropped down on one knee right here in this flat, Lucy. He didn’t need to perform some grand gesture to prove how much he loved you.”

  I shut my eyes, let his words swim through me. I would trade anything—anything—for Max to walk into this room right now, if only for a few moments, so I could give him my answer. Yes. Oh, I love you so much. A million times, yes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Dean says. “I didn’t know what was best. Chrissy’s been saying I should, but . . . I thought it might make everything worse.”

  “No,” I say softly, shaking my head. “It’s the opposite. It’s like . . . me and Max have just had another conversation, and I never thought I’d get that chance.”

  We don’t say anything else for a few moments, just sip from our cups, contemplating. I get that strange metallic taste on my tongue again, try to wash it away with the coffee.

  On my lap, Macavity shifts, stretching and flexing a paw before tucking it neatly back where it came from.

  “In case you ever doubted how much you meant to Max,” Dean says, eventually, “you should know, Lucy, that you were his whole world. He’d been so happy since you guys got back together.”

  My eyes fill with tears, and though I can’t speak, I nod my thank-you.

  Dean wipes away a couple of his own tears now, leaning forward to grab some tissues from the box ever present on the coffee table. He passes me one. “God, I miss him.”

  I blow my nose, then decide that since Dean is here, I will ask the question that plagues me constantly. The one always flickering in my line of sight, like an insect I can’t dispatch. “Dean, do you blame me?”

  Until the family liaison officer confirmed that Max had died twenty minutes after we’d finished speaking that night, I’d been tormented by the thought that our conversation on the phone had had a part to play in his death. To know the two events were unconnected didn’t make losing him any more bearable, but at least it put that particular fear to rest.

  Still. Max had been on his way to see me, and I’d told him to turn around. If I’d said yes, got excited, seen it for the romantic idea it was, he would still be alive.

  Dean already knows what I said to Max that night—in the immediate aftermath of the accident, I seemed to be on a mission to tell as many people as possible, maybe because I was seeking the punishment I felt sure I deserved. But he’s never displayed even the tiniest glimmer of resentment toward me for it. Still, the nature of grief is so fluid, so fickle. Perhaps now he’s had time to think about it, he’s realized I am partly culpable.

  “Nobody blames you,” he tells me firmly, leaning forward so I’m obliged to meet his eye. “Nobody would, not ever. You couldn’t possibly have known, Lucy.”

  I nod, then look away from him and down at my hands, which are dry and neglected, much like the rest of me. “But I just keep thinking . . . if only I’d said yes.”

  Pippa’s been encouraging me to stop this—questioning everything, agonizing over every tiny decision I’ve ever made. Because, she says, even if I had all the answers I’m looking for, the reality of losing Max would be exactly the same.

  Dean nods as though he truly understands. “That was Max all over, wasn’t it? Just wanting to help.”

  I pause. When you’re grieving, people say a lot of odd things to you—sometimes because they feel they just need to say something—and occasionally you have to stop and work out what they mean.

  “Help?” I repeat.

  “You know, with your . . .” Dean clocks my expression, trails off.

  I feel a coldness wash over me. But not cold like a breeze—cold like a deep, deep chill. “With my what?”

  He waits for a couple of moments. “Ah, sorry. I’ve put my foot in it.”

  “Please tell me what you mean.”

  He hesitates. “I had lunch with Max that day. He said you had this . . . thing about being on your own in hotel rooms, so he was going to drive to Surrey that night and surprise you. So you wouldn’t be by yourself.”

  And now it’s like the armchair has slid sideways, because my face has somehow landed in a cushion, and Macavity has fled my lap. And I am sobbi
ng hot, messy tears for the sweetness of Max’s gesture, feeling like I’ve lost him all over again.

  * * *

  —

  Dean stays with me until it gets dark, leaving only once I’ve assured him he’s not made everything a hundred times worse. I’m not sure if he has or hasn’t, really—my head is swarming with new questions and self-recriminations, but at least my brain is busy. It makes me feel less alone, somehow.

  I curl up on the sofa with Macavity after Dean goes, thinking—as I do most days—about what would have happened if I’d told Max to come to the hotel that night. If I’d never met the man who gave me my phobia of strange places. If Max had never slept with Tash. If we’d never split up.

  But eventually, as the darkness drains into a pink-stippled dawn, I realize Pippa is right. No amount of rumination or soul searching will change the fact that Max is gone, and he isn’t coming back. What Dean told me last night doesn’t change anything, not really. It only confirms what I already knew—that Max loved me to the tips of my toes. He’d made mistakes, sure. But he had more than made up for them in the nineteen months since we’d got back together.

  It’s Sunday now, so beyond the living room window, the world is quiet, though I do hear the occasional sprinkle of conversation, the slapping of trainers running past on the pavement. Then I realize I’m nauseated again.

  It occurs to me as I rush to the toilet that I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. The cake Dean brought me lies untouched on the coffee table. A waste of quality patisserie, but I can’t stomach anything sweet. So at eight a.m., I make canned macaroni cheese. I don’t have the energy to create anything more nutritious, which is just as well, because I throw it up about twenty minutes later, at the same time as Jools’s number starts flashing on my phone.

  “Again?” she says, once I’m back in the kitchen and have returned her call, told her why I couldn’t pick up.

  “It’s fine,” I say, thinking about what Pippa said. “It’s normal, apparently.”

  “But you threw up yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.”

  “I know,” I say vaguely, sensing she might be trying to make a bigger point, though I can’t quite grasp what that is. It’s not up to me how my body responds to losing Max, is it?

  “Lucy,” Jools whispers. I hear her voice wobbling slightly down the phone. “Is there any chance . . . you might be pregnant?”

  For a few moments I don’t reply. I just stare straight ahead of me at the letter magnets on the fridge, which Max arranged to spell MAX LOVES LUCY 4 EVER XO. I’m so paranoid about someone messing them up I must have taken about fifty photos of them on my phone.

  Working saliva onto my tongue, I dare to taste the magic of Jools’s words, just for a moment. And then—for the first time since Max died—I detect the faintest wisp of something unfurling, spiraling to the ceiling like a smoke signal. It is strange, and at first, I can’t quite tell what it is.

  And then I realize. It is hope.

  So, thirty minutes later, I head into the bathroom with a pregnancy test in one hand and my heart in the other. Jools offered to come round and sit with me, but I need to do this alone.

  Almost robotically, I take the test, then perch on the edge of the bath to wait. My hand is shaking.

  I wish you were here, Max. I wish you were sitting next to me, squeezing my hand. I wish we were praying together for that little blue cross to appear. I never actually believed in the afterlife until you died. But now, I do. Because I know you’re here. I know that somewhere, your heartbeat is hammering just as hard as mine.

  A mewl slides through the gap beneath the bathroom door before it nudges open to reveal Macavity, like he’s as impatient to know the outcome as I am.

  I take a breath and turn the test over. And there it is: my hopelessness diminished, my despair drifting away. Because against all the odds, Max is still here. His baby boy or girl is two months old and nestled inside me, gifting me with a joy I thought I’d never feel again.

  I think back to the day I moved in here with him. To him asking me, playfully, how I saw our future panning out.

  How many kids?

  Three. No, four.

  I steady my racing heart, stare down at my stomach.

  Just the one, as it turned out. But you’re the most precious gift I’ve ever been given.

  In a few more months’ time, I will look into the eyes of my baby and whisper, Oh, hi. It’s you. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home.

  Epilogue

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Stay

  In the café next to the birth center at Queen Charlotte’s and Chelsea Hospital, I look up as I’m waiting for my Americano, and catch my breath.

  Max Gardner. The man who haunted my dreams for so many years is standing just inches away, ahead of me in the queue. He looks older, of course—not a boy anymore—but the extra years flatter him. I can see straightaway that all his best qualities remain: that he is confident and charming as ever, a magnet of a man with a wholehearted laugh and reel-you-in eyes.

  The hospital’s pretty warm, and I’ve lost layers since three a.m. this morning, when we came in. I’m now down to just a cotton dress and some cheap rubber flip-flops, which compared to Max—in his designer shirt and smart jeans—suddenly feels unsophisticated, almost childlike. It strikes me that we probably would never have been as good a match as grown-ups as we were as students.

  He doesn’t look tired like I do—in fact, at first glance he appears pretty wired. Must be the adrenaline rush of impending fatherhood. Or maybe this is his fifth coffee since he got here.

  His smile when he sees me suggests this is the happiest coincidence ever. “Lucy. Hello.” Laughter lines spring to the corners of his eyes.

  We stand to one side as we wait for our drinks.

  “Are you—”

  “Yep.” Max half turns, tips his head back toward the birth center. “My wife Camille. Our first.”

  I glance down, notice the dark matte ring around his finger. How strange, I think, that I used to dream about seeing a ring on his hand because we’d got married.

  I might once have made a mental note to Google Camille as soon as I’m alone. But I’m relieved to realize I have no feelings deeper than mild curiosity about the woman Max has married. Which is, of course, exactly as it should be. “Congratulations. Do you know what you’re—”

  “A little girl,” he says, eyes burning with pride. I see him take in my flat(ish) stomach (maternity units, I guess, are the only place in the world where it’s half-acceptable to do that). “But you’re not . . . ?”

  Hopefully soon, I want to say, but instead I shake my head. “I’m here with Jools. Remember Jools? She’s two weeks early. Her husband’s up north for work. Racing down the M1 as we speak.”

  Jools and Nigel got married last August, and they’ll happily tell anyone who’ll listen that they conceived on their wedding night. (I’m not too sure about the accuracy of that, but who am I to argue with such a romantic thought?)

  Max smiles, then turns his gaze meaningfully to the rings on my finger. “So, you’re married?”

  I nod. “Caleb. He’s a photographer. We actually just got married last month.” Even saying his name brings a flush of warmth to my belly.

  “Newlyweds,” Max says, with a smile I can’t quite interpret—reminiscence? Envy? “Congratulations, Luce.”

  Four weeks ago today, to be exact. It was at Shoreley Hall, an outdoor wedding in the walled garden where we watched Romeo and Juliet that night three years ago. The whole day was luminous and heartfelt, filled with color and joy. We decorated the fruit trees with bunting and pom-poms, strung lines of bulbs between the branches to glow when darkness fell. Caleb had a raft of friends taking care of the catering, pictures, and music. Two of his nieces were my bridesmaids, along with Jools, and Dylan was a page
boy. Our guests squeezed together on long trestle benches for the ceremony, umbrellas at the ready in case it rained. My parents even spent the day by each other’s side, despite still being separated. There was dancing, and a few tipsy speeches, and a vast Mediterranean feast. And laughter, so much laughter.

  Toward the end of the night, Caleb and I stole a quiet couple of moments together, perched hand in hand on top of a hay bale. I rested my head on his shoulder as we watched the happy, swollen throng of our friends and family in front of us, jiving and joking and throwing arms around each other. I was barefoot at that point, exhausted from all the dancing, and Caleb asked if I was happy.

  “The happiest,” I whispered. And it was true. I couldn’t imagine ever being happier than I was in that moment.

  “Funny,” Max says now, an expression on his face that falls somewhere between nostalgia and regret, “how life works out. I sometimes think how great it would have been to have had a crystal ball at eighteen.”

  “Would you have done anything differently, if you had?”

  He waits for the briefest of seconds as our gazes latch together. “A few things.”

  I look down. There’s some stuff I might have done differently, too. But I know I wasn’t meant to end up anywhere other than where I am right now.

  “You know what else is funny?” Max says. “I actually have you to thank for meeting Camille.”

  I frown with bemusement. “Me?”

  “You probably won’t remember this, but . . . a few years back, I sent you a WhatsApp.”

  “Oh, right.” Of course I remember: standing in Jools’s kitchen in Tooting nearly three years ago, trying to decide if I should respond. Panicking when I realized Caleb might have overheard. I never did reply. “Sorry I didn’t—”

  “No, I mean, it worked out for the best, right? I have to admit, when I sent you that message, I was kind of hoping we might . . . I don’t know. Hook up again.” He laughs. “I was a bit crazy about it. I kept checking my phone, but you didn’t reply, and I was feeling a bit glum. So I went out for a few beers to cheer myself up and . . . that was actually the night I met Camille.”