The One That Got Away
Read The One That Got Away Online
Authors: Lucy Dawson
Lucy Dawson
has been a journalist and magazine editor. Her previous two novels,
His Other Lover
and
What My Best Friend Did
, are also published by Sphere.
Praise for Lucy Dawson
‘Funny, dark and very surprising – a compulsive new breed of chicklit’
Louise Candlish
‘This isn’t your standard chick-lit fluff – and for that we’re very grateful … This tale is so deliciously dark, you’ll be
left craving the next twist of dubious events ****’
Heat
‘This dark, compelling tale is a warning for every female with a new friend’
Sun
‘Chick lit with a sinister twist’
Elle
‘Totally gripping ****’
Company
‘[An] intense and gripping read ****’
OK!
‘Darker than your average chick lit, you’ll be engrossed from the first page. A compelling, excellent read with a twist’
Candis
‘Lucy Dawson spins an intriguing tale … A break from the black-and-white morality of the chick-lit genre’
London Lite
‘A claustrophobic and compelling tale, with a lethal eye for the strains and terrors that can lie beneath the surface of a
friendship’
Waterstone’s Books Quarterly
‘Most definitely a cut above, [this] reaches dark places which other novels in the genre would steer well clear of, on the
way to a thought-provoking ending’
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
His Other Lover
What My Best Friend Did
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-7481-2601-9
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Lucy Dawson 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For Mum and Dad
Thanks to Sarah Ballard, Jo Dickinson, Rebecca Saunders, all at United Agents and Little, Brown, James and my family and friends
for their encouragement and support. I am very grateful to you all.
Thank you to those who offered me practical advice, in particular Patricia.
And finally thank you to DS for being the person who once told
me
the joke. Despite the trouble it’s caused.
As I fling the wet door of the car boot open, my fingers slip and one of my nails bends back, making me yelp and drop my overnight
bag. I grab the offending digit and examine it carefully for any signs of injury; it’s throbbing, the nail bed has gone a
bit white, and there’s a line where it
might
have snapped, but didn’t. Nevertheless, hot tears prickle my eyes … great … I’m not only late, but I’m going to cry too.
Brilliant.
I take a deep breath, blink furiously as I try to gather myself and then determinedly pick up the bag from the soggy drive.
Shoving it in the car, I slam the boot firmly shut and make my way round to the door. Once I’m in, have clipped my seat belt
on and adjusted my mirror so that my own eyes are staring back at me, I clock the violet shadows and the concealer already
starting to settle in the creases. I got very little sleep last night.
Last night. I remember my husband, looking at me incredulously across the bed, stunned by what I had just said.
I twist the key in the ignition, trying to ignore the rush of shame that accompanies the memory. Jerking my head round – as
if I’m trying to jolt the picture out of my mind – I look over my shoulder and start to reverse sharply. I
wanted
to say sorry to him this morning. I was going to – I would have said it last night except he insisted on sleeping downstairs.
And anyway, how am I supposed to apologise if he’s just going to bang out to work like that? How does that help anything?
I slam on the brakes, just shy of hitting the bank behind me, and crunch the gears into first before lifting my foot up too
crossly, lurching inelegantly out of the drive and on to the road. I love Dan more than anything, but being curt when he could
see I was trying to make it up to him, deliberately not kissing me goodbye? OK, he’s not usually like that at all, which means
he is
really
angry … and hurt … but still – it was a mean thing to do.
Leaning forward I switch the radio on and mutinously put my foot down in anticipation of the speed bump that Dan always tells
me I go over too fast. It gives me a brief moment of satisfaction to fly over it in the manner of Daisy Duke, but I can’t
help wincing at the God-awful noise the suspension makes when I land; that actually doesn’t sound good. I tense up and listen,
worried that the bottom
of the car is now about to drop off – just to cap it all – but nothing happens, and by the time I pull up at the red traffic
lights, my anger has begun to dissipate and I’m not gripping the steering wheel quite so tightly. In fact I feel suddenly
tired and very sad that for the first time ever, we’ve had a barney that has lasted into another day.
I should have just kept my mouth shut. I’d be angry with me if I were him; I like to think I wouldn’t have slammed out of
the house like
he
did, but I can see why he’s outraged.
‘You didn’t just say that?’ I hear the echo of his disbelief. ‘But I’m your
husband
!’
I get another stab of remorse, staring unseeingly at the brake lights of the car in front of me while we all wait for green.
The sound of Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ fills the car and I begin to listen to the lyrics attentively. I can identify with
every single word.
Well, except there’s no morning sun – it’s a day that could do with wringing out if anything, commuters are scurrying towards
Brighton station, with cold hunched shoulders as they hurry past, but yes – why
did
I behave that way, saying things I didn’t mean to say? I swallow hard. I know Dan doesn’t realise it, but oddly, last night
DID happen because of how much I love him and in some ways, maybe this is a good thing: we don’t normally hold things back
from one another, he and I are usually very good at saying how we feel. Now at least we both know we have a problem, and we’ll
be able to do something about it.
I exhale worriedly. The trouble is … the trouble is how do I tell my husband that I have realised I’m scared of doing something
everyone else seems to find second nature? That yes – I wish someone WOULD tell me how to feel, because I am genuinely, honestly
confused.
I did not see this coming. I really didn’t. You think when you’re younger that you will grow up, fall in love, get married
and have children – simple as that. It’s what pretty much everyone does, it’s certainly what I thought I’d do, and yet last
night I accused my husband – one of the kindest, most honourable people I have ever met – of trying to trick me into getting
pregnant.
And the worst thing is, it wasn’t the alleged duplicity I was particularly worried about, it was simply the very real prospect
of being pregnant that freaked me out. I wasn’t happy but nervous, or excited and scared … just plain and simple, grade A,
no lies terrified at the thought of actually
having a baby
. And I mean all of it; the no turning back, the pregnant bit, giving birth, being responsible for a small person for ever
– end of life as I otherwise know it. Yet up until now, it is something which I have always assumed I would do and – more
importantly – would want.
HOW can I not ever have properly thought about this – just assumed it would work somehow? Dan by comparison was so excited;
busily talking about new adventures, next stages … What if – and seemingly overnight – my husband and I have become completely
incompatible?
My eyes widen with fear at the thought of actually being without Dan – and panicking, I fumble for my phone.
I’m just going to ring him now, ring him and say I’m sorry unreservedly. Because whatever my own feelings about this, I shouldn’t
have accused him of doing something so underhand, no wonder he—
But before I can dial, an angry honk behind me tells me that the lights have finally changed and everyone wants to GO! I pull
away, dropping my bag back down on the seat as a caffeinated DJ crashes in over the remainder of the song and begins to blather
on about roadworks in a city centre I am nowhere near.
And just like that, I miss my window without even realising it.
I will look back on this moment.
I will remember nearly calling my husband and saying sorry and I will wish with all my heart that I had taken my chance while
I had it.
It would have changed everything.
It might even have saved a life.
I don’t want to go to this sales conference in Windsor today. And I shouldn’t be staying away tonight either. I need to be
coming home to Dan, not doing small talk with my colleagues at the hotel bar, before cautiously inspecting the sheets of a
bed that will smell faintly of the cigarettes people used to be allowed to smoke in it.
Chewing on one of my nails, I picture sitting down in our kitchen instead and talking things through with Dan, explaining
my unexpected worries and fears, which is what I should have done last night instead of having my completely crazy moment
… but in my defence, the last couple of days haven’t exactly been easy.
Not that I’m trying to make excuses for my behaviour; but I do HATE the way you can be having a really nice time of it one
minute – genuinely happy with your
lot and wouldn’t change a thing – and then the next moment it’s as if some malign force has noticed you skipping around minding
your own business and pointed a finger at earth, blasting down a beam that messes everything up completely, apparently just
for the hell of it.
Saturday was when everything started to swing out of kilter. I had been having one of those random, relaxed lunches with Joss
and Bec in town, where the only rush is one of occasional spontaneous warmth that makes you say happily to the others ‘this
is
nice
, isn’t it?’ at which they smile back understandingly and say ‘very’.
We chatted about this, that and absolutely nothing – the way you can when you’ve all known each other for ever. We were simply
enjoying each other’s company and, if truth be told, eating quite a bit more than we probably should have been; the rapidly
impending Christmas party season was already going to necessitate industrial Spanx. I was secretly undoing my top button under
the table when Joss sat back contentedly and patted her still somehow flat tummy, which, unfairly, wasn’t even vaguely straining
at the waistband of her jeans.
‘How do you do that?’ Bec said enviously. ‘How do you
eat
that much and still be so skinny malinky?’
‘Worms?’ Joss shrugged.
Bec smiled indulgently. ‘Do you think it’s because you’re taller?’ she said after a moment’s consideration. ‘Tall people really
have to go some before they look properly porky, don’t they?’