Carefully, I moved away, gently lowering her head towards a cushion. I laid a Garfield blanket over her, moved her bag to where she’d find it in the morning, and paused a second.
Peeping out from a sidepocket was a CD marked ‘Abbey’s Songs’.
I turned the page, and then turned straight back to read it again.
‘I didn’t think anything would happen when I placed the advert,’ says James Ward, who placed it in the Scottish listings magazine, the
List.
The subject of his advertisement was a young lady he spotted in a travel bookshop
.
‘I’d always been dubious about love at first sight, but I think that must be what it was,’ says Mr Ward, now a Flow Cytometry Operator at the University of Edinburgh. ‘She was tall with short black hair, big blue eyes and a lovely smile.’
Mr Ward’s advert in the next week’s edition of the
List
read:
You were reading a book on Perthshire, I was the man standing with two coffees. I wish I’d offered you one. Maybe now?
That was four-and-a-half years ago. Now, he and Jenni Bale-Ward are married and have an eighteen-month-old son, Henry
.
‘I have always thought that if you don’t take your chances you’ll end up with absolutely nothing,’ said Mr Ward
.
‘Breakfast!’ shouted Abbey, loudly, from the living room.
I took the chance.
I’d lain in bed last night staring at the ceiling and thinking about what Abbey had said about ambition. She didn’t seem the sort not to have any dreams. She seemed the sort to have a million. And I don’t mean that she’s flighty, or scatterbrained, although coincidentally she is both of those things. I just mean for someone so full of life, so full of joy, I found it hard to believe she could be so empty of dreams.
Ambition wasn’t a word I was unfamiliar with. Sarah and I had had ambitions. At first, they were huge and vast and yet still felt oh-so achievable. We’d work as hard as we could for a year or two. I’d make head of department; she’d become a senior analyst. We’d save our money, Sarah would hit her targets, we’d only spend the bonuses on things we really wanted, like breaks in the Cotswolds or a weekend in New York. We’d buy the small house we were renting in Fulham for a steal, paint the whole thing white, retile the bathroom and sell it on for sixty grand above its value. Then we’d take a year out, fly to Thailand, buy a rickety canary yellow VW camper and live off rice throughout southeast Asia for twelve tanned months.
Then: stage 2. We’d return to the UK rested and wise, and Sarah would be begged to return to work, where she’d be made some kind of senior partner and impart her newfound Eastern philosophies in front of shocked boards and impressed clients, and I would write up my notes from the road and secure a three-book publishing deal and a post as Contributing Editor to a travel magazine called something fancy and ethereal.
But you know what? Things got in the way. The car needed a new exhaust. One night the clanking we’d assumed was a burglar dragging his spanner across our railings was instead a
thoughtful suicide note from an unhappy boiler. I got dragged into more and more meetings at work, my shoulders became heavier, my dreams fell further away before ever getting any closer, we’d weekend in Whitstable but never New York. It was like we were constantly waiting for the
Mad Men
finale to come on, but the announcer kept saying we had to watch yet another episode of
The One Show
first.
We decided to concentrate for a while on the achievable: the house. But then Mrs Lampeter got sick, and her son took over her interests, and he convinced her to sell up, and must’ve seen the same episode of Sarah Beeny as us, because four months later the house had white walls and a retiled bathroom and laminated flooring and was on for sixty grand more than it was worth.
So we moved to north London, where Sarah didn’t hit her targets and I failed to make head of department.
And then one day Sarah had a miscarriage.
I know.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mention it before. I didn’t want it to cloud your judgement or tug on your heartstrings. I didn’t want you to know what we’d lost, knowing what surrounded it. Because that’s all you’d have thought about; all you’d have considered.
Does it make it worse, what I did to Sarah, when she’d had a miscarriage a year before? Yes. Yes, of course it does. So maybe, if we’re being honest here, that’s why I didn’t tell you. And now that we’re laying our cards on the table, now that we’re going for it, here’s the worst thing, the thing I still find hardest, the thing I hate: selfishly – unforgivably – some little part of me in there felt relief.
Horrible, I know. Horrible is how I feel even just putting that to paper. But honest and above board, too, and I hope
you’ll at least take that into account, because that’s got to count for something.
We hadn’t planned it. We just found out one day that she was pregnant. A week of panic, of highs and lows; a week of planning then followed.
And another day later, as quickly as that: nothing.
For Sarah, it changed things irrevocably. Made her focus, realise what she wanted, what she nearly had, how selfishly we’d been living our lives. She was destroyed and distraught at first, and I was strangely jealous of her instant connection with something that never even was; that she could picture a future far better and more fulfilling than the lowly ambitions we’d carefully shared and nurtured since day one, all based on something that was there just a moment. And I imagined she hated me for not having that too, not wanting it like she now did. But all I could think about was how life had nearly changed. How little control I actually had over my own destiny. How unhappy I was not …
doing
something.
Still.
Today was Sarah’s engagement party. Sarah was going to where she wanted to be. She was on the way.
And all I had to do was turn up and wish her all the very best.
I could do that.
‘What have you brought?’ I asked, suspiciously. ‘It stinks!’
‘Pamela recommended it,’ said Dev, holding it at arm’s length. Whatever it was was wrapped tightly in a blue plastic bag, and I was happy about that. ‘It’s some kind of cheese.’
I smiled. ‘Pamela? You popped in to see Pamela, did you?’
‘She has a boyfriend, Jason.’
‘They won’t mind me coming, will they?’ asked Abbey, struggling into the straps of her backpack as we stepped off the bus. ‘I just sort of invited myself last night, didn’t I?’
‘I’m pleased you’re here,’ I said, which was true.
Sure, the adult thing would’ve been to have gone alone, made polite chit-chat with semi-acquaintances or never-before-met family members who’d feel awkward when they discovered who I was. ‘Oh, you’re
that
Jason,’ they’d say, all rictus-grins and backing-aways. Far better for everyone concerned for me to have my own team.
The party was at the Queen & Artichoke, just off Great Portland Street, in the upstairs room.
There was Anna, straight away, in my face, backlit by a harsh sun through the window, dust dancing all around her.
‘It’s very mature of you to come,’ she said, not quite making eye contact, ‘although I suppose it
is
in a pub.’
‘Nice to see you again, Anna.’
‘I see you’ve brought your prostitute with you.’
Abbey was standing in the corner, staring at the ceiling like it was confusing her.
‘She was joking about that,’ I said, a little unnecessarily. ‘I don’t really eat pies and cry.’
She looked me up and down.
‘Well, I’m not sure about the pies,’ she said, smiling.
I let her have that.
‘Brought some cheese,’ said Dev, shoving it straight in her hands, pleased to be rid of it. ‘You’re welcome.’
I scanned the room as Anna backed away. Oh, there was Ben. And Chloe. And a host of other people I hadn’t seen in some time. I’d hidden away after Sarah and I broke up. Given up my friends so that she could have them. I’d just wanted it to be easy on her, and easier on me. And that meant never really confronting things. Why should it be so hard, seeing these people again? Was it just the shame, or was it that by seeing them again I was admitting my previous cowardice?
A waitress slipped by and I reached for a vol-au-vent. Anything to look busy.
‘Nice spread,’ said Dev, chewing something. ‘Bet you can’t get a Prawn Ring in an Aldi for
miles
around here!’
And then Gary was there.
‘Jason Priestley!’ he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and trying to make sure everyone could
see
he was putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘Not the one from the
Beverly Hills
programme, of course! Good of you to come. Sarah told me she’d invited you. I said it was fine.’
He spotted Abbey. She was taking a picture of a potplant on her bright pink phone.
‘Is that your … friend? I can’t remember. You had a photo of her? Whitby and all that?’
‘No, that’s … another friend.’
He winked at me.
‘Good work.’
‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘She is literally a friend.’
He winked again.
‘Understood,’ he said.
‘No, I mean it.’
‘Course you do.’
He winked a
third
time.
‘So, how are things with—’ I started, but Gary had a piece of paper out, and popped his finger to his lip.
‘Speechwork,’ he said. ‘Better just work out what I’m going to say.’
He sidled away, and in the corner of the room, there was Gary’s fiancée, glowing, happy, blooming. She was surrounded by her friends, excitedly chattering away at her, but after a moment I guess she sensed she was being watched, because she turned her head slightly, took me in, smiled a welcome, and raised her glass at me.
Dev was suddenly by my side again, a plate of vol-au-vents in his hand, and two pints crushed up against his chest.
‘Here y’go,’ he said, as I took one. ‘Where’s Abs?’
We looked around. She was nowhere to be seen. She’d probably been distracted by a fly, and followed it outside, or something.
‘Not exactly a rocking party, is it?’ said Dev.
‘It’s only three o’clock. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be rocking.’
‘What happens at these things then? We just sort of stand around, do we?’
‘We do. We just sort of stand around. It’s the being seen that counts. We’re here to be seen, because when we’re seen here, we’re seen supporting.’
‘Oh,’ said Dev, disappointed. ‘So, there’s no, like, bridesmaids or anything?’
‘Not at an engagement party, generally, no.’
‘So what is it, just like, vicars and shit, yeah?’
‘If that helps you, yes.’
Dev nodded, and looked around the room.
I guess I should’ve started mingling, but to be honest I didn’t feel I’d earned the right. I could only be a minglee.
I could sense Anna in the corner of the room, already spreading whatever gossip she could, all plaintive nods and subtle glances. She’d already have told people about bumping into me with Abbey, how
young
she was, how immature that made me, how she’d always thought I’d had deeper problems, deeper issues, how lucky Sarah was to have met Gary, how there’s always a silver lining. Some people mask negativity so well, just by coating it with a clingfilm-deep layer of concern.
‘All right?’ said Abbey, suddenly there, as another waitress slid by, carrying a pompous tray of tiny muffins.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Kitchen,’ she said. ‘What’s been happening? Has anyone got off with anyone else yet?’
I checked my watch.
‘
Five
past three now. You’d think it’d have happened.’
Abbey giggled. She’d seen something. I followed her gaze but didn’t get it.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ she said, and giggled again.
‘What is it?’
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I had an idea. I’ll tell you in a bit.’
My God, Gary could talk.
‘Taking Sarah to Florida next month,’ he said. ‘She was like, “Save it for the honeymoon!”, but the world is there to be travelled, y’know? We’ll just go somewhere better for the honeymoon.’
I felt a childish need to compete.
‘I’m going hot-air ballooning soon,’ I said. ‘And also to Silverstone. But first I’m going hot-air ballooning and we’re going to drink champagne in the air.’
Gary looked at me like I was mental.
‘Also, I’m taking on the SAS soon at paintball.’
He continued: ‘Thing about Florida is, you’re never unsure what the weather’s going to be like. My parents are moving out there soon, so we’ll be able to stay with them every year, you know, with the little one.’
I smiled. Rocked back on my heels, nodded. Gary paused a second and looked at me, sadly.
‘You two never think about having kids?’ he said.
Oh, Gary, don’t, please.
‘Nope,’ I said, as matter-of-factly as I could. ‘Never the right time.’
Sarah hadn’t told him. Why would she? It was history. Today was about the future.
‘Oh, there’s never a “right time” for kids, Jason!’ He laughed, like he’d coined the phrase, like he already had hundreds of children. ‘Until it happens.
Then
it’s the right time.’
‘Yep.’
‘She’s starting to show now,’ he said, wistfully, and we both looked over at happy, beautiful Sarah.
She
was
starting to show. And for just a second it was all too much.
The thing I’d never told her, what I always wished I had but now never could, was that I’d wanted it, too. Once I’d got over the shock, once I’d vanquished those confused, selfish thoughts, I’d wanted what she wanted. And when I’d messed it up, when Sarah had gone and left me and I’d been forced to just keep my head down and convince myself I was okay, that if I just ploughed on I’d be fine … I felt like I’d lost
two
people, not just one. I felt like I’d lost a
family
, because a family is what we could’ve been and nearly once were.
I’d lost a whole other life.
‘She looks amazing, Gary,’ I said, and then, not out of engagement-party banter but because I painfully, truthfully meant it: ‘You’re a really lucky man.’