The Best Thing That Never Happened to Me

by Laura Tait

  ‘She practically begged me, Alex. And anyway, I’ve been in a rare barren patch. I found myself looking up the skirt of a mannequin on the escalators at Marks and Spencer the other day.’

  He recalls the date and how he avoided awkward silences by saving a list of things to talk about on his phone, revising whenever she went to the loo.

  And they say romance is dead.

  Of course there’s a ‘but’. There’s always a ‘but’ where Kev’s concerned, and here it’s that when he tried to snog her at the end of the night, Diane exhibited her cheek. She’s gone from sleeping with him to not wanting a proper kiss.

  ‘Do you think she’s using you for your conversation?’ I say, but he doesn’t bite. Which makes me think he might actually like her.

  I hope he does. I hope he gets a steady girlfriend. I hope she makes him grow up a bit.

  ‘So anyway, cocksplash, spit it out – what’s Richard like?’

  Kev pronounces Richard’s name in the kind of dismissive tone that’s usually accompanied by air quotes.

  ‘He’s . . .’ I try to summon a definitive opinion. ‘He’s all right. I guess he’s the kind of guy most girls go for. Prince Charming. Ticks the boxes.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing. He was nice. Full of compliments.’

  ‘Sounds like a tosser.’

  We don’t have a lot in common, but he’s not a tosser. Despite the photo pose and the marketing chat, he’s not. I think again about the way Holly laughed when Richard asked if anything had ever happened between us, and then I remember the vase on her windowsill and wonder if she ever really wanted all the things she talked about. Maybe that was my problem: I always listened to what she said, and presumed that was what she wanted, when from what I’ve seen tonight, it quite clearly wasn’t.

  ‘Can you stay behind for a quick word please, Kenny?’

  The rest of the kids file out. Stacey Bamber tells Kenny to plead the fifth as she passes.

  I perch against the desk next to Kenny’s.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ I begin. ‘I just wanted to say that if you ever need anyone to talk to – anyone for advice or just to sound off to – then I’m here.’

  Kenny grunts, then without looking at me says, ‘If I wanted to talk, why the fuck would I talk to you?’

  ‘Watch your language,’ I tell him. He tuts and rolls his eyes. ‘Look, I’m not pretending I know anything about you or how hard your life has been because I don’t. But I do know how it feels to lose a mum.’

  This is the first time I’ve ever told a pupil about Mum and it feels like I’ve got a marble stuck in my throat.

  ‘Mine died when I was fifteen. It’s not something you can ever get over, is it? There’s always that hole.’

  Kenny takes his hands from his pockets and folds his arms across his chest, and I begin to wonder if I was right to take Holly’s advice.

  ‘Like I say, I’m not trying to pretend I know what your life has been like.’

  ‘Can I go now?’ Kenny says abruptly, reaching down for his bag but waiting for a reply before picking it up.

  ‘OK,’ I tell him, trying to shield the deflation in my voice. ‘I’ll see you next time.’

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to ask Melissa for a date. She did the asking, a few days after my evening with Richard and Holly. Did I want to go for a coffee near where she lives in Chiswick? She doesn’t mess around.

  Planned engineering works on the District Line mean I’m walking apace, hot and rushed and late, the midday sun making a midget of my shadow against the pavement.

  She’s waiting for me outside the coffee shop just down from Chiswick Park tube station. I spot her first, a dark brown dress wrapped around her figure like gravy on mashed potato. I check myself and realize I’m underdressed in jeans and loafers.

  And yet I feel at ease. I know from our messages that we’re going to get on. She likes Radiohead. And yes, she uses too many exclamation marks, but it shows she’s a passionate woman. It shows she’s interested in what I’m saying.

  I know what Kev would say if he met her. He’d decree that she was out of my league. According to his football analogy, I’m Huddersfield Town, which I’m presuming isn’t a compliment. Whereas he’d probably put Melissa in the Premier League. But as Kev says (and this is the most profound thing that’s ever left his mouth), everyone is Manchester United to someone.

  Melissa playfully checks an imaginary watch when she spots me, then takes charge of the greeting: a double kiss like the one when she left the pub quiz, but this time her hands linger on my elbows for a few seconds before she withdraws.

  ‘Shall we get this started, then?’ she says, placing her hand back on my elbow to weightlessly usher me into the coffee shop.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  HOLLY

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, babe,’ Richard repeats. ‘No one’s as gutted about this as me.’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine,’ I sigh into the phone, falling backwards onto my bed to stop my heart getting blood on my new shoes when it plummets to the floor. ‘Watching Kasabian from the luxury of a box at the O2 while being plied with free champagne and posh canapés. Sucks to be you.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Hols,’ he chuckles. ‘You know I’d rather take you out for dinner. The big boss didn’t leave me much choice. When a client with a marketing budget that big invites you out to play at the last minute, you drop everything.’

  It makes sense that Martin would rope Richard in. Let’s face it, Hexagon is winning no business off the back of his own charm, so step in Mr Schmooze from Schmoozeville. It’s not Richard’s fault he’s better at that stuff, endearing bastard that he is.

  ‘I know,’ I whine. ‘But if you could just make a little effort not to be so bloody charming, he’ll stop asking you.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he says with mock sincerity. ‘I promise. And I promise to make it up to you.’

  HOW? I want to ask, when he doesn’t expand, but instead I tell him to enjoy it and hang up the phone, then take off my dress and hang it up in the wardrobe, gently kicking off the blue stilettos I’d bought especially for tonight, so rare it is I get to go on an actual date with my boyfriend.

  Now what?

  My first instinct is to call Alex and see if he fancies a bite to eat, but then I remember he has a second date with Melissa. Christ, she ruins my life on so many levels.

  I’m about to get into my pyjamas when I catch sight of myself in my underwear in the mirror. Without having to weigh myself, I know I’m nine stone. I’ve been somewhere between eight stone ten and nine stone for the last ten years, and can tell just from looking that I’m at the latter end right now. It’s unsurprising – I’ve been drinking a little more since Alex moved to London. I don’t want to cross the nine-stone threshold, so I switch my PJs for my running gear, grab my iPod and head out into the night, happy to have a purpose.

  I’d never run until I moved to London to go to university. Unless you count PE at school – and I always dreaded the athletics classes because sprinting made my boobs hurt. But after I moved out of Mothston I started monitoring my weight more. Not because I thought I was fat, but because I like the feeling of control that being able to maintain my chosen weight gives me.

  My running playlist consists entirely of songs sung by the female leads in musicals. I keep myself entertained during this otherwise spectacularly boring pastime by picturing myself in the musical, playing the lead.

  As I run across Blackheath I’m Eva Perón telling Argentina not to cry for me, then by the time I’m passing through the gates to Greenwich Park I’m Fantine from Les Mis dreaming a dream in time gone by, and while I’m running past the Royal Observatory and down the hill I’m assuring Joseph that he’s doing fine, and him and his dreamcoat are ahead of his time.

  It’s an emotional roller-coaster, but the time flies by.

  It’s getting dark by the time I reach the park gates at the
other side so I exit the park into Greenwich town centre. The street route from Greenwich to Blackheath takes me past Alex’s flat. I drop my pace slightly as I pass and glance up at his bedroom window. The light is out. Is he still out with Melissa? Or much, much worse . . . are they both back and in his room, and THAT’S why his light’s out? I hope not.

  It’s hard to tell someone they can do better without insulting both their taste and their pulling abilities. But Alex could definitely do better. That’s my less selfish justification for secretly hoping that this thing between them doesn’t work out.

  The other is that Alex is MY friend and I don’t want her to take him away.

  I’ve run through the side roads and am nearly at Black-heath Road when I trip over one of my laces, which has come undone, so I stop, pause my music so that I don’t waste the crescendo of ‘Gravity’ from Wicked, and crouch down to tie it.

  What was that noise?

  I pull one earphone out and listen. There it is again – a low, crackling sound, like careful footsteps on gravel. I spin around.

  ‘Hello,’ I call. The noise stops. ‘Is anybody there?’

  Must have been a fox. Pull yourself together, lady. I stand up and am about to press ‘play’ again when a figure appears from behind a bush a few houses down and starts walking towards me. All I register is a man’s frame in dark clothes, with a hood pulled up. Why didn’t he answer me? I turn and start to jog gently away.

  His footsteps quicken so I run faster. So does he.

  I run across to the other side of the street, like we were always told to do in Stranger Danger talks in primary school if we suspected we were being followed.

  The stranger crosses too. Oh my God – I’m in danger. My heart pounds and despite all my energy being spent already, I break into a sprint. I want to turn round and see how close he is but I don’t want to give him a chance to close the gap, so I resist. My chest hurts and my breathing is all over the place but I make myself keep up the pace. What is he going to do to me if he catches up with me? Better not to speculate. I empty my head of all thoughts and focus on the rhythm of my feet, until I reach the corner of the heath. I can either cut diagonally across it – the much shorter, but more isolated route back to my house – or keep to the road surrounding it, which will take longer but at least there are street lights and passing cars and houses and a much better chance of someone hearing me scream.

  I can hear his footsteps getting closer so I choose the roads.

  I’ve made it all the way around before I have to stop and catch my breath, lest I drop dead, and look over my shoulder. Oh, thank God – I’ve lost him. He must have—

  ARGHHHH. He springs from the darkness of the heath, making me scream . . . and runs right on past me.

  In profile, a wire reaching out the top of his jogging suit up into his hood is visible. Headphones. No wonder he couldn’t hear me. He’s just out for a run. That must have been his own driveway he appeared from.

  I’m an actual idiot. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry, but I do know that I need to hear a familiar voice before I get back to my front door.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ALEX

  ‘What do you mean you’re being followed?’

  Holly is out of breath, and panting, and generally not making any sense.

  ‘I thought I was . . .’ She pauses to take a lungful of air. I sit up on the sofa and mute the TV, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes with my free hand. I’d been about to go to bed when my phone started to ring. ‘I’m OK now.’

  ‘Where are you? Do you need me to come and fetch you?’

  I stand and peer onto the road. It’s well past rush hour but people and cars still clutter the street. London is relentless like that, and it sweeps you along, not giving you time to stop and think.

  ‘I’m nearly home now. I’m all right. I thought I was being followed and it shook me up a bit.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘For a run.’ Holly takes a couple of deep, composing breaths. ‘I heard a noise and then saw a man appear from a driveway and start chasing me. Then I looked around again and a man was running behind me, so I sped up even more and then—’

  ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘I’m OK, really.’ A street light opposite the flat is flickering on and off, adding to the sense of busyness outside. ‘I’m on the heath now. There’s no one around.’

  I relax and retake my seat. ‘You shouldn’t go running on your own when it’s dark.’

  Holly doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected, but then she goes: ‘You’re very sweet, you know that, Al?’

  ‘I’m sure Richard would say the same – London’s a dangerous city.’

  There’s another pause in the conversation, and I ask Holly if my reception is OK, but she doesn’t answer.

  ‘I like running on my own,’ she says instead.

  ‘Don’t you find it a bit boring?’

  ‘Nah,’ she laughs, her breathing finally back to normal. ‘I do this thing where I listen to musicals while I run and pretend I’m in them.’

  I picture Holly skipping over Blackheath Hill singing ‘Doe, a deer’ and burst out laughing.

  ‘I don’t know why I told you that. I’ve just realized I’ve never told anyone that before.’

  ‘Maybe try to keep it like that in future, yep?’

  Holly tuts, pretending to be bruised, and I want to ask her why she’s ringing me and not Richard. Did she try him first? Was he engaged, or did he just not pick up? Or didn’t it even occur to her to ring Richard? Was I the first person she thought of? Not that I mind if I was, obviously, but what does that say about the man she is so clearly besotted with?

  Jesus, Holly’s right – I do over-analyse everything.

  ‘Are you still there, Al?’

  ‘Yep, sorry, I . . .’ I stand by the window once more and watch a couple leave the pub across the road. The woman is wearing a tight, white dress with purple high heels, and her partner is having to hold her arm so she doesn’t fall over. ‘Where’s Richard tonight?’

  ‘He’s at a work thing.’

  ‘This late? Poor Richard.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s quite the martyr.’

  I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, so I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t and I don’t feel comfortable pressing further where Richard is concerned. We often talk for hours about every other part of our lives – and it’s not as if she ever used to hold back when telling me about boys. I’m not sure what’s different now, why it sometimes feels as though she becomes guarded where Richard is concerned.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Holly, banishing the silence before it becomes awkward, ‘how did tonight go?’

  It takes me a second to realize that she means my second date with Melissa. I guess this is another thing that I haven’t had time to think about. Or maybe I just haven’t had to. Melissa introduced me to cinnamon cappuccino on our coffee date and, after an hour or two, asked if I would like to have dinner sometime. Tonight was arranged, there and then. None of the head-scratching about how long I should leave it before I called; none of the anxiety waiting for the other person to text.

  ‘We both had steak. Melissa wanted hers just short of raw.’

  ‘Who would have thought?’ Holly snorts to herself, and I can’t tell what she means. ‘So are you going to see her again?’

  Tomorrow night. Melissa’s got complimentary tickets for the new Leonardo DiCaprio film.

  ‘I think so.’

  Suddenly it’s me being guarded, and I’m not exactly sure why. Holly knowing Melissa has made all this feel a bit like a love triangle, even though I don’t love Holly and Holly definitely doesn’t love Melissa, or me, and even though Holly is going out with Richard, so technically it would be a love square if it was a love anything, which it isn’t. It just feels that way.

  ‘So it’s going well, then?’

&nbs
p; I suppose it is. It’s early days, but I like Melissa. She’s independent and knows what she wants from life. And, as someone said at the pub quiz, she’s conventionally very attractive.

  ‘Really well.’

  ‘Good,’ says Holly, and I know she’s being genuine, despite her feelings about Melissa, and despite her worries that I might let slip about . . .

  ‘I’d never say anything, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘You deserve to be happy, Al.’ Holly’s words linger for a few seconds until I spot something in the sky.

  ‘Are you still outside?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Can you see that shooting star?’

  The line goes quiet. ‘I can’t see it – where is it?’

  I look for a signpost in the sky. The moon is behind a sheet of cloud and it’s too early in the year to see Orion.

  ‘Remember in Camber Sands I showed you how to find the North Star?’

  Holly sounds unsure, and I recall what she told me in the park the other week, about her first kiss. How much of the time we used to spend together was like this: me banging on about stars and music and books while she was thinking about something else. How much of our friendship has been spent on crossed wires?

  ‘I can’t see it, Al. But if you can then make a wish.’

  Prompted by Holly, I think about the thing I want more than anything else in the world. Radiohead to record a new album? Kenny Sonola to declare his Mr Tyler-inspired love for The Bard?

  ‘Have you made one yet?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell anyone – ever. Otherwise it won’t come true.’

  I promise Holly that I’ll keep my wish a secret for eternity.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ she says. ‘Is the North Star the bright one near the moon?’

  ‘So you do remember?’

  ‘That’s a plane, Al.’

  I inspect the sky. Sure enough, there’s a plane right where I was looking. Gatwick, Heathrow, Luton – I do live under several flight paths. But I’m certain that what I saw was a star.