He had dreamed of bumping into her again for years, of being given a second chance. He had always imagined them picking up where they left off, his life suddenly more joyful and fulfilled because of her presence. But when that second chance had presented itself to him he’d been overcome by fear – fear that she hadn’t been thinking about him, fear that she wouldn’t still be interested ten years down the line; what sane woman would? He had come across as awkward and aloof, and then he’d just walked away without a word, without asking for her number, without even saying goodbye.
It had been nothing like he had imagined and he wondered if that was why he had never tried harder to find her, knowing deep down that if he did, it would leave him disappointed.
Rupert bent down to clip his dog’s lead on to his harness. He’d never really considered himself a dog person until Captain came into his life. He didn’t know how he would have coped with the loneliness he felt in York without Captain.
It was a cold day for June, even for Yorkshire. The sky was blue but the wind blowing off the river made him long for the hot summers of Massachusetts. Jess was all he’d been able to think about since he’d realised who she was in the pub the previous evening. That and what a terrible impression he must have made on her. She had looked so glamorous and he had been dressed in scruffy jeans and an old jumper. At least he’d moved on from the football shirts of his youth.
He’d known she was at the bar long before she’d spotted him. He’d been sitting in his usual corner with a couple of colleagues – another uneventful Saturday night at the end of another uneventful week. There were times when Rupert wondered if his life was just passing him by, if work had completely taken over and all he would be remembered for were a few dry academic books that nobody read. Even his parents didn’t seem interested in his career anymore.
‘Here’s trouble!’ Rupert’s friend, Chris, had said to him with a wink and a nudge as the hen party arrived in the pub. He’d felt the energy change around him and it was Gemma he recognised first, her laugh, her exuberance – she’d always been a perfect counterfoil to Jess’s quiet homebody demeanour. It had taken him a moment to recognise the slim brunette with the red lipstick and the green eyes. It couldn’t be her, could it? But then she’d smiled at something Gemma had said and he had known. Nobody else could light up a room with their smile like that.
His initial instinct had been to run. He’d been waiting years for this opportunity, but how could he see it through? Real life was never like your imagination. What if she was dismissive? What if she was still angry? Worse, what if she didn’t recognise him?
He’d realised that Chris was still talking to him and he’d forced himself to look away from her. He had smiled tightly, a smile that could be interpreted as disapproval of this gaggle of drunk women who had disturbed his Saturday night. And then Chris had said something that had made him laugh – he couldn’t even remember what it was now – and when he had looked up Gemma was staring at him, her eyebrows raised. He’d seen Jess whisper something to her and the next thing he had known, Gemma was calling him over.
He should have run when he had the chance.
‘You know them?’ Chris had asked eagerly. Poor single Chris – always looking for the woman who would change his life. Rupert hadn’t replied. He had already been talking to Gemma, teasing her about her hen night outfit as though they’d seen each other yesterday. All his awareness had been on Jess though, just as it ever was.
He’d managed to avoid talking to her directly for most of the evening, answering the questions Gemma shot at him instead as he’d felt the press of Jess’s thigh against his and tried to ignore how that made him feel. Later, while Jess was in the loo, he’d answered more personal questions from Gemma. He had found himself asking a few questions as well. He’d wondered if Jess was avoiding him.
When Gemma had insisted that he walk Jess back to the hotel, his stomach fizzed. It had felt as though it was his one chance. But he had blown that chance. When she’d slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, when he’d pulled her closer, it had felt as though a decade had slipped away, as though they were back where they started and he had never boarded that flight to America all those years ago. So why had he gone and walked away from her again?
Possibly because he wouldn’t have known which version of the truth to tell her – because she was bound to want to know why he was back. He hadn’t been sure if he could lie to her and he hadn’t been sure if he could tell her the truth.
As Rupert opened his front door and allowed Captain to drag him out on his morning walk, he told himself that walking away again had been the best thing he could have done, for both of them.
‘Are you angry with me?’ my mother asked.
‘Of course I’m not angry with you, Mum,’ I replied. ‘I am wondering why you didn’t tell me though.’
We were in the garden of my mother’s flat in Highgate. She had moved out of Cambridge after I graduated from university, after my father died, moving to London to be nearer to me. We always had a need to be near each other since Dad died; Mum had been an only child too and she wanted to keep what family she had close. It had worked out well for both of us in the end.
My mother, Caro Jefferson, was a poet. She lived quietly on her not-insubstantial royalties and my father’s even less insubstantial life insurance payout. She got involved with community projects in Highgate, wrote for the local magazine, helped organise the costumes for the pantomime, that kind of thing. She was happy there – who wouldn’t be? Highgate is beautiful.
It felt as though we’d looked at a thousand flats in north London before we came across this one, but as soon as we saw it, Mum knew it was the right one. I had started working at The Ham & High then – the newspaper for Hampstead and Highgate – and was living with Dan on Kentish Town Road. Mum’s flat was just far enough away for me to not feel Mum was on top of me, but near enough for us to go round whenever we were hungry. Cadet journalists and inexperienced photographers don’t earn very much.
Mum’s flat was the lower ground floor of a converted Georgian terrace. The flat itself was a little dark but the French doors in the kitchen opened out onto a beautiful garden where Mum could indulge in her other great love – breeding roses.
We were in her rose garden the morning after I got back from York, Mum pruning away as I sat nearby enjoying the early morning sun. I’d been hesitatingly telling her about seeing Rupert again. She’d known he was back in the UK but hadn’t told me.
‘I hadn’t wanted to upset you, darling,’ Mum said as she delicately pruned her precious roses. ‘It took you so long to get over him, I thought it was best left in the past.’
‘I’m surprised,’ I replied. ‘A romantic like you. I’d have thought you would have been scheming to get us back together!’ I grinned at her, but her face was serious.
‘There’s nothing romantic about what happened. Have you any idea what it felt like to watch you hurting like that?’
What could I say to that? My mother thought it had taken a long time for me to get over Rupert. I know now that I never did.
‘How did you know he was back?’ I asked.
‘His mother told me. We’re still in touch – I think she probably hears from me more often than she hears from her son though. They were never a close family, were they? He always seemed to prefer our house to his.’
A memory flashed in my head then of us doing our homework at my mum’s big kitchen table together, heads down over our books, kicking each other with our toes under the table. I hadn’t realised that Mum still kept in touch with Rupert’s