he sat with me for a while at the reception and let me talk on endlessly about Dad. At my twenty-first birthday party he sang a karaoke version of “Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” straight to me, while my heart fluttered like a manic butterfly and I thought, Yes, yes, this is it … But that night he went off with a girl called Tamara. Over the years I watched and secretly wept as he dated what seemed like every girl in West London and never looked my way.
Then, five years ago, he moved to L.A. to be a movie producer. An actual movie producer. You couldn’t pick a more glamorous or unattainable job. I’ve still got the business card he gave me before he left, with an abstract logo and an address on Wilshire Boulevard.
It would have been easier to forget him if he’d disappeared forever—but he didn’t. He flew back to London all the time and he always came to see Jake, in a blast of light and excitement. His wavy blond hair was permanently sun-bleached. He had endless stories of celebrities. He’d casually say “Tom,” and I’d think, Tom? Who does he mean, Tom? And then I’d suddenly realize he meant Tom Cruise and my heart would be gripped and I’d think, Oh my God, I know someone who knows Tom Cruise?
Meanwhile, I went out with other guys; of course I did. But Ryan was lodged in my heart. And then last year, a full sixteen years after I first met him, he arrived at Jake’s birthday drinks really drunk and unhappy—I never got the full story, but it was something about a studio executive playing him around.
I’m a good listener, so I let him slag off this guy and nodded and said sympathetic things. At last he ran out of steam, and I could see him looking at me. Like, really looking at me. As though he’d only just realized I was an actual grown-up woman. He said, “You know, I’ve always fancied you, Fixie. You’re so genuine. You’re so bloody refreshing.” Then he added, as though puzzled, “Why have we never got it together?”
My heart was hammering, but for once in my life I managed to play it cool. I just looked at him and left it a moment, and then said, “Well.”
And he gave me one of his lazy smiles, and said, “Well.”
Oh my God, it was amazing. We left about three minutes later. He took me back to the flat where he was staying and we spent the night fulfilling every teenage fantasy I’d ever had, and then some. My brain kept screaming, It’s happening! I’m with Ryan! It’s actually happening! For ten solid days I was in a trance of delight.
And then he went back to L.A.
I mean, of course he went back to L.A. What did I expect, that he was going to propose?
(I’m not going to answer that. Not even in my own head. Because I might give away my most pathetic fantasy of all: that we’d be one of those pairs of lovers who were “meant to be” all their lives and finally realized it and never left each other’s sides again.)
As he left for his flight that gray April morning, he kissed me with what looked like genuine regret and said, “You’ve been so good for me, Fixie.” As if I were a juice fast or a series of TED Talks.
I said, as lightly as I could, “I hope you come and see me again.” Which wasn’t quite true. I actually hoped he’d suddenly exclaim, “Now I realize the truth! Fixie my darling, I can’t live without you and I want you to get on this plane with me now.”
Anyway. Astonishingly enough, that didn’t happen.
Then I heard from Jake that he’d got a new girlfriend in L.A. called Ariana and they had rows all the time, but it was pretty serious. I looked at them on Facebook a few times. (OK, all the time.) I wrote casual, friendly texts to him, then deleted them. And all the while I pretended I was fine with it. To Mum, Jake, everybody. Because what other option did I have?
But it was all lies. I never reconciled myself to having lost him. I still secretly, crazily, hoped.
And now he’s back. The words are thudding through my head like a drumbeat—he’s back, he’s back—while I stand in Anna’s Accessories like a starstruck fourteen-year-old, frantically trying out hair clips. As though choosing exactly