If Harry Met Sally Again

  IF HARRY MET SALLY AGAIN

  Annie Robertson

  Contents

  Title Page

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  ‘Shame no one came to our Halloween book group,’ I say to Astrid, while we wait for her bus outside Brixton Station. She’s dressed as Mrs Rochester from Jane Eyre, but all the grease paint in the world can’t hide the look of disappointment in her eyes.

  ‘Maybe we’ll have some takers next year.’

  ‘At least we get to go home early,’ I say, trying to buoy her spirits; the success for the bookshop means everything to Astrid and tonight was definitely not a success. ‘You can be Jane Eyre to Aidan’s Mr Rochester!’

  She laughs and repositions my Sally Albright hat, a nod to my all-time favourite Nora Ephron film, When Harry Met Sally.

  ‘Maybe you and Will can role play Harry and Sally. Your costume is so adorable, how could he resist?’

  ‘It’s worth a shot,’ I say with an uncertain shrug. Astrid knows it been a while since Will and I did anything other than sleep in our bedroom, but still, I think, maybe…

  Her bus pulls up behind all the other double-deckers lining the side of Brixton Road.

  I give her a quick squeeze. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on in the morning.’

  She flashes me a smile and a wink. ‘Make sure you do!’

  With Astrid gone I walk up towards the crossing, past the market and the trainer stores, and on to the junction of Coldharbour Lane and the Ritzy Cinema. My stomach rumbles as I’m crossing so I pop into McDonald’s.

  In the bright light of the restaurant I suddenly feel a bit self-conscious in my Sally Albright outfit. Everyone else is either in puffa jackets and Nikes or dressed in outlandish costumes, which are clearly for Halloween, rather than my subtler attire. Staring up at the board, trying to decide what to have, I wonder if people think this is my usual choice of dress – the quirky, retro look. Not that I imagine anyone really cares; Brixton’s oddball population is higher than most.

  ‘What’s your order?’ asks the guy behind the counter, more quickly than I’d hoped.

  Unlike Sally, who had an unparalleled knack to order exactly what she wanted, I am unable to make even the most straightforward decision.

  I really can’t decide between chicken nuggets or a chicken burger but the queue behind me is growing exponentially longer and the cashier is giving me a look that tells me to order or beat it, so I blurt, ‘Chicken nuggets.’

  ‘Six or nine?’

  ‘Nine.’ I should have said six – nine is always too many – but he’s already tapped it on his screen, and I don’t like to ask him to change it.

  ‘Meal deal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Regular or large?’

  ‘Large.’

  ‘What drink would you like?’

  My eyes dart from side to side as I try to find the options. Unable to find them overhead I scan the machines behind him. Hot, cold, fizzy, still. The choices are endless, but I’ve no idea which are included in the deal, so I opt for water.

  He plonks a bottle of still water on the counter; I’d have preferred sparkling.

  ‘Any sauce?’

  Sally would know exactly which sauce to have ‘on the side’ but I can never remember what they have so, beginning to feel exhausted by the process, I shake my head and say, ‘No thanks’, even as I realise that some ketchup would be nice.

  Outside, with my badly ordered meal, the thought of being back in the warmth of the flat and the comfort of Will makes me quicken my step towards home. What will he be doing when I get back? Most likely sitting on the couch working on a deadline with a Mission: Impossible film on in the background.

  The thought of Mission: Impossible makes me smile; it reminds me of the night Will and I first met. Astrid had invited me along to Aidan’s flat for a movie night, and Will was Aidan’s new flatmate. I liked him the moment I saw him: tall and blond with piercing blue eyes, which glinted when he smiled.

  We got to know each other slowly, seeing each other every month or so, and we became friends, his dry sense of humour making me laugh endlessly. And then one night at the boys’ flat, we all had too much to drink and we wound up kissing on the concrete balcony. Two years later we moved in together.

  It wasn’t a great fireworks romance, more a gradual blossoming into something strong and comforting. Because as much as I love Nora Ephron romcoms, and her romantic heroes, I don’t really believe in them. I’ve always been happy with the Sheldons of this world, the steady influence rather than the wild affairs. And in Will I definitely have steady. It’s an old cliché, but he’s my rock. Why would I want for more?

  ‘We closed the shop early,’ I call, hanging up my coat in the hall and placing my keys next to Will’s on the hook. ‘No takers for the Halloween book group.’

  Will doesn’t answer.

  ‘I guess everyone is too busy trick or treating. It looked like the “Thriller” video outside the station.’

  I listen for where he might be. There’s not much choice: kitchen/lounge, bedroom or bathroom, all of which lead off the coffin-sized hall of our rented Brixton flat. I don’t hear much, other than some scuffling and muttering from the bedroom.

  ‘Will?’

  I open the door.

  What I find hits me like a hurricane.

  Will is frantically buttoning up his jeans by the side of our small, divan bed, and a woman is pulling on a G-string.

  ‘Nina—’ he says, in that ‘holy shit’ tone of someone who’s just being caught.

  I stare, stunned, unable to form any words or thoughts. I try not to look at her, and she doesn’t look at me. The brim of my hat is suddenly too tight, and the collar of my blouse feels as if it’s strangling me.

  After the longest ten seconds of my life, I leave. I go to the bathroom and lock the door. Closing the wonky plastic loo seat, I sit on the toilet, listening to them gathering up her stuff. I place my head in my hands and tussle and tug at my wavy blonde hair, trying to block out their whispering, but still I hear Will tell her, ‘I’ll call.’ She says, ‘I’m sorry’ then leaves.

  I hear him in the hall listening for me, no doubt wondering how he’s going to manage this, because that’s what he does, he manages things. He’s organised and sensible and unflappable. He’s the yin to my yang.

  Blankly I stare at his towels hanging on the back of the door, his little shampoo and shower gel bottles neatly lined up on the bath, and a dull nausea rises in my stomach. I smear tears away with the heel of my hand.

  Resisting the urge to vomit, I get off the loo and gape into the mirro
r above the sink. My 1980s hairdo is now dishevelled, and the Sally Albright make-up has run down my cheeks. I look like one of the zombies outside the station. Scrubbing my face with cold water I tell myself, there must be some mistake. Breathe, Nina. This can’t be happening. It’s Will. Reliable, stable, trustworthy Will. Everything will be fine.

  By my side of the bed, next to the window and clothes rail where she was standing, I take off my costume, and put on my pyjamas and cardigan – the one Will bought for me two Christmases ago – the one I always wear when I’m tired or in need of comfort. I try not to look at the bed with its twisted white sheet and my grandmother’s beautiful crochet blanket, hanging off it like an abandoned sweet wrapper. It stings that Will hasn’t even attempted to make it, to tidy his mess.

  In the kitchen he hands me a cup of tea – he’s made it in our Mr and Mrs mugs. I look at them and then at him, with eyes that say, you can’t be serious? He puts mine down on its own, on the beech work surface.

  ‘We met at the paper,’ he says, breaking the silence, as if this explanation might in some way nullify my feelings. It doesn’t. It only serves to make the situation real, to add more force to the impact.

  ‘How long?’ I fold my arms and perch against the back of the sofa, which sits where the laminate floor of the kitchen meets the worn grey carpet of the lounge. I genuinely can’t believe I’m asking. If it weren’t for the fact that I can feel myself shivering, I might actually think I’m dreaming.

  ‘How long has she worked at the paper?’ he asks, propped against the white MDF kitchen cabinets and taking a loud slurp of tea.

  Will has always used humour to deflect difficult situations, and usually he makes me laugh. But now, in this moment, his attempt at wit feels crass and insensitive.

  ‘How long have you been sleeping with her?’ I’d hoped my tone might convey detachment, that he might feel as if he’s as disposable to me as I appear to be to him, but instead my voice cracks, and I fight back tears.

  ‘Nina…’ He moves to the bay window and the hideous, rip-off Wassily chair, which the previous tenants left.

  ‘What, you can’t give me a ball park – a week, six months, a year?’

  ‘Not that long,’ he says, running his hands through his coarse blond hair, which has always grown upwards, like cress in an egg cup, rather than down.

  ‘Why?’ I slump onto the sofa and reach for the cushion with two appliquéd, felt lovebirds. It was a memento from a long weekend in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, back when we first moved in together, where Will and I scoured flea markets for bargains by day and drank red wine and ate steak by night. It feels like a lifetime ago. It occurs to me that maybe he wasn’t being faithful even then, but the idea of our entire relationship being a lie is so awful that I park the thought.

  Will still hasn’t replied; he’s just sitting, looking out into the dark.

  ‘I deserve an answer,’ I say, staring at the black, Victorian fireplace above which is Will’s ludicrously large telly.

  ‘I guess because we’ve been drifting apart.’

  Drifting apart? The phrase seems to echo off the walls. I turn it over in my mind several times, wondering how drifting apart could have escaped my attention. How could it be that I would only notice we had drifted apart when I found him in bed with another woman? Was that the symptom? Or was it the cause?

  ‘And you didn’t think that was something worth discussing before screwing someone else?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point.’

  It is then that I feel my hurt, my disbelief, morphing into anger.

  ‘You didn’t see the point in discussing our five-year relationship drifting apart?’

  He shifts his long, lean body around in the chair, unable to get comfy. It pleases me more than it should that he’s uncomfortable. ‘It seemed like a waste of time.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’re settled. In your mind this is enough – me, your job at the bookshop – I knew I couldn’t persuade you otherwise, so I didn’t try.’

  I mull over his words. ‘I’m not enough for you? Us isn’t good enough?’ My voice is small.

  ‘It’s not just about us, Nina. It’s about what we want as individuals. I’m not convinced we have the same drive, the same ambition. And ambition is important to me.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say, putting the cushion back and pull my cardigan tight around me, which I now realise is inside out. I pick at a stray thread on a seam.

  ‘You’re a talented writer but you don’t do anything with it, instead you choose to work in the bookshop,’ he says, softly, almost tactfully, which is surprising coming from a man I’ve just caught shagging another woman in our bed. I find myself questioning just how much I know him, how someone I believed to be kind and good-hearted, someone I thought I could marry, could ever do this, particularly to someone he was supposed to love. I wonder what that says about my judgement. ‘You have a degree in scriptwriting, you’ve had radio plays produced, and then you wrote that amazing sequel to When Harry Met Sally but never finished it. You rarely finish things, your indecision always gets in the way. I find that frustrating.’

  ‘I still don’t know the ending,’ I say, huffily. Will knows just how much not being able to finish that script bothers me. He knows that having that script made is my big dream. And he knows how much I depend on the bookshop for a regular income. I can’t believe he’s mentioning it now, kicking me when I’m already down. ‘I suppose she is entirely rooted in reality and finishes everything she starts.’

  ‘Carmen’s the opposite of you. She’s driven, ambitious, determined.’

  Carmen. CARMEN! Her name is like a knife being twisted in my gut.

  ‘She sounds impressive,’ I say, dryly, almost snide in my tone, unable to conceal the pain.

  He doesn’t respond.

  To stop myself from crying again I focus hard on the autumn leaves below in the streetlight. They’ve turned to mush; clogged up the drains and are a dismal brown. In Ephron’s world the leaves would be crisp and bright, and perfect for kicking on sunny, autumn days. Nothing in life ever seems to come close to Nora’s vision of how the world might be.

  ‘Do you love her?’ I ask, a classic Ephron line.

  Immediately I wish I hadn’t asked. I don’t want to hear the answer but before I can take it back he says: ‘Yes.’

  I sit back down, looking at my toes; I wiggle them a little. The pale pink nail polish is chipped.

  ‘Don’t you love me any more?’ My voice is barely audible.

  Looking up I find his piercing blue eyes – a colour so intense they still sometimes take me by surprise – fixed on mine.

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ He pauses, looks down, and I wonder for the first time if he feels he’s made a mistake, that he might take it all back if he could. ‘What I do know is, the passion isn’t there any more, I mean, come on, Nina, you must have realised something was up – when did we last have sex, for Christ’s sake?’

  I shake my head, not wanting to think about it, not wanting to remember that I’d been thinking about it earlier, of coming home and playing the seductress.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if the passion ever was there. But with Carmen—’

  ‘Spare me the details,’ I spit, enraged that he isn’t sensitive enough to realise this is more than I can bear to hear.

  ‘Sorry.’ He is quiet for a time. ‘I just don’t know why you’d settle for me when the passion has gone. Someone perfect is out there for you. Someone better than me.’

  What I want to say but don’t is, ‘Until half an hour ago I thought you were perfect for me. How can you possibly expect me to believe that there is someone else out there?’ The tears that I’ve been holding back begin to flow. Will doesn’t attempt to comfort me. For the first time it feels real: Nina and Will are over.

  We sit in an all-consuming silence. I’ve no idea what he’s thinking, I can barely fathom my own thoughts. Mostly I want to scream or curl up in a ball
for a very long time.

  After a while I ask, ‘When did you figure all of this out?’ I don’t know why I’m asking, nothing he says can make me feel any better.

  ‘I guess over the last couple of years.’

  Years? I want to blurt. Did I hear him correctly? Is it possible to have been living with someone for three years and to have not known something was wrong for two of them? All those times standing round bonfires sharing candyfloss; Christmases spent on the phone; last-minute weekends away; birthday meals at the flat with friends hanging out of our bedroom window listening to the seedy goings-on below. We were like the cast of Friends watching ‘Creepy Naked Guy’ but better. And Will and I were like Ross and Rachel, but we were better too, because we never broke up, we were the ‘for ever couple’; everyone took it for granted we’d get married and have kids. Nobody anticipated us breaking up. Nobody anticipated Will shagging Carmen!

  ‘Mum’s going to be devastated,’ I say, my head in my hands. ‘She thought us living together meant marriage and babies.’

  ‘You know how I feel about marriage.’ I don’t need him to finish the sentence; I’ve heard it a thousand times before, but he says it anyway. ‘Marriage ruins perfectly good relationships.’

  ‘Shagging someone else does a pretty good job of that too.’ The vindictiveness in my voice surprises me, but I don’t attempt to make amends.

  We sit, me thinking about what to say; Will probably thinking about what not to say.

  I’m about to say something along the lines of, ‘You’re a fucking bastard; get the hell out of my life’, but perhaps a little more nuanced when Will delivers his knockout blow.

  ‘Nina, I’d really like it if we could be friends.’

  2

  Will packed a holdall and left. I didn’t ask where he was going, I figured I knew the answer. After he’d gone I cried until I was sick and then at some point fell asleep, fully clothed, on the sofa. When I woke this morning, for a split second, I’d forgotten all about it, but then a surge of grief hit me with the force of a juggernaut, and the realisation came crashing back to me that my life has changed for ever. It was only the thought of being with Astrid that got me off the sofa, and into the shower.