What Might Have Been

by Holly Miller

  I smile. “And now you’re about to become a dad.”

  He looks at me for a couple of moments. “I know. Mad, isn’t it?” And with that, any lingering fragments of wistfulness evaporate from his eyes.

  Max’s name is called then, and he collects his coffee. We hug good-bye. It’s a strange feeling, holding him in my arms again after so many years. His body feels broader and firmer—more adult, I guess. Like he’s found his place in life.

  As I watch him walk away, I realize there was a time when I might have called after him, when I might have thought meeting him here was a sign of some sort. And maybe it is—but only as a friendly reminder from fate that I made the right choice, not moving to London three years ago. Perhaps, finally, it’s the closure I was looking for all those years before, when he broke my heart.

  As he’s about to round the corner and disappear from sight, Max turns. Our eyes meet, and just for a moment, a universe of possibilities and what-ifs unravels and waltzes through the space between us. And it makes me smile.

  He raises a hand, and I do the same. And then he is gone.

  * * *

  —

  Much later, back in Shoreley, I slip into bed next to Caleb. It’s the early hours of the morning now, and I’ve just driven home from the hospital, where I’ve left Jools and Nigel falling in love with their new daughter Florence.

  The bedroom window is open, the sound of the slumbering sea drifting through it like a symphony. The bedroom feels almost unnervingly cool and peaceful after the heat and racket of the postnatal ward—though Jools, of course, high on oxytocin, seemed oblivious to the surround-sound wailing and sobbing. Instead, she looked completely serene, as though the midwives had wheeled her straight from the labor ward into a five-star health spa.

  Caleb stirs as I slip my arms around him. He smells of soap and toothpaste, his skin warmed and softened by sleep.

  “Hey,” he mumbles, turning over to face me.

  “Hey.”

  We kiss and he strokes the hair from my face. “How’s Jools? How’s the baby?”

  “Both completely perfect. Jools is a total warrior.” I was with her right up until the final moments, when Nigel suddenly appeared, stricken with panic that he might have missed his baby being born. I’d always known Jools was tough, but until I saw her in labor, I had no idea what that actually meant. But within minutes of her contractions kicking in, she became so primally driven, so fiercely focused, that I knew Florence would never have to worry about a thing.

  “So, how did it feel,” Caleb says, “being surrounded by all those newborns?”

  I smile. “Amazing, obviously. I was fawning over all of them. Probably a good job I left when I did.”

  He grins. “You’re ready for some hard-core godmothering then.”

  “No other godmother’s going to come close.”

  “Lucky Florence.”

  “No, lucky me.”

  He moves forward to kiss me again, releasing a slow breath that becomes a question against my skin. “So, does this mean we might be ready to . . . ?”

  We’ve talked about our future, and the family we both want, a lot since we got married. But we’ve not actually started trying yet, because I’ve been so caught up with Jools and writing lately, and Caleb’s had a hectic few weeks at work.

  A few months ago, Naomi and I decided, after much back-and-forth, that my book wasn’t quite ready for submission to publishers. We agreed something was still missing; that what it needed was a present-day element, so I’m undertaking a hefty rewrite to incorporate a second timeline of a young couple striving to uncover the secrets of a love affair begun in Margate before the war. I’ve been working on it between shifts at Pebbles & Paper, where the people who drift through the door every morning have provided a surprisingly rich source of inspiration for my characters.

  But now, at last, I’m over the hump with the rewrite: the end seems to be within touching distance, finally. And Caleb’s workload is easing off slightly, too. The timing feels as though it might actually be right.

  “Yes,” I whisper, with a shiver of excitement. “I want to make a baby with you.” I press my mouth to his, feeling elation spread through me as we start to embark upon the next chapter of our lives. And all I can think about is how happy I am to be creating a future with this spectacular, brilliant man; that the choice I made on a warm spring day three years ago brought me together with my soulmate.

  And if I hadn’t made that choice? Well, I still feel sure Caleb and I would have found our way into each other’s lives eventually. But as it is, I’m spilling over with gratitude that I don’t have to wait another second to love this man with every last particle of my heart.

  Go

  I am with Hope by the pond at the Common, close to the café. It’s May now, and the air is sparkling with the brightness of early summer. The sky is an aquatic blue, the trees newly weighted with blossom and greenery. I have shed my jacket, and Hope is content in her little dungarees and striped T-shirt. On the opposite side of the pond, model boats are sailing serenely in circles, steered by children watched over by eager fathers.

  I suppress the familiar lurch in my stomach, and focus on my daughter.

  Hope, as ever, is delighted by the ducks. She is smiling and gabbling, mashing pieces of the bread we’ve brought for feeding into paste with her squidgy fists. God, I love her so much.

  It’s a year since I discovered I was pregnant. During the seven months that followed, I barely dared to move, for fear of doing anything that might sever my last—miraculous—connection to Max. I assumed I’d feel less nervous once Hope was born, once she was actually living and breathing in front of me—but of course, the living and breathing just sent my protective instincts into overdrive. It’s only thanks to the support of my therapist Pippa, and of course my family and friends like Jools, that I’ve developed enough confidence to ever leave the flat with her.

  Our baby daughter is now five months old, and I miss her father every day. Each morning I search her tiny face for more clues to him, my little treasure map of Max. And I’m convinced I find them daily, though perhaps I’m only imagining it. The mildness in her gray eyes. The lightness in her laugh. Her apparent enthusiasm for life.

  Jools comes striding back toward us with two coffees, sunglasses on. “God bless this sunshine.” She passes me a cup. “How are the ducks today?”

  Hope and I are, it has to be said, prolific duck-feeders. She absolutely adores them, and I like to think that’s because she’s inherited her father’s good heart, his compassion.

  Jools and I sit down together on a nearby bench. Above our heads, pigeons tack back and forth across a spotless blue sky. The air is rich with the music of chiff-chaffs, blackbirds, song thrushes.

  I jiggle Hope on my lap with one hand, sip my coffee with the other. “It’s days like this that I miss him the most,” I say, after a few moments.

  She nods. “I know. He’d love this, wouldn’t he?”

  That’s my overriding feeling about Max being gone, these days. That it’s just not fair. He’s missing out on so much. I never let myself dwell on just how much he’ll miss out on—the rest of my life, the whole of Hope’s, and most of the lives of her children, too—because that thought is too gut-wrenching to comprehend. But he’s in my thoughts constantly—on the tube and at the café, the streets around our home, in every room at the flat. And even in Shoreley, whenever we’re back there seeing Mum and Dad, because every time we are, I deliberately take a detour to walk past The Smugglers.

  I’d give anything for just one more day. Or even a few precious hours, so Max could hold his baby daughter, and I could lay my head on his shoulder and tell him one last time just how much I love him.

  I started back at Supernova last week, which felt very strange, like I’d wandered into an alternate reality. Because some things were the same—mos
t things, in fact: my colleagues, my clients, my desk, my lunch routine. But other things—the big things—were astonishingly and irreversibly altered. Max being gone. And Hope having become the new center of my world. It’s been tough, readjusting to the noise and pace, the buzzing industry of the office, after spending so long in my Hope-shaped bubble. But I wanted it. I needed it—I knew I had to come back before I got too comfortable and our lives became defined by my grief. I kept imagining Hope as a teenager, shrugging her shoulders and saying, “My dad died before I was born, so that’s why my mum’s a bit . . . you know.”

  I don’t want to be a-bit-you-know. I want to make my daughter—and Max—proud.

  Along the pavement in front of us, a young couple are walking with their son. He’s small—a year old, maybe—and looks adorably wobbly on his chubby legs. Jools smiles and says hello to them as they pass, but I have to look away.

  I do get jealous. I can’t help it. I got jealous while I was pregnant—at NCT classes when the other dads showed up, in the waiting room at my antenatal appointments, at the hospital when I gave birth. And I get jealous here, and in coffee shops, and at my mother-and-baby group when everyone’s griping about their husbands or partners. Sometimes when they start, I just walk off, grabbing Hope and abandoning my coffee or whatever it is I’m doing. My new friends know why, and they don’t give me a hard time about it, but that doesn’t stop them complaining about their other halves, either.

  I had to watch the gray-faced driver in court last week admit to causing death by careless driving. Sentencing is next month, but it won’t bring me any kind of satisfaction. It was an accident, Max is gone, and nothing can change that. I’ve been surprised to realize I don’t harbor any bitterness toward the driver: haven’t we all changed lanes without looking properly before, had a split-second near-miss, sworn to pay more attention in future? It could have been me as much as it was him.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Jools says, probably sensing I’m getting stuck in a thought bog. “They had these on the counter in the café.” She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolds it, and hands it to me.

  I look down at it. It’s a flyer advertising a local creative writing group.

  “What’s this?” I say, bemused.

  She shrugs. “Just thought you might be interested. Didn’t Pippa say writing might help?”

  “Yeah, but . . . I write for a living.”

  “For work, yes. This would be for you, though.”

  I look down at the flyer again, nibble my lip. It would be easy to say I don’t have the time, or the inclination right now . . . but I definitely don’t hate the idea of it. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it appeals. And I can’t exactly explain why. Maybe it just taps into a version of me I’d thought was long gone, and that feels surprisingly comforting.

  “Hey, you said you knew a good photographer in Shoreley, didn’t you?” Jools is asking, as she sips from her coffee.

  I bend over to kiss the top of Hope’s head. She wriggles a bit, but otherwise she’s still captivated by the panorama of the pond and the mallards. “Er, yeah. He did my headshots at Supernova. Caleb. He was nice.” I let out a half laugh. “The guy who wrote his number on a beer mat.”

  “Reckon he does weddings?”

  Jools and Nigel have been together for two years now. And six months ago, Nigel got down on one knee, having hidden the ring inside a muffin that Jools very nearly choked on. Before Max died, Jools had never really been that big on marriage. But I think she and Nigel have decided now that life is too short. That if you find the right person, you’d be crazy to procrastinate, even for a second.

  “Not sure. But I could e-mail him, if you like.”

  “Would you mind?” Jools sips her coffee. “We met with a couple of people last week, but we didn’t get a very . . . chilled-out vibe from them. You know?”

  I nod. From what I remember of Caleb, he seemed like someone who’d put you at ease straightaway.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, Hope is dozing on my chest, weighty and warm as a hot-water bottle. I press my nose against her head, inhale the sweet, milky smell of her.

  I’ve just polished off a giant takeout tray of sushi. I rejected food for so long after Max died—feeling, somehow, that I didn’t deserve nourishment—but now I shovel it down, knowing it’s fueling life with my baby girl. The world seems less daunting when my belly is full. And right now, I need all the strength I can get.

  The flat is calm and still, neat and orderly, just as it would have been when Max was alive. I have lit a candle someone gave me after he died, a Jo Malone with a scent faintly similar to his favorite aftershave. It comforts me, somehow, helps me to imagine he’s still here, watching over us.

  I’ve employed a cleaner recently, and have a nanny to care for Hope while I’m at Supernova. The life insurance payout of four times Max’s salary ensures that Hope and I will always be able to muddle through. It means I can afford child care so I can go to work, pay the mortgage, continue to live rather than just survive. I know how fortunate I am to have that. I can be a mum to Hope, and pursue my career, and do all the things that make me feel fulfilled. Stuff that propels me forward, so I don’t end up stagnating and full of regrets.

  Mum and Dad were in the latter stages of planning their sailing trip when we got the news about Max. And then, of course, came the miracle of my pregnancy. They’ve put the journey off for a few months, and there’s a part of me that’s selfishly relieved. If Max can die driving at sixty-eight miles per hour in the middle lane of the M25, I’m not too thrilled about my parents casting off in Portsmouth and heading for Antigua via Gran Canaria in a twelve-year-old yacht. They’re still determined to go, having spent thousands on preparing the boat, upgrading the sails and rigging, putting together a comprehensive inventory of spares, and qualifying as skippers. But I’ll think about that when the time comes.

  In the fourteen months since Max died, I’ve rarely been without company. Tash, Simon, and Dylan are coming to visit this weekend, and Jools usually stays over a couple of nights a week. And the upside of receiving so many bouquets of flowers in the early days is that I’ve got to know my neighbors much better, too—Jed, Toby and Magda, and Nadia. We pause to chat in the hall, pop in and out of each other’s flats, go for the occasional drink. All of which means I feel much less stressed when Hope decides to exercise her lungs in the middle of the night.

  I’m doing a spot of work on my phone now, replying one-handed to e-mails and messages, giving the thumbs-up on artwork, and I’m just swiping between apps when my gaze lands on the old horoscope app I used to look at almost daily. I haven’t used it for more than three years. In fact, the last time I did was that night in The Smugglers, when it informed me I would bump into my soulmate.

  I smile faintly. Soulmate. It’s a while since I believed in those. I think back to how I’d wavered at the time between thinking it was referring to Max or Caleb.

  My e-mail pings.

  I switch apps and look down. Surprise traps my breath momentarily in my chest.

  It’s from Caleb.

  Hi Lucy. Nice to hear from you. I’m so sorry about your partner. I really hope you’re holding up okay. Yes, I do the occasional wedding—send me your friend’s number and I’ll be in touch.

  I don’t know why I felt the need to tell him about Max, in my rambling e-mail inquiry that should really have only been two lines long. I’m not usually in the habit of burdening people with the story of me and Max, but it seemed oddly fitting, somehow, to fill Caleb in.

  I suddenly realize he’s attached something to his e-mail, and I scroll down.

  I remember you saying when I did your headshot that the guy you went to talk to outside The Smugglers that night was called Max. (Don’t ask me how—maybe I Googled him.) Anyway, that night, you both looked kind of . . . giddy. I was heading off, and I wa
s going to say good-bye, but you were so absorbed in each other . . . Well, cut a long story short, I had my camera with me, and I took a quick shot. It just struck me, how you were looking at each other. It was . . . I don’t know how to explain it. Rare.

  I feel my heart fragment inside my chest.

  Sorry. Hope you don’t think it was creepy of me. I just have this weird instinct to document stuff. Anyway, I was actually going to send you the photo if you got in touch, but . . . well. It’s attached. I’m hoping it might bring you some comfort. There was a reason I snapped it. You two look like you were meant to be.

  All my best, Caleb

  I open the photo. It is shot at an angle, reportage-style, and center stage are Max and me, the whitewashed frontage of The Smugglers in the background, its trademark line of lights looping from the thatched roof. I gasp out loud—it is like seeing him all over again, in that black woolen coat he loved and the pinstriped suit, which are both still hanging in his side of our wardrobe, because I will never get rid of his clothes. I am wearing a black dress—the same one I wore to his funeral—and my long blond hair is glimmering. I remember worrying I looked ropey that evening, but I needn’t have. I looked good. We both did. Like we were posing for a slightly kooky office-wear advert.

  I touch the screen with my fingertips, willing the picture to spring to life so I can be back there, just for a second, and revisit the joy in his eyes, smell the scent of his skin, reach out and touch his hand. Kiss him. Tell him I love him.

  We might have been married ourselves by now. But in the absence of that, maybe this can be our substitute wedding photo. A day on which we looked at each other in wonder, like the world had stopped turning just for us.