Maybe Next Time


 
 
 Dedication
 To Ben—the Dan to my Emma
 
 
 Epigraph
 Be where you are; otherwise you will miss your life.
 Buddha
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Part 1
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Part 2
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Chapter 41
 Chapter 42
 Chapter 43
 Chapter 44
 Chapter 45
 Chapter 46
 Chapter 47
 Part 3
 Chapter 48
 Chapter 49
 Chapter 50
 Chapter 51
 Chapter 52
 Chapter 53
 Chapter 54
 Chapter 55
 Chapter 56
 Chapter 57
 Chapter 58
 Chapter 59
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Also by Cesca Major
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 Part 1
 
 
 1
 3rd December 2007
 Dear Emma,
 If it were up to me we’d celebrate our anniversary on the day of our first date. But of course, you want to mark it today. You love telling people this story.
 Did you know I actually spotted you first on that crammed tube? I remember seeing you in your black turtleneck, the now-familiar red lipstick, your raven hair tied up into that twisty thing you do. But I glanced away because a) I didn’t want to be Creepy Tube Guy and b) I was dressed as an extra in The Sound of Music.
 I was so aware of you as the tube rumbled on. Jules said something funny and you did this incredible soft laugh. I couldn’t help peeking up again. When you met my look, I remember the shock of feeling that ran down my spine.
 I tried to concentrate on something else, cursing work’s Fancy Dress Friday and feeling so wrong-footed in my lederhosen and Tyrolean hat. Not that I’d have been brave enough to do anything. And anyway I was sure you’d be with someone already. A man equally chic—who’d wear perfectly cut suits, speak three languages, be great with kids, love animals, and have a massive knob.
 But fate intervened when the train jerked and I stumbled, missing the pole with my hand. My Tyrolean hat fell off and rolled to a stop by your shiny, brown laced boots. I was gushing sorry and kneeling in front of you in lederhosen with Jules laughing and saying, “Guten tag,” when you gave me that first smile: pity obviously, because I was a man who couldn’t even stand normally in a tube. Your boyfriend would stand really straight and still in a tube.
 “It’s a nice hat.” The first words you said to me. Your voice was confident, smooth, and I found myself worrying if my hair was flat as I placed it back on my head. I’d never worried if my hair was flat before. Speak, man, I thought. Speak. I wished I’d plumped for something other than “Thanks”.
 I remember feeling sad I’d missed my chance, that my exit was two stops away and now I would leave and you’d disappear on the Central Line out of my life. I’d never know what you were like, whether this electric feeling I had was a real one. But then you looked across at me and asked if I knew any good German markets. If I could write one down. The woman two seats down from you smiled into her book.
 And I thought YES—I think this intriguing woman wants my number (or she thinks I’m actually German and genuinely wants to know about German markets). I felt flustered as I patted my pockets for my pen and my A6 notebook (and, no, I don’t think it’s that weird a thing to carry around—but I do wish Hattie hadn’t told you I used to record bird species in it. Thanks for that, sis). But I didn’t have it, only a pen, a 50p piece, a crumpled receipt, and my house keys.
 I smoothed out the back of the receipt from Boots and quickly scrawled my number. Then I went over it twice which I worried made me look a bit psycho but I thought I’d made the seven look like a one.
 The row of pastel-colored terraced houses that signaled we’d soon be slowing to a stop at my station flashed past the window behind you. I went a fraction too early, clumsily thrusting the Boots receipt in front of you. “If you want to go to a market,” I said. Your mouth broke into a smile and I felt a glow in my chest. I was about to return the smile when I froze, suddenly remembering the last time I’d been to Boots.
 But it was too late. You’d taken it. It was now in your hand. You were still smiling like it was a Good Thing. Jules was smiling like it was a Good Thing. The woman two seats down was smiling like it was a Good Thing.
 Holy shit.
 I wanted to snatch it straight back. Your purple nail varnish swam in front of me as I panicked. My mum had asked me to pick up some more Anusol for her piles. Oh my God. I’d written my number on the back of a receipt for Anusol.
 Numbness spread down my body as I wondered whether to say something about the Anusol, that it wasn’t for me.
 I was frantically casting about for something to say, anything to distract. Your boots. I’d liked your lace-up boots. THAT WAS WHAT I WANTED TO SAY, your BOOTS. I OBVIOUSLY DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY ALOUD “I LIKE YOUR BOOBS.”
 Oh God, the sheer fucking horror of that moment. The little widening of your eyes before I started stammering “YOUR BOOTS, YOUR BOOTS,” like I had shoe-based Tourette’s. I’d