The Day We Met Read online

  I stand motionless for a few seconds, wondering whether to say anything. Who am I to be dishing out life advice? And especially to someone I’ve known for less than forty-eight hours? Oh fuck it. I’ll never see her again.

  ‘Steph!’

  She turns around, with the door half-open as I quickly run over.

  ‘I just wanted to say …’

  ‘Yeah?’ she whispers.

  ‘People will see you if you let them in, you know.’

  Smiling very gently, she kisses me on my cheek. ‘Thank you, Jamie.’

  I watch her walk down the steps and into the car park. I watch a blond-haired man get out of his sporty blue convertible and hug her before putting her bag in the boot. And then I watch her take one last glance back at the door I’m looking through before getting into the car.

  CHAPTER 3

  Saturday 18 August 2007

  Stephanie

  I check out my reflection from all angles in the full-length mirror on the hotel room wall. I want to look nice, obviously. But it’s also important the dress has enough ‘give’ in it because I’m going to stuff my face with food and do not want to be breathing in all night.

  Running my hands over the pretty broderie anglaise skater dress, I do a half twirl to assess its swishiness. Glancing over my shoulder in the mirror reflection, I compare it to the other two dresses I brought which are hanging off the edge of the bed. A woman of indecision, that’s me. Having just arrived back from Thailand on honeymoon, my skin is the most tanned it’s been in years, so I’ve gone for three dresses I hardly ever wear on account of them clashing with my usually ivory-white exterior. An emerald-green, silky, fitted high-neckline affair which brings out my eyes; a dressy yellow floral thing that I bought in a sale and have never worn; and this one, which I opt for.

  The view is spectacular from the fifth floor. Even though Leeds is a modern city, it retains a character about it. The boutique hotel we are staying in has been renovated from an old mill and has ancient beams on the ceilings, wooden pillars in the middle of the room and uneven walls.

  ‘Come on, birthday girl!’ he says, popping his head around the bathroom door as the smell of deodorant wafts into the bedroom. It’s overpowering in this heat we’ve been having. ‘Get a move on! We want to go for a wander before dinner.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on!’ I roll my eyes at Matt. ‘It’s all that shopping’s worn me out.’

  ‘Yeah, worn my wallet out too.’

  I playfully stick my tongue out at him, before carrying on getting ready.

  Sitting in front of the dressing table, I add the last touches of make-up. My green eyes are my ‘thing’, apparently. They’re described as cat-like, which I usually emphasise with liquid eyeliner. Not sure about the rest of me, though. I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at. My nose has a little upturned bit at the end I could do without and both Ebony and I have our mum’s figure – not skinny, but we have a decent shape. We have hips and boobs that will probably become an issue as we get older if we don’t look after ourselves. But, for the moment, we are thankful for them.

  I add a bit of red lipstick and, reaching into my toiletry bag for the finishing touch, pull out my perfume.

  There was always something so comforting about the one Mum had. She’d use just the right amount: a quick spritz on each side of her neck and then on her wrist, before gently rubbing the other one on it. Then, dramatically spraying a cloud into the air above her.

  That was my favourite part.

  I’d dance about in the falling plume of a mixture of floral-and fruit-smelling particles as they landed in my waist-length golden hair in an explosion of jasmine, apricot, vanilla and amber, giggling with my sister as we helped her pick out a dress for the important dinner she was going to with my dad. She went to a lot of them.

  ‘Oooh! No, my sweeties! That’s no good for dancing in!’ she’d say, scowling at a dress we’d be dragging out of the wardrobe that, by anyone else’s standards, would be more than adequate, but not for my mum.

  ‘How about this one …?’ she’d say.

  ‘Yes!’ Ebony and I would shriek, watching her slip into the most beautiful, sparkliest, floor-length gown you’ve ever clapped eyes on in your life, rather like a magician’s assistant’s.

  My amazing mummy.

  She always looked beautiful and full of life. The red lipstick – her trademark feature – contrasted against her natural blonde hair. Just like mine does.

  It was Matt’s idea to come to Leeds for my birthday weekend. I’d never been before, but he said we should explore more of the north. The furthest I’ve ever been is Durham and that’s only because Ebony studied Law there and while I spent many a drunken weekend visiting the pubs of Newcastle, we never once visited Durham Cathedral, which I feel terrible about now. Students, eh?

  I thought of Jamie on the journey here. I remembered how outraged he was when I placed his accent as Leeds and laughed to myself. I wonder what he’s up to these days. I’ve found myself thinking about him often, actually.

  It’s a beautiful, hazy summer evening, bustling with people. Matt and I hold hands, like newlyweds do, pottering around The Calls, a lovely old part of central Leeds. Sunglasses on, we’ve dressed well, we look good.

  The restaurant we are eating at for my birthday dinner is in a huge, old post office building. Large chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Curved booths covered with velour line the walls, with smaller tables filling out the middle. I adore the buzz of restaurants and watching everyone. Matt calls me nosy but I just like watching them interact. You can tell so much by what people don’t say to each other.

  Matt fiddles about on his phone as I order some wine.

  ‘We agreed no phones – can you put it away?’ I ask. He’s always messing about with something on there.

  ‘I’m just checking in on Facebook,’ he says, as if I’m so ridiculous for even asking. His fingers type quickly for another few seconds and he pops his phone back in his pocket. ‘Right, baby, all yours.’

  The food is delicious here. Matt got the recommendation from a client and he wasn’t wrong. It’s one of those meals which is long and drawn out – my favourite kind.

  ‘Do you fancy some cocktails after?’ I ask Matt. ‘Doesn’t feel right finishing the evening without one after being on holiday.’

  ‘Erm, Steph,’ he says in a serious tone, ‘I think if you’re after one of Kiko’s pina colada specials, you’ll struggle here.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, they were special, weren’t they? I just can’t get over how much stuff he put in them.’

  ‘It was 20 per cent drink and 80 per cent bloody jungle in there.’ he responds and laughs. ‘And don’t forget the sparklers. And the fact he served them to us in a porcelain duck!’

  ‘Oh, the whole thing was so much fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Gorgeous.’ He smiles. ‘But we’ve got more to come. The next stage – we need to get house-hunting.’

  ‘We can certainly see what’s out there. It’s exciting.’

  ‘So, when do you think we should think about kids?’ he asks, oh-so-matter-of-factly, popping some Tuscan calamari into his mouth.

  ‘We’re only just married, Matt. Don’t you think we should enjoy this time together? What’s the rush? Besides, I’ve been doing really well and a baby is a very big change,’ I tell him, rotating my wedding ring with my left thumb and trying to bat away the sick feeling which swirls up in my stomach.

  ‘There’s no rush, but it’s expected, isn’t it? The next natural step,’ he states. ‘How is therapy going? You don’t really talk about it much.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of the point. It’s private,’ I say, abruptly. ‘But, yes, it’s going well.’

  Matt nods. ‘Good. Well, that’s the main thing. What’s she like?’

  ‘Jane?’ I reply, almost shocked he’s asking about her. We never, ever talk about Jane.

  ‘Yeah. Does she sit in a white coat, asking you to
sit on a couch?’

  ‘What? And makes me tell her all about my mother?’ I say.

  He doesn’t respond and I don’t blame him. I look away, feeling immediate regret for that unnecessary comment.

  ‘Sorry, baby. I just don’t want to talk about any of that,’ I apologise. ‘Not this weekend.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,’ he says, reaching for my hand. ‘It’s fine. And I’m sure you’ll get better eventually. Let’s change the subject.’

  When the main course arrives, we’re playing my favourite game: ‘What’s Their Story?’ The rules are simple: select groups/couples and, going on how they’re acting and talking with each other, come up with what their story is.

  So far, Matt has decided that the group of four men to our right is actually an assassination team sent to sort out the raucous group of women at the opposite end of the restaurant going by the filthy looks they keep shooting in their direction. He does hilarious voiceovers when each of them talks, which makes my wine go down the wrong way. He really does make me howl sometimes.

  ‘What about them?’ he asks, gesturing to a couple sitting on a table to our left.

  They look about our age. She’s wearing a pretty hot-pink dress with a sweetheart neckline. Her dark hair is wavy, obviously affected by the humidity, but it looks effortlessly styled and her make-up is understated. He sits opposite her, wearing a white polo shirt. His hair is virtually black, as is the stubble on his face, and he’s wearing some of those nerdy but cool black-rimmed glasses. They’re chatting away to each other in a way which suggests they hold an intimacy nobody else in this room understands. It’s like nobody else is here. Their eyes dance about with each other and she occasionally glances down at her lap, before quickly meeting his gaze again. It’s hypnotic.

  ‘He’s planning on getting some with her tonight,’ Matt proclaims.

  The guy reaches out for his date’s hand. She meets it halfway across the table. They don’t hold hands, their fingers just caress and play with each other. Slowly. Sensually. The entire time, their eyes flirt with each other. I’d love to know what they’re saying. The candle on the table adds a closeness to the scene and I feel awkward, watching what’s clearly such an intimate moment for them.

  ‘No way,’ I say, turning to Matt. ‘It’s more than that.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ he says, rolling his eyes, ‘he’ll be in her knickers tonight.’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no doubt of that. But they’re in a relationship. They have a connection. Bloody look at them!’

  Matt gawps at the couple with no thought whatsoever for subtlety, before turning back to me and reiterating he was correct to start with.

  ‘Still in the honeymoon period,’ he declares. ‘Between one and three dates. Tops. You don’t get all smoochy like that beyond the first few dates.’

  Don’t you? A little part of me feels so sad when Matt says this. Because I look at them and a part of me wants to feel like that.

  But maybe Matt’s right. Some people just aren’t like that. Matt and I were never like that. We had a honeymoon period, sure. But it was more about laughs, wanting to spend loads of time together, staying up chatting until late – that kind of stuff. Some people just aren’t about the swoons – and that’s OK.

  But how do you know you’re the absolute happiest you can be? What does ‘happiness’ even feel like?

  ‘It’s the best day of your life’, ‘I got to marry my best friend’; that’s what they always say. Everything is simply the best on your wedding day. I imagine these people spending the entire day, grinning from ear to ear, simply unable to believe they’ve married this incredible person. Is that how it’s supposed to be? Does it last thereafter? Is that happiness? Or does it morph into more of a contentedness? Is that acceptable? Is that ‘settling’?

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ I say and smile.

  After five courses I am fit to burst and don’t think I need to eat for at least another week. Leaning back in my chair, I’m relieved I went for the skater dress.

  ‘Right, present time!’ Matt declares, producing a cream envelope from his jacket pocket.

  ‘What?’ I reply, confused. ‘This weekend is my birthday present. And besides, my birthday isn’t even for another few days yet.’

  ‘It’s just a little extra one. And, in any case, you got me the watch last year for my thirtieth which must have cost you a fortune.’

  ‘It’s not a competition, Matt. And I knew you’d love it, which is all that matters,’ I say, glancing at the gift I bought him which is wrapped around his wrist. I had it engraved: ‘Love you, M. From your S. Xx’. He never takes it off.

  ‘Open it!’ he urges, grinning like an excited child.

  I reach into the envelope and pull out a small pamphlet. I know what it is as soon as I see the venue emblazoned across the top. Catching my breath, I take a minute to compose myself before responding.

  ‘You got so much out of it last year which is why I’m sending you back again in October,’ he says, proud of himself.

  ‘Heathwood Hall Art Workshop …’

  A flutter of excitement builds in my tummy which I try to ignore.

  ‘Thank you so much! I love it!’ I say, leaning over to give him a kiss.

  ‘Well, you came back last year raving about it and it was nice to see you smiling again,’ he very astutely observes. ‘Even though you had the minor indiscretion … but we’ll forget that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You. Drinking, even though you said you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ I sigh. Matt could tell I’d had a drink when he picked me up in the Heathwood Hall car park and asked me about before we’d even left the grounds. I explained it was no more than two glasses of wine and I was absolutely fine, but I still felt terrible about it – especially after the performance in the car on the way there. Still, he promised not to tell Dad and Ebony, thank God.

  I nip to the loo before we leave. When I leave the cubicle, I see the loved-up, wild-haired girl washing her hands.

  Catching her eye in the mirror, we share a smile.

  ‘I love your dress,’ I say. ‘It really suits you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies, quickly glancing down at it.

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Special occasion?’ I ask, inquisitively.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ she admits, reapplying her lipstick. ‘Anniversary!’

  ‘Oh! How lovely,’ I reply, a little bit more eager than I should be. Ha! I was right. Even if it was six months, it’s still an anniversary. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Thanks! Been married two years this weekend!’ she says, grinning from ear to ear. She almost giggles when she says it, she’s that thrilled.

  My mouth almost drops open. I go from smug to envious in two seconds flat.

  ‘Wow! That’s brilliant. Good for you. Have a fabulous weekend!’ I gush, before hurrying out the bathroom and telling Matt I fancy some cocktails somewhere.

  A few hours later we’re lying in a pile of white, crumpled sheets. The windows have been flung open in a desperate attempt to get some air into the room which smells of sex and my perfume.

  ‘How did you know I was the one?’ I ask Matt as he rearranges the cotton sheet over us. He always gets too hot in the summer.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What made me different to everyone else?’ I ask. ‘What was it about me?’

  ‘You were great fun,’ he says after thinking about it.

  ‘OK, were is past tense, and anyone can be fun.’

  ‘Well, you’ll admit yourself you’ve had a hard time lately. Doesn’t mean I love you less, babe.’

  ‘Oh, thanks!’

  ‘Oh, come on! What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie. ‘Just be nice to know.’

  ‘You’re hot, fun, always up for a laugh, lovely,’ he reels off. ‘Can I stop now? I’m so tired!’

  Smart, funny, intelligent, beautiful.

 
‘Yes, goodnight …’ I turn over on my side, away from him. He’s snoring within seconds.

  I can’t sleep. It’s funny how your brain works when you’re lying in bed. Thoughts flit about like electrical sparks on a switchboard, unrelated and yet somehow all linked together, like a chain reaction …

  I walked over to her as she sat at her dressing table, one of those French ones with three mirrors on it and loads of drawers, placing a diamond choker around her neck.

  ‘I want to be just like you when I’m older, Mum!’ I whispered into her ear, giggling after I’d said it. I was so in awe of her.

  ‘You will be, baby. I love you so very much,’ she told me, kissing my forehead and wiping the resulting red lipstick smudge off as she laughed.

  ‘But, who will I marry? Will they love me like Dad loves you?’ I asked.

  I watched her face from all angles in the three-way mirror as she considered her answer.

  ‘Darling, Stephanie. You’ll know when you find the one you’re meant to be with, and you know how?’ Mum teased. I hung on to her every word, watching her immaculately made-up face as she spoke to me.

  ‘You’ll be in a crowded room, talking to other people and he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. He will love you even though you’re not perfect, because none of us are. He will love you because you’re perfectly imperfect. That’s how Daddy loves me.’

  I looked at her, a bit confused. ‘What does “perfectly imperfect” mean?’ I asked, screwing my face up, wondering whether I’d said it right.

  Her face softened slightly, her smile faded, ‘It just means you’re human and you make mistakes sometimes.’

  ‘But how will he find me?’

  ‘He just will. Because everyone has a someone they’re meant for and you’re just kind of thrown together by the universe whether you like it or not. It makes sure you find each other – trust me on that,’ she said and winked.

  But how can you be sure if the person you’re with is that person? I mean, it’s not something you think to ask when you’re twelve years old, is it?