The One That Got Away - Annabel Kantaria MIRA

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on a little flap of skin at the edge of my nail, careful not to let slip that it’s a woman I’m trying to impress. ‘They have to have liked it, though. Right?’

      ‘I should imagine so. And the other things? The book? Did the world’s pickiest CEO realise it was a first edition?’

      ‘Yes, he said thank you.’

      Rachel smiles. ‘Good. It took for ever to track that down. So – now what’s the plan? Maybe it’s time you tried to have a one-to-one meeting?’

      I sigh. ‘I’ve tried. I just keep getting blanks.’

      ‘Maybe they’re just not interested. Maybe they’re going with someone else, or they don’t need advertising at this stage.’ Rachel sighs. ‘Come on, George, it’s not as if we need their business specifically. Maybe it’s time to draw a line under this one.’ Rachel looks at me then and, as she reads my expression, her face softens. She cocks her head to one side.

      ‘Who is it? Is it really a potential client?’

      I close my eyes and exhale.

      ‘Is it a woman?’

      I shake my head. ‘Just someone I was at school with.’

      ‘And you need to settle an old score? Getting their business would mean a lot to you?’

      I smile. ‘Something like that.’

      A look passes between us. I know that she knows I’m lying. I’m sure she suspects it’s a woman. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to cover for me when Ness calls. But she’s way too professional to admit it.

      ‘Right,’ she says, opening the notebook. ‘Let’s see. What have we done so far? What else can we do? Opera tickets? Theatre?’

      I go over to the window and stare out, my hands in my pockets. ‘You know what, Rach? I think you’re right. I think it’s time I tried for another face-to-face meeting.’

       Stella

      I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

      I look at the message George has sent. In the format of a yes/no question, it’s brave, risking as it does a direct rejection. It’s the second time he’s asked me to meet him since I left him in the pub and I don’t feel that, in the subsequent weeks, I’ve given him much to go on. He’s got balls, I give him that.

      I put the phone down and let my thoughts roam. There’s no way George is going to be in Hampstead for work. I know enough about him to know that his life is highly unlikely to involve him coming up here at any point. I’ve googled him, of course I have.

      I’m going to be in your neck of the woods for work on Thursday evening. Fancy meeting for a drink?

      I pick up the phone. Sure, I type. But perhaps, too, this is the moment it all starts to go wrong. Perhaps this is the tipping point of this story because I know, as I agree to meet George, that my own intentions are greyer than four-day snow.

      I don’t know how this is going to play out. It’s not like me at all.

      *

      I have to leave work earlier than usual in order to make it back to Hampstead in time for eight, but that’s the only concession I make to the evening’s arrangements. The perversity of the meeting place is not lost on me: we’d both save time if I just suggested we meet in the West End, but I want George to have to put himself out a little. I go straight to the pub from work. Today, I’ve had meetings all day – a sponsorship deal and a couple of big corporate accounts – so I’m in a suit, heels, stockings. I don’t let myself examine why I decide to let George see me dressed like this instead of nipping home to change: I don’t want to know my motivations. I walk faster to distract myself, the clip of my heels ringing out against the noise of the traffic.

      He’s in the same booth as he was last time; again, a bottle of wine on the table. I note that this time two glasses are poured and it occurs to me that, last time we met, he might have thought that I wouldn’t turn up. When he sees me, a smile washes over his face and he stands to greet me; gives me a hug, pulls back and kisses my cheek. Not an air kiss. A proper kiss. Lips on skin. My eyes close. Unintentionally.

      I slide onto the bench opposite him and slip out of my suit jacket. Underneath, I’m wearing a sleeveless silk blouse.

      ‘Wow,’ says George. ‘You look… different.’ He’s not seen me in glasses before. I lower my gaze and look at him over the narrow tortoiseshell rims.

      ‘I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.’ I stretch my arms up over my head to release my hair, which has been in a bun all day, and shake it out over my shoulders. It’s a flirty move and it surprises me that I do it. ‘So, how are you?’ I say.

      ‘Comme ci, comme ça.’ George gives a Gallic shrug. I can feel his eyes on me, sliding over the bare skin of my arms and my throat.

      We make small talk for a while, but below the words lies a subtext. The important discussion is non-verbal. Decisions are being made. When I can take it no more, I shift in my seat.

      ‘George,’ I say. ‘Why are you here with me?’

      He leans back in his seat and exhales. ‘We’re… having a drink?’ His face lights up as he smiles.

      ‘No. I don’t mean that. I mean why are you here in Hampstead – miles from your home, from your wife – having a drink with me? I know you weren’t up here for work. Give me some credit.’ I see from his expression that I’m right. ‘What do you want from me?’

      He has the grace to give me a coy look. ‘I think we both know the answer to that.’

      I close my eyes, then open them again. I’m going to give decency one last shot. ‘But you have Ness,’ I say. ‘She’s beautiful. She always was the beautiful one.’

      George’s face collapses. ‘Oh, Stell… is that what you think?’

      I shrug. ‘This isn’t about what I think. It’s about what you’re doing here.’

      ‘I know. I know how it looks. “I’m a lucky man; why risk it?” and all that, but…’

      ‘But what? You chose. You had your choice, and you chose Ness.’

      ‘Stell. That’s unfair.’

      ‘Is it? Really?’

      George closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he starts to speak. ‘I’m not happy, Stell. The marriage isn’t in a good place.’ He shakes his head. ‘Marriage!’ he snorts. ‘I say “marriage” as if what Ness and I have resembles that in any way, shape or form.’ He waits but I don’t say anything so he carries on. I’m running my finger along the grain of the table while he talks. ‘It used to be good, when it was just the two of us and we had nothing. But she changed the moment the money started rolling in. She has no career. She’s nothing but “Mrs George – Mrs Advertising”. She does nothing all day except pamper herself so she looks good. She’s like a footballer’s wife. What do you call them? A WAG. Totally vacant.’ He knocks his knuckles against his temple. ‘Nothing there. It’s taken over who she is, Stell; it’s all about her image, how she looks. I’ve forgotten what the real Ness even used to be like.’

      I let his words settle, then I say, ‘I see.’ I’m not going to pass judgement on anyone else’s marriage, and I’m certainly not going to sit here criticising Ness with her husband, tempting as it is.

      ‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ George says when he realises I’m not going to say anything else, ‘that my success is only public? Everyone thinks I’m this huge success but, privately, I’m falling apart.

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