I shake my head. I’d completely forgotten about that night. The minute I met Daphne, it was like all these moments with Alice were just erased from my brain. But she’s right: there was a connection between us. I told her stuff that night that I’ve only ever gone on to tell Daphne.
I thought about kissing Alice so many times during that first term. What would have happened if I’d got up the nerve to do it? What would my life look like now?
She studies me closely for a second, and reaches into her bag for her cigarettes. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, as she lights one. ‘I’m not sure you should really care what your parents think about your life anyway. I mean: what do they know? I feel like mine have always wanted me to be someone I’m not.’
‘How d’you mean?’
She exhales a plume of smoke as she considers this. ‘Well, my dad’s OK. He’s a management consultant, so: boring. But my mum’s an artist. My sister’s a graphic designer. And they’ve always been like this little clique, the two of them. I think they were disappointed I wasn’t more … arty, like them. Maybe that’s what doing all those plays at uni was about. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t.’ She takes another drag. ‘I don’t know. I sometimes feel like they look down on me for wanting a proper career, a decent salary. I mean, I was so chuffed to get this job out here – it was a really big deal for me, this promotion. But my mum and dad don’t get what I do, so it was like they barely even noticed. My sister had just had a baby, and that sort of stole the limelight, somehow.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sorry. I’m the one sounding stupid now.’
‘No. Not at all. I get it.’
She looks up at me and laughs. ‘We both sound stupid, and we both get it.’
I grin. ‘We’re a perfect match.’
I’m not sure where that comment came from, and there’s a moment where it hangs awkwardly in the air between us. But then we catch each other’s eye and start laughing. I’m not even sure what we’re laughing about.
It all feels so good. So easy.
Is this why I’ve come back, then: to remember all this? Is Alice supposed to be my future? Should we have been together all along?
I watch as a new batch of passengers clamber onto the merry-go-round, and then I ask: ‘You don’t want any of that stuff, then? Marriage? Kids?’
‘I don’t know.’ For a second, she can’t quite meet my eye, and it’s like the eighteen-year-old Alice is back – all self-conscious and guarded. ‘Maybe I do want those things,’ she adds, ‘if I find the right person. But it’s not my priority at the moment. There are other things I want to do first.’ She ashes her cigarette and turns to me. ‘What about you? Do you want kids and stuff?’
‘I thought I did,’ I say. ‘But now … I’m not sure.’
Daff and I were actually going to start trying for kids a few years back. It was soon after we got married, just after she turned thirty. Even though my career was still stop-starting, it seemed like the right time. And back then, it was something we both definitely wanted. We would text each other horrifying Face Swap mash-ups of ourselves accompanied by This is what our kids will look like haha messages. We even sketched out a date that Daff might come off the pill.
But then … Well, then Mum died and everything went dark. And the conversation never properly reignited after that, despite the fact that all our mates seemed to be starting families around us.
It became this weird unspoken thing between us. We’d go and visit friends with their new babies, and even though I oohed and aahed in all the right places, I honestly felt … nothing. Which was scary, because I used to genuinely love the idea of being a dad. I would even experience something close to broodiness whenever I passed a smiling young couple swinging a toddler between them in the park. It would send me spiralling straight into a daydream about Daff and me doing the same thing. But after Mum died, it was like something fused inside me. There didn’t seem to be any point to anything any more. All sense of excitement about the future just fizzled and burned out. I’d suddenly realised that the people you loved could just get torn away from you, at any moment, for no reason at all.
The worst thing was that Daff and I never talked about it. I could tell she didn’t want to pressure me – that she knew how much Mum’s death had messed me up. As the months dragged on though, I worried she was starting to resent me. That she wanted to find someone else, someone she could actually build a future with, but that she would feel too bad about leaving me. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, it would occur to me that she might never have children because she’d wasted her thirties with me.
That was the worst feeling in the world.
I look over at Alice, who doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact that I’ve zoned out of the conversation. She’s focusing all her attention on the cloud of grey smoke she’s just sent drifting into the air above us. I’m not sure why, but I feel the need to fill the silence, to vent the thoughts that are building up in my head. Thoughts I’ve never really vented before. I clear my throat, and say, ‘I guess when I was younger I liked the idea of having kids just because I wanted to prove that I wasn’t my dad, you know? That I had it in me to be a decent father. Or at least to make a better job of it than he did.’
Alice nods. I can feel my face getting red, and the words starting to thicken in my throat, but I keep going. ‘But the older I get, the more I think it’ll just be the same story over again. It really feels like I’ve inherited everything bad about him. He cheated on his wife and walked out. I’ll probably end up doing the same.’
I realise as soon as I say it how awful this sounds. But I genuinely believe it. Daphne and I weren’t technically together on this day originally, but still, I’ve never told her what happened. And back in reality – in 2020 – I have arranged to meet Alice for a drink behind Daff’s back. A drink that I know full well could turn into something more.
I am already following in my father’s footsteps.
Alice brings me back down to earth by asking: ‘Are you still with Daphne, then?’ She digs at the grass with her foot as she says it: a gesture that seems rehearsed in its attempt to convey nonchalance. As if asking this question is no big deal.
I try to swallow, but my throat suddenly feels very tight. ‘We’re … No. I guess not, at the moment. She’s in New York for her job.’
‘Oh. Right. OK.’ I can hear the forced breeziness in her voice. She stubs her cigarette out. ‘Well, at least we’re both in the same boat.’
‘What d’you mean?’
She shrugs. ‘I had a thing with a guy out here, but it ended a couple of months back.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘No, don’t be. I’m not sure about French men, in the end. Too short. I think I’d be better off with a British guy.’
She nudges my shoulder and smiles up at me. It’s a move that’s straight out of the first term at uni: flirty, but cushioned just enough that it could still be taken as a joke.
It doesn’t feel like one, though. I’m instantly transported back to Marek’s wedding: the two of us huddled together drunkenly at the dinner table. I know it’s pathetic, but it was so exciting to feel … wanted. To feel like someone fancied me. I haven’t felt that from Daphne in such a long time.