Charlotte Rixon - The One That Got Away

the

one

that

got

away

the

one

that

got

away

CHARLOTTE RIXON

www.headofzeus.com

Please be aware that this book contains themes readers might find upsetting, including references to self harm, sexual violence and child abuse.

First published in the United Kingdom in 2023 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Copyright Charlotte Rixon, 2023

The moral right of Charlotte Rixon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Epigraph quote from Daphne du Mauriers Rebecca reproduced with permission of Curtis Brown Ltd, London, on behalf of The Chichester Partnership.
Copyright 1938 The Chichester Partnership.

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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (HB): 9781803289984
ISBN (XTPB): 9781803289991
ISBN (E): 9781803289960

Head of Zeus

First Floor East

58 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

WWW . HEADOFZEUS . COM

For anyone who ever looked back and wondered: what if?

I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say. They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word.

Daphne du Maurier | Rebecca

Its a hotter day than anyone anticipated for April and hes sweating, but not just because of the heat.

The backpack, so carefully laden with its components just a few hours ago, is sticky against his back. Hes wary of the crowds jostling him as he strides towards the stadium. He has been here so many times before, he knows the place as intimately as he knows his own home.

Today he has feigned illness and, for the first time in years, missed the game.

They are spilling out now, a swarm of ants in red and white striped vests, buoyed by their unexpected win; 32 at home to a worthy opponent. Collective euphoria electrifies the air.

Its a sickness. An epidemic. And soon theyll be cured of it.

His face burns red with the effort, the weight of the bag, the internal countdown in his mind.

Not too much longer. Seconds, literally seconds before it will all end.

His heart is hammering; he realises he has been holding his breath. A hand flies to his forehead as if to steady himself, and the sea of people mostly men, mostly three pints or more down coming towards him, those red and white worker bees, starts to blur and merge. Homogenous people, almost indistinguishable from one another: 52,000 of them. Its impossible to see them as anything but one mass, a moving entity. Nothing individual about them at all.

Collateral damage.

But then, one stands out to him; a girl, no more than six, held high on her fathers shoulders, waving a scarf. Hair in bunches. Grinning from ear to ear.

Its almost too much. He sucks air into his lungs, turns away, head down, keeps walking. Bigger strides, to put distance between himself and the girl.

He mustnt think of them as individuals.

The stadium is just a few feet away now. Security on the doors, making sure everyone gets out safely. This is the side where the VIPs go after the game. He knows hell be in there, celebrating.

He has planned it all so carefully.

His fingers fumble for the detonator. He says a short prayer to no one in particular that he has got it right.

And then: a seconds pause.

He looks down at his free hand, turning it over and marvelling at his skin. The lines across his palm. The blue-green of his veins.

Someone bumps against his shoulder as they pass. He is at the entrance now. As close as its possible to get.

Its time.

In the end, its no more difficult than letting go of the string of a balloon.

He presses the button, and then he is gone.

The woman next to her in the ladies loo is staring down at the row of handbasins in confusion.

Its on a sensor, Clara says, smiling. Just wave your hands underneath, see?

She flicks her own hand back and forth underneath the tap spout until the water begins to spurt. For some reason, its too hot always has been but theres no way to control the temperature.

Thank you, says the woman. And the soap?

Clara gestures to the underside of the mirrored wall in front of them.

Under here, she says. Also automated. And the hand towels are here too. Not automated.

The woman smiles at her again. She looks familiar, but Clara cant think why.

First day? Clara says. Shes been away from her desk for more than fifteen minutes now, but sod it. Its a Saturday afternoon. Slow news day.

Im freelance, the woman says, holding out her hand. Holiday cover. Im a sub. Nice to meet you. Im Natasha.

Clara, Clara says, shaking her hand. Im

Theres a beat, where she remembers that shes not the social media editor any more. Not since she gave it up to go part-time, to focus on her novel after she was signed by a literary agent.

I work in the Audience team.

Oh wow, Natasha says. That must be interesting.

God no, its duller than dull , Clara thinks, but instead of saying so narrows her eyes to examine this Natasha, her deep brown eyes and neat frame. Where has she seen her before? Clara wonders how old she is. Impossible to tell.

I love your ring, Natasha says, and Clara realises she has let the silence stretch for too long.

Oh, she says, bringing her hand up slightly towards her chest. The large purple sapphire sparkles under the soft toilet lighting. Thanks. Ive always thought it was a bit big, to be honest. My husbands a jeweller.

Its amazing, Natasha says, taking a step closer and peering down. The setting is so unusual.

Clara holds out her hand obligingly, moving her hand this way and that so Natasha can see all its various angles. She is well-practised at this now. The ring is beautiful but the stone is huge and heavy against her skinny, inadequate fingers, and every morning when she puts it on a phrase floats into her mind that she cant quite get rid of: Youre not wearing it, its wearing you.

How many carats?

Claras eyes widen. A bit bold of her. She looks at Natashas hands, but theres nothing on either ring finger, just a gold signet on her thumb.

Four, Clara says, embarrassed now. But sapphires are heavier than diamonds, so its not as impressive as it sounds.

Its magnificent, Natasha says. Your husband must love you very much.

Its our tenth anniversary in a months time, Clara says, pointlessly. Ten years of this ring sitting heavy on her finger. Neither of them have planned anything. These days, its as though they live entirely separate lives.

Oh, goodness, well, I expect youll get an eternity ring to go alongside that then.

Perhaps.

I got divorced last year, Natasha says. She looks down at her own naked left hand. Sometimes I think I miss my ring more than I miss my ex.

The laugh that follows sounds forced. Almost a sob.

Clara doesnt want to tell her the truth; that she thinks engagement rings are patriarchal relics, and that if it werent for Thoms job, she wouldnt even wear one.