The Man I Loved Before: A completely gripping and heart-wrenching page turner

by Anna Mansell

  The love we shared.

  Did I share it? Or did I abuse it?

  I get a notification on my own Facebook. A friend request. Clicking on it takes me to Mitch Black’s profile. It’s the same photo as on Tinder. I scroll his feed. A few comedy sketches posted from YouTube, they make me laugh. Some photos of a lads’ holiday in Reykjavik from a couple of years ago by the looks of it. The About Him page is sparse, which is no help when you’re social media stalking someone. Just as I’m about to accept, I notice he’s made a comment on one of my videos. Are we scrolling each other’s feed at the same time? Is that weird or a teensy bit romantic? Like in a film where two people are in love with one another, but the other doesn’t know. Cue music section. Something slow and moody. Except I’m not in love with him. And he’s commented on the video of me singing karaoke down the Green Dragon one night, filmed by a howling Leanne. I read what he’s put:

  Wow. You can really sing. Well… you can sing… well… you can… never mind. Maybe we should replace coffee for a pint and karaoke. I’d love to see if you sound this bad in real life. ;)

  The part of me that wants to be offended by his lack of appreciation for my vocal talent is overshadowed by the part of me that laughs at his lack of airs and graces. Normally, when you see someone you’ve not seen in years, you at least try and pretend not to be laughing at them. It was awkward before, at the post office, but that was me. This feels confident. Self-assured. It’s refreshing… dare I say, attractive. It’s like he doesn’t feel the need to make an impression. He’s comfortable in his own skin. If I look back, I guess I do remember him being like that at school. Down to earth. Funny. Warm. He wasn’t like some of the other lads who were either testosteroned to the eyeballs or head in a book. He was just regular Mitch Black. Always had a smile. Always had a laugh. Never seemed to have anything bad to say about people. Never laughed at my cheap trainers or knock-off shell suit. He just hung around. Did his thing. The Mitch Leanne remembers isn’t the same one I recall. I make the photo larger, scrutinising his face. He has definitely grown into it. It’d be hard not to like him… from a purely aesthetic point of view…

  You’re on. Beer. When I’m home.

  When I’m home. When I’ve let go of some of this bloody baggage. You can’t move forward if you’re still looking back…

  10

  Before I inhale the sausage roll I bought from the services, Mum calls. ‘Hey, love, I just saw your note.’

  ‘Ah, thanks for calling. You okay? You’ve been out ages.’

  ‘Oh, yes, fine thanks. Just… a busy afternoon. Anyway, where are you? Are you around tonight? I fancied snuggling up to watch a movie. I’ve been looking, Bohemian Rhapsody’s on download, you said that was really good. I bought us some Rioja. Thought we could watch it together.’

  I click my seat belt on, buckling up before giving her the news, as it were. ‘That would have been lovely. The thing is… I’ve had to pop out. For a few days.’

  ‘A few days? Where are you?’

  ‘Now?’ Brace. ‘Roughly junction eleven on the M5. Westbound.’

  ‘Heavens to Betsy, Jem. Where on earth are you going?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Honesty. Come on, Jem, honesty. ‘Okay, so… that letter you posted for me…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t planning to post it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was going to burn it.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Fact is, it was not meant to actually get to Ben.’

  ‘Right… I see…’

  ‘I know. Like I say, long story. I just thought I’d pop down and see if I can get to it before the postie delivers it.’

  ‘Pop. Down? You’re kidding!’

  ‘No.’

  There’s a pause. I can imagine her, mouth open, confused, staring out of the lounge window.

  ‘But, it was there. On the bed. With his name on. I assumed you’d finally got over yourselves and worked things out. I thought you were just waiting for me to get his address.’

  Mum always did think it was a bit of a tiff. That we’d sort things out. That we were meant to be together. She had no idea what really happened, or that I was pretty much to blame. I didn’t think I could cope with ’fessing up when it happened and now I’m just too ashamed. ‘No.’ I don’t ask how she thinks I’d be unable to ask him for his address if we’d actually sorted things out.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, love. I just assumed. Oh, Lordy, I’m so sorry!’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine. Well, it’s sort of fine. I mean him reading it isn’t fine. That’s not fine at all. Hence me tracking it down.’

  ‘But… really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Sorry, Jem. I know this must be big for you to be doing this, but… it’s ridiculous! Can’t you just let him know? Ask him not to open it or something? I mean, I can call him if you like. Explain it’s my fault. If that’s less awkward.’

  Sure, getting your mum to sort out your mistakes. That’s less awkward. ‘No, no, Mum. Thank you, but it’s fine. This is my mess, I need to sort it.’

  ‘What about your car? How on earth is your car going to get you all the way to Cornwall?’

  With a protective hand, I stroke the velour passenger seat of my twenty-year-old pride and joy. ‘Petula is just fine. She can manage this journey and then some.’

  ‘Even if she can, what about the fuel? It’ll cost a fortune. I’ll have to transfer some money across, you can’t pay for fuel there and back. Jem, I thought you’d calmed down. I thought you’d stopped doing stuff like this!’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘This spontaneous stuff.’

  She means being reckless. That was always her worry, that I was reckless. She called it spontaneous to my face but I overheard her talking to someone else once, reckless was the word she used.

  ‘It’s important to me, Mum. It’s not about me being spontaneous, or any other word to describe it for that matter. In fact, if anything, it’s the opposite.’

  There’s a pause on the line. She’ll be staring at the fields that lead to the dual carriageway, more fields beyond it. She loves that view. She gets lost for hours, just thinking, staring at the view, marvelling at the trees that look like an elephant and its baby. Eventually she says, ‘I can’t believe you’ve just upped and gone like this. Did you eat that skate?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ I half laugh, though mostly because I’m tired and teasy, not finding any of this remotely amusing. ‘I ate the skate.’ I push the sausage roll out of sight, suddenly nauseous.

  There’s another pause. She’s moving about. She’ll be pacing the parquet flooring. ‘I could get a sleeper train. I think I can get on it at Chesterfield. I’d be there by the morning.’

  ‘I don’t need you to get here.’

  ‘Or I could ask Pauline if I can borrow her car. It’s just come back from a service so I know it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Then there’d be two cars in Cornwall. Mum, I don’t need you to be here. Just… chill. Please. Enjoy an evening to yourself for once. When did you last have that? Since I’ve moved in, I’m always there cramping your style.’

  ‘I like you cramping my style. We’ve had a lovely time, with you cramping my style.’

  She’s right. Despite everything, we have had a lovely time. ‘Mum, I love you. Go have a bath. Ease those muscles after Pilates.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Go. Relax. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Give me two rings when you get there.’

  ‘I will. After I’ve put the big light on.’

  ‘Love you, Jem.’ She sighs, despairing.

  ‘Love you too, Mum.’

  She hangs up. No doubt she’s still pacing the parquet with added muttering to herself. Probably trying to work out if she really should just wait until I get back, or if she could get on a train and meet me. And I love her for that, but it’s about time I stood on my own two feet. I need
to prove to her that I can. In fact, perhaps more importantly, I need to prove to myself that I can.

  11

  I expected the traffic round Bristol to be terrible. By the time I left I was ripe to hit peak commuting time. But I sort of hoped that by now, things might have eased up a little on the A30? I mean, I know it’s Friday. In August. But why, in all that’s holy, am I essentially parked up on Bodmin?

  Nor do I like the fact that there’s not a single room to rent anywhere. So even if I do ever make it to St Ives, I predict a night sleeping in my car. Can a thirty-eight-year-old woman still get away with that kind of behaviour? I’m just going to have to hope I arrive before the pub closes so at least I can have a drink, relax a bit before bunking down on the back seat. My phone dings a text from Leanne.

  Any tips for getting toddler wee out of a loop pile carpet? X

  I recoil. I have no tips. The closest I’ve ever got to something similar was trying to get wax out of a rug. Sadly, I used wrapping paper instead of brown paper and ironed a Christmas scene into my Habitat Penrose. Cost me a fortune, that rug.

  Nope. Soz luv. X

  The traffic crawls forward with sudden purpose, so I start Petula’s engine, relieved to creep a few metres. The sun is setting up ahead and the sky has gone a mad pinky yellow. I should really be sat on Porthmeor Beach for this. Not in a clapped-out Tigra on the A30. Sorry Petula.

  How’s the journey? Are you there yet? You’d better be since you just texted back. X

  I gaze out at the Moor, the wild ponies, a couple of big hills out to my left.

  No. I’m parked up on Bodmin waiting for the traffic to shift. It’s the journey from hell.

  ‘You should probably just turn back round, you know,’ Leanne says as her opening gambit when she calls.

  ‘Pack it in. I’ll be there before midnight. Probably.’

  ‘If you were here, you could have bathed Harley and read him a story. Or gone out on a date with Mitch.’

  ‘Mum wanted to watch Bohemian Rhapsody.’

  ‘So that’s three options that are all considerably better than being stuck on the A30.’

  ‘True.’ The traffic gains pace. ‘Christ, I’ve just changed gear for the first time in about an hour.’

  ‘Impressive. I just expressed a tiny amount of milk so Andy can do the night feed. Look at us, winning at life.’ She makes me smile, in spite of myself. ‘Are you sure you’re okay on your own? Do you need me?’

  ‘Yes, Leanne. I absolutely need you. You, the piskie permanently attached to your mammaries and Harley by your side. Please. Come quick. Use your womanly charms to tackle me out of my doom.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘Bet you can’t even spell that.’

  ‘I’ve just pushed a tiny human out of my nethers; I don’t need to enter into a spelling bee to prove how great I am.’

  ‘God, you women who’ve had babies, we know you’re incredible. But I once sneezed and broke wind at the same time, something I imagine you’ve no chance of doing without an unpleasant side effect, so now who’s amazing.’

  There’s a beat before we simultaneously collapse into fits of giggles.

  ‘Look, the traffic is moving properly now. I am almost there. I always need you, but yes, I am okay on my own. I’m going to do this, Leanne. I am going to make this right. It’s all part of the process. I am finally being a grown-up. I am sorting my life out. I no longer need you or Mum to bail me out. I promise.’

  ‘Well… okay then. If you’re sure. Keep me posted. Tell me everything that happens and do not do anything stupid, okay?’

  ‘I won’t. I promise. I love you.’

  ‘Love you more. Bye, bye, bye.’

  * * *

  As anticipated, it’s an hour later when I sweep down St Ives Road, past Tregenna Castle, past the hotels and new-builds, snatching glimpses of the bay between buildings. It’s almost dark. Lights twinkle from shops and restaurants. As I come down the high street, festoon lighting leads the way. The streets are busy, holidaymakers wandering from dinner to home, tired toddlers wrapped up in buggies, sleepy children being piggybacked by parents. And as I turn the corner at the lifeboat station, there it is. Home. Home in all its inky blue-black skied beauty. I don’t know why it always felt like that, we holidayed here a couple of times a year. But it was always our dream to make the move, one day. A little cottage on a backstreet. Open windows at bedtime to hear Mother Meor’s roar. Early mornings woken by the gulls. Long, quiet winters with no tourists and all the space. Busy, frantic summers with no space, but all the holiday vibes.

  How did I get to a point where I could mess up my future as significantly as I did?

  Yawning, exhausted, eyes like pissholes in the snow, I pull into a parking space and switch off Petula’s engine.

  I made it.

  12

  Somehow, I managed to get the energy to take the few steps from car to Sloop – reputedly Cornwall’s oldest inn, right on the harbour front. It was late by the time I got in, most people having eaten and gone. There was a bar stool spare, right up near the bandit machine in the back bar. And that’s where I’ve just spent the last hour and a bit, trying to dull the pain of being here without actually meaning to be here. Not really. Not properly. Not for a holiday, or a house-hunting trip or because I live here. But because I feel like I have no choice. So now I find myself, last one standing, leaving the pub into the night. I’ve rejected the offer to carry on at The Ferrets pub with some of the Sloop bar staff and stumble out of the bar as they bolt the doors behind me.

  It smells of beach and seawater. The tide laps against the slipway and everything in me wants to go for a swim. A float in the briny. Wash away the miles and the stress. Embrace the fuzz that comes from mainlining two pints of Ghost Ship and multiple St Piran Flag vodkas.

  Falling onto one of the picnic benches outside the pub, I pull off my shoes then sway down to the water. It’s deliciously cold to begin with. A contrast to the balmy evening. The festoon lighting stays lit all night and casts a warm glow along the harbour stretching from the lifeboat round to Smeaton’s Pier. Above, the silhouette of a few lonely gulls catching thermals draws my eye. Ben holidayed here every year as a kid and introduced me to it within a few months of us getting together. I fell for it instantly. This was our dream. To move here, to have this on our doorstep. He was going to try and get work on the boats, I was going to write. Living out of that little backstreet cottage. We hadn’t considered the fact that these now sell for more than I could sell a lung for, but details like that were unimportant as we lay cuddled up in his bed in the flat he had round the back of the civic up in Dronfield. Back in those early days. Before I ruined it all. He should have been here with me, letting the water tickle our toes after a night down our local. And instead, I am about to spend the night in the back of Petula before trying to bribe a postie into not putting that bloody letter through his door.

  Trying to unlock my car, the alcohol making my aim a little off, I smile at the memory of Mitch helping me with the door earlier on today. I pull out my phone and the scrap of paper he left his number on, tapping it into a new contact.

  Was good to see you today. Even though you do look like your older brother. Or your dad. ;)

  Within seconds, he’s responded.

  I’ll have you know I look nothing like my brother or my dad. I take after my mother’s side of the family. You can tell that by the ’tache and sagging boobs.

  Wow. An attractive thought.

  I type back, smiling, pulling a picnic rug up to my neck and shuffling down into the seat. Hey. Guess where I am now…but instead of a text back, he calls.

  ‘Tell me, Calamity Jem, where are you now?’

  I gaze, fuzzily, at the car park. Empty bays surround me, a gull pecks at a bag that peeps out of industrial bins lining the back wall by a phone box and the (now locked) public toilets. ‘Paradise,’ I say, sleepily.

  ‘Where’s paradise for you?’ he asks, gently, and
the sound of his voice makes my eyes close, comforted.

  ‘I’m in St Ives.’

  ‘Cambridge?’

  ‘Cornwall!’ I laugh. ‘St Ives, Cornwall. I’ve just had an absolute skinful in the pub and now, ’scuse me.’ I hiccup. ‘Now, I’m snuggling down in Petula.’

  ‘Who’s Petula and what does she think about you snuggling down in her?’

  ‘Petula is my car. On account of the fact that she’s purple.’

  ‘Are petulas purple?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. What even is a petula? Purple petula. It’s allitre… allotter… alliteration.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. How much did you say you’d had?’

  ‘Not enough!’ I drawl.

  ‘So, I assume the letter you accidentally posted was destined for St Ives then?’

  I swallow a sadness that overwhelms me. ‘You got it.’ My eyes are tightly scrunched because I will not cry. ‘And tomorrow morning, I shall intercept it and make sure, hic, that Ben doesn’t read it.’

  ‘Are you okay, Jem? You sound…’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine. Just tired. It’s a long way. I’d better go. Sleep. Hey!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Night, Ben.’

  ‘Mitch.’

  ‘Shit. Sorry. Yes. Night, Mitch.’

  ‘Good night, Calamity Jem.’

  13