by Paige Toon
Who is this man I’m about to meet? What’s become of that boy from one summer, long ago in Dorset?
The lift doors whoosh open and a woman steps out. She’s medium height, super-slim, and immaculately turned-out with blow-dried hair and perfect make-up. She looks around and then her eyes fall on me. I feel apprehensive until she smiles at me.
‘Alice?’ she asks.
I nod uneasily.
‘I’m Melanie, Joseph’s PA. Please come with me.’
We step back into the lift.
‘He’s been waiting for you,’ she tells me with a raised eyebrow as the lift climbs upwards.
This morning or for the last nine years?
We come to a stop and the doors open. I swallow and follow her onto the landing. There’s a big, burly man in a black suit standing outside a door further down the corridor. Joe’s security guard, I presume. She leads me to him and turns around to smile at me. ‘He’s inside,’ she says, indicating the door. ‘Lewis!’ Her tone is expectant as she cocks her head at the doorman.
The man nods curtly and follows her back down the corridor.
‘Thank you!’ I call after them. I’m relieved they’re not going to be witnesses to our reunion. I hope there’s nobody else inside. I wait until the lift doors have closed behind them before I knock.
The door opens and there in front of me is Joe. Not Joseph Strike, the actor, but Joe. My Joe.
We look at each other for a long, long moment, and my eyes well up with tears.
‘Come in,’ he says quickly.
I step inside and he shuts the door behind me, turning to face me. He’s wearing casual black cargo pants and a black T-shirt.
‘I can’t believe it’s you.’ He lifts his hand as though he wants to touch me, but lets it drop again to his side. ‘You’re exactly the same as I remember you.’
‘You’re . . . different.’ He’s quite a bit broader – not the slim eighteen-year-old that I knew – and it’s impossible not to notice his famous biceps protruding under his T-shirt. He no longer has a ring through his eyebrow – I realised that a year ago when Sky Rocket came out – but I can just make out the holes there from when it was pierced.
He smiles. ‘I’m still the same inside.’
Are you?
‘Come and take a seat.’ I follow him into a living room, where there’s a circular sofa underneath a huge mirror-ball sculpture.
‘Cool room,’ I say.
‘It’s . . .’ He shrugs and his voice trails off.
What you’re used to, I finish his sentence for him inside my head.
‘So you saw . . . the interview?’ I realise he’s nervous.
‘My friend did,’ I explain, sitting down on the sofa. Then I remember that he knew her: ‘Lizzy!’
‘Lizzy? Wow.’ He sits down next to me, his left knee resting on the sofa so that he’s facing me. I turn to do the same to him.
‘She called the studio.’
He shakes his head in amazement. He hasn’t taken his dark eyes from mine.
‘How . . . are . . . you?’ he asks slowly.
‘I’m okay.’ I shrug. ‘I’m good. You?’
He half laughs and looks around the room. ‘I’m alright.’ He meets my eyes again. ‘So you still live in Cambridge?’
‘I do indeed.’ This feels so surreal. The small talk . . . But it’s been over nine years. There’s so much to say that we hardly know where to start. ‘I’m a teacher,’ I say with a little smile.
‘You’re a teacher?’ His eyes widen. ‘Wow,’ he says again.
‘Yeah, well . . .’
‘I bet you’re amazing.’
I laugh awkwardly and tuck my hair behind my ear. And then he spots my diamond. His face freezes. It’s like the world is moving in slow motion as his eyes travel from my ring back to my face. ‘You’re . . .’ His voice is a whisper.
‘Married.’ I nod sadly.
‘Oh, God.’ He puts his hand to his mouth and the blood drains from his usually tanned features. He’s in shock. He can’t look at me. He’s staring at my ring which is glittering even more than usual under the reflection of the lights above the mirror ball.
‘When?’ he asks in a daze.
‘Four and a half years ago.’
‘Oh, God.’
His eyes fill up with tears.
I reach over and gently take his hand. It feels like the right thing to do. It’s warm, but it doesn’t respond when I squeeze it. It doesn’t feel at all familiar.
‘Are you happy?’ he asks.
I hesitate. ‘Most of the time.’
He looks up at me, almost hopefully. That wasn’t a categorical yes. And then he holds my hand properly and the familiarity of him comes flooding back. A lump forms in my throat.
‘I waited for you,’ I whisper. ‘Why didn’t you come?’
‘I did come!’ he exclaims, suddenly animated. ‘Not at first – I was royally fucked after what happened in Dorset. But when I came you had already moved in with your . . . boyfriend.’ He says this bitterly.
‘But that was years later!’ I cry.
‘No!’ He denies this ardently. ‘No, it was months! I came to your halls of residence and a girl told me you were staying in with some bloke called Jessie!’
I gasp with horror as understanding dawns on me. My fellow students used to think that Jessie was my boyfriend.
‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,’ I say in a tiny voice. ‘He was my friend.’
The shock on his face must surely mirror mine.
‘You came for me?’ I reiterate.
He nods. ‘Yes.’
‘I thought you didn’t care. I thought something had happened to you!’
He shakes his head again. ‘No.’
He lets me go and buries his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Tears start to trek down my cheeks.
‘I can’t believe you’re married,’ he whispers.
‘What did you expect?’ There are so many emotions running around my body. ‘It’s been almost a decade! A decade! You haven’t exactly waited for me, either,’ I say dryly.
He glances up at me.
‘I’ve seen you with all those women. It’s not like you’ve been waiting around, yourself.’ He’ll be able to hear the jealousy in my voice, but I don’t care.
‘None of them meant anything to me,’ he says passionately.
‘Oh, come on.’
‘They didn’t! Fucking hell, Alice, it’s not like I married any of them!’ He gets to his feet and starts pacing the room. I watch him, miserably.
‘What’s his name?’ he asks.
‘Lukas.’
He half snorts. I realise he’s riddled with jealousy himself.
‘He’s German.’
He snorts again.
‘What does he do?’ He’s trying to sound casual, but his eyes flit to my really-quite-large diamond.
‘He’s a physicist.’
‘Fucking hell.’ He shakes his head, almost in disgust.
‘What?’
‘He’s a brainiac too, is he?’ He raises one eyebrow at me. ‘I fucking knew you’d end up with a brainiac.’
‘Joe!’
‘You were never going to settle for a loser like me,’ he adds sullenly.
‘That’s not true!’ I exclaim, jumping to my feet. ‘You’re not a loser.’
He laughs sardonically and I know what he’s thinking: he’s not a loser, now.
‘You were never a loser,’ I clarify.
‘Have you got any children?’ he asks suddenly.
‘No.’
He falls to his knees on the floor and looks utterly crushed. I kneel in front of him. He looks up at me.
‘Why didn’t you contact me?’
‘I tried. I tried for a long time after you left – I would go into central London and search the streets for you. Jessie even pretended to be an old friend of yours and called the pub to speak to your parents to see if they’d heard from you. When I saw you in
Strike I managed to get hold of your agent, but he wouldn’t give me your number, and I was already with . . .’
‘Lukas.’
Each of us regards the other with desolation. There’s a knock at the door. Joe jumps to his feet – literally jumps from knees to feet with a catlike martial arts move – and goes to the door. I quickly get up. He peers through the peephole and opens the door to reveal Melanie standing there.
‘Do you want me to order you some breakfast?’ she asks hesitantly, glancing through at me.
‘No,’ he replies shortly. ‘Not for me. Alice?’ he calls.
‘No, thank you,’ I respond.
‘Joe, you need to eat,’ Melanie chides. She calls him Joe too, I realise with a start. Maybe all his friends do. I suppose they would.
‘I’m not hungry,’ he reiterates firmly. He starts to close the door on her.
‘Don’t forget about the interview!’ she shouts as the door shuts in her face.
‘You have an interview?’ I ask.
‘Fuck the interview,’ he snaps. Suddenly he looks contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have been rude to her.’
‘She’s your PA, right?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. She’s great.’ He comes back towards me.
‘You told her about me?’
‘Well, a bit.’ He shrugs and smiles with embarrassment as he looks at me. ‘Not everything.’
I feel my face heat up. ‘What time is your interview?’ I try to sound nonchalant.
‘Nine. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was scheduled that early when I asked you to come this morning.’
‘It’s okay. Another exclusive, hey?’ I ask knowingly.
‘You saw that about my parents, did you?’ His tone is wry.
‘It was hard to miss. I’m sorry,’ I add quietly. ‘I thought about you a lot during that time.’ Who am I kidding? I think about him all the time.
‘I thought about you a lot too. Still do,’ he half laughs. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ He changes the subject. I can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve.
‘I’m staying with my parents.’
‘Where’s your . . .’
‘He’s in Germany.’ I save him the trouble of saying his name.
‘You’re spending Christmas apart?’ Again: hope.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ His brow furrows and he comes closer.
‘Lukas got a promotion and he moved back to Germany. I’m still working in Cambridge.’
‘You’re living apart?’ The look on his face . . . I don’t want to hurt him, but . . .
‘For now. He wants me to move there as soon as I can. I’m going to Germany for the holidays.’
He falters a few steps away from me. There’s another knock on the door.
‘What is it now?’ he mutters, returning to the door and wrenching it open.
‘I’m sorry,’ Melanie says. ‘She’s early.’
‘Who?’
‘The journalist.’
‘Tell her to wait!’ he bites, about to shut the door.
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ Melanie hastily tries to reason with him. ‘She just wants to go home to her family.’
Joe scratches his eyebrow with frustration. He nods abruptly. ‘Give me five minutes.’
Melanie flashes me an apologetic look as the door shuts once more in her face.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, reaching for my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.
‘No,’ he says resolutely, shaking his head. ‘You haven’t even had breakfast.’
What a small thing to be worried about.
‘I’m not hungry, anyway.’
‘I don’t want you to go,’ he says.
‘I have to, Joe. If the press find out about us . . .’
‘Fuck!’ he exclaims. Did he used to swear this much? I guess so. Lukas rarely uses bad language. I’m not used to it.
‘When do you go back to America?’ I ask.
‘Next week, but . . .’ He looks at me. ‘When are you going to Germany?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Please, Alice, this can’t be it. We need more time . . . Without all these interruptions.’
‘What do you suggest?’
His eyes light up. ‘We could go back to Dorset! To your cottage! I wonder if it’s free?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you find out? Would you go with me?’
‘Um, I . . .’
‘Please!’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Please. Please! There’s so much more we need to say. Please!’
What the hell am I doing? I take a deep breath. ‘Okay.’ I nod.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ He can’t quite believe it.
‘I said yes!’
‘When?’
‘I’m not sure . . . Boxing Day?’
‘Yes! How will we get there?’
‘Train?’
I can see his mind ticking over ten to the dozen. ‘I can’t travel with you. I’ll have to meet you there. Melanie will sort it out. I trust her. It’s better that no one else knows about you.’
‘How long do you want to stay? If I can get the cottage . . .’ I add.
‘A few days?’
That would mean rescheduling my trip to Germany. I’d have to come up with some excuse . . . But this is something I need to do. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s booked,’ I say.
He grins and my stomach fills with butterflies.
It’s all very cloak and dagger. I have to ask my parents if they still have the rental details for the cottage in Dorset, and then I have to lie and tell them that I’m going to Germany early, while I tell Lukas that I want to stay with my parents a bit longer because he has to work until the weekend, anyway. No one is thrilled with this change of plan, but I don’t feel like I have any other choice if I’m going to get closure.
Closure. I keep telling myself that this is what I’m after, but the very idea makes my blood run cold. The thought of never seeing Joe again after this week, the thought of only ever seeing him on the big screen and in the press . . . It’s too awful to contemplate.
The cottage, thankfully, is empty, and the owners are happy to have a last-minute rental. They give me the code for the key safe and I text it to Joe in case he arrives first.
Lizzy is the only one who knows what I’m doing, and she’s gobsmacked that it’s come to this. I feel even more disloyal to Lukas for telling her but, in the grand scheme of things, Lizzy knowing is the least of his problems.
I’m determined not to cheat on him, though. This is all about moving on. I have to keep reminding myself.
I have never been less interested in Christmas Day, and I haven’t lived off as little sleep since I was with Joe nearly ten years ago. Finally I step off the train at Wareham Station and climb into the taxi I called in advance. Gale-force winds are predicted for tomorrow, but today it’s just cold and grey, a far cry from that summer long ago.
We drive past the red telephone box on the corner of the track that leads to the cottage and I remember standing in there when the vet’s wife told us that Dyson hadn’t lived through the night. I remember Joe’s face – his heartbreak – and all of a sudden I feel like crying. A short while later the driver pulls up outside the cottage.
It’s exactly the same as it looked years ago: the stone wall, the bench underneath the kitchen window. I pay the driver and climb out of the car. The lights are off: I’ve arrived first.
Out of the blue it hits me that he might not come, and I have to catch my breath before finding the key and letting myself in. I breathe in deeply. It smells the same. I go upstairs to my onetime bedroom and stare at the bed that we made love in. I remember those early days of lovemaking, how raw they were when it was the first time for both of us. I hear a car outside the window and walk over to see a blue hatchback pull up. That won’t be him. He’ll have a fancy car, for sure. I’m startled to see him climb out of the car and open
the gate, before returning to the vehicle and parking it in the driveway. I guess he chose something inconspicuous. Smart.
I delve into my bag and rummage around until I find my mobile phone. I switch it off, then, my heart hammering inside my chest, I go downstairs to meet him. He comes inside before I reach the door.
‘You’re here.’ He grins, and once more my heart somersaults. He’s wearing a dark-grey hoodie and he seems so normal, so . . . like himself all those years ago, without the longer hair and the Emo eyebrow.
‘I beat you,’ I reply, smiling at him.
‘Hardly surprising with that pile of junk.’ He glances over his shoulder.
‘All you wanted was a car,’ I tease. ‘And that’s what you ended up with?’ He gives me a wry look. Obviously I know he rented it. ‘Trying to keep your cover?’ I ask.
‘Doing my bit.’
I know from my internet research that he’s got a Ferrari back in LA.
‘It seems to be working.’ I go to the kitchen window and peer out. ‘Nope, no hordes of screaming girls following you here.’
He chuckles. I turn to face him. He’s looking around the kitchen. ‘Still the same,’ he says, going to the counter. ‘This is where you made me a sandwich.’
‘Ham and cheese.’ It comes back to me:
‘Ham and cheese? Peanut butter? What do you fancy?’
‘You,’ he said.
He smiles a small, regretful smile, as though he’s remembering too.
‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ I feel like I could do with some air.
He nods. ‘I’ll just get my bags in from the car.’
He returns a short while later with two oversized leather gym bags.
‘Which room am I in?’ he asks.
‘Mum and Dad’s?’ I suggest.
‘Why don’t you have their room? It’s bigger.’
‘I would have thought the Hollywood star is used to something grander than my little room.’
‘Alice,’ he chides with a frown, and as the butterflies make their way into my stomach I realise that I really do love hearing him say my name, even when he’s telling me: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
For want of something better to do, I follow him up the stairs. He turns left to go into my room.
‘I’m in here,’ I say quickly.
