**Diary Entry**
Of course, he remembered everything perfectly.
“I dont recall because it never happened!” said Redford seriously, looking at her with his honest, old-man eyes.
The conversation fizzled out awkwardly, and they went their separate ways.
*Why did he lie?* thought Grace. *It was so obvious in his eyes!*
“Want me to be your Peter?” eleven-year-old Tommy Redford asked his crush, Grace Holloway, in class.
“Peter who?” She frowned.
“You knowlike the story? The Snow Queen enchanted him, and Grace saved him!”
“Grace? Its *Gerda* who saves him!” Grace scoffed. “Honestly, have you even *read* Andersen?”
“Whats the differenceGrace, Gerda?” Tommy waved it off, never one to fuss over details. “Im askingdo you want me to be your Peter?”
She didnt. Tommy was all ears and elbows, scrawny and shorter than her. Though, admittedly, thatd make saving him easier.
But *she* was sturdy, half a head tallerhow would they even walk together after a daring rescue? Too embarrassing.
Besides, her heart belonged to someone elsethe class dunce, Mickey Pudding.
Speaking of, Mickey was standing nearby, listening intently to their exchange.
Grace adjusted her hair ribbon and, loud enough for Mickey to hear, sneered, “Oh please, Peter! You wouldnt even make a decent reindeer! So, Peter, scram!”
Mickey burst out laughing. Tommy flinched, shot him a nervous glance, and bolted. The next day, in front of everyone, he called her “Gracie-Gravy” and vowed, *Ill get you backjust you wait!*
Well, what did she expect, Holloway? No man takes rejection lightly.
Scrawny Tommy had brains, thoughenough to make up for what he lacked in brawn.
But yesterday, blindsided by her slap-down, he froze. Anyone wouldve.
Soon, the whole class was howling”Gracie-Gravy” was hilarious! Even if they didnt have the word *cool* back then.
Naturally, when Grace complained at home, her parents soothed her.
But one evening, her dad snapped while helping with algebrashe just *wouldnt* grasp the basics.
“Honestly,” he muttered, exasperated, “that Tommy of yours was rightyour heads full of gravy!”
He added, “Say hello to him for me.”
Tommy was to blame for *this*, tooher father had never spoken to her like that before.
By graduation, the drama had fadedchildhood grudges forgotten. They even danced together once or twice. Tommy had shot up, filling out nicely from sports.
Mickey got booted to vocational schoolstrict rules back then. Long-distance love fizzled. Sorry, Mickey.
After school, their paths divergedGrace went into teaching, Tommy to university.
Theyd bump into each other occasionally, exchanging brief pleasantries.
Life scattered them furthermarriages, moves. Their rare reunions happened only when visiting parents.
Class reunions? Best avoidedtoo depressing.
Years turned boys into balding, beer-bellied blokes and girls into portly, opinionated women. Grace was no exception.
Never slender, shed grown *monumental*a living, breathing Britannia statue. *Step too close, and Ill flatten you.*
Tommy, though, defied timestill lean, as if preserved since graduation.
By forty-five, Grace Holloway was a deputy headteacher. Tom Redford, an engineerstandard middle-class lives.
Then the 90s hit. Graces daughter, Zoe, brought home a jobless fiancé*Were having a baby!*
The factory where hed weldedgood wages, state perksgot repurposed into a seminar hall. *Personal growth training*because apparently, people couldnt grow on their own.
Welding jobs vanished overnight. Who needed welders now?
“Try selling coats at the market,” they said. “Well train you first!”
Yuri refused*Im a certified welder! Whats next, flogging trainers?*
Pregnant Zoe stayed home. Now they were both jobless.
Grace and her engineer husband scrambledshe imported coats from Greece (*so much for education!*), he became a courier (*so much for respect!*).
By the decades end, things stabiliseduntil the crash.
Luckily, Grace had stashed dollars. Overnight, they went from broke to affording a two-bed flat.
They fixed it up, moved Zoes family in, and Grace returned to teaching*hard-nosed battle-axes like me are always needed.*
Tommy? Rarely seen.
At sixty, Graces husband left. “You smothered me,” he said. *Thanks, self-help gurus.*
Sixty-five was the *new active age*apparently.
Worse, he left for *nowhere*a friends spare room in a shared flat.
Zoe lived independently now. Grace was alone.
Work didnt fill the voidcolleagues werent friends.
Her granddaughter visitedheadphones in, phone glued to hand. Conversations went nowhere.
By seventy, Grace retiredtoo frail for schoolyard troublemakers.
Her world shrank to her flat.
Sometimes, shed spot ageing Tommy in the courtyardboth back in childhood homes, parents long gone.
Tommy was alone, toowidowed. Theyd chat, reminiscing.
That day, they bumped into each other outside the shop and wandered off to talk.
The conversation meanderedsimple, happy childhood memories. Back when everything was sunny.
“Remember when you wanted to be my Peter?” Grace asked suddenly.
Theyd never mentioned it before.
“*Your* Peter?” Tommy frowned. “When was this?”
“Year Five, I think.”
He scoffed. “Me*Peter*? Are you daft, Holloway? Never happened! Look at these earsdo I *look* like Peter? And youcouldnt even climb a rope! More like a bandit than Gerda.”
“So you remember the rope but not Peter?” Grace arched a browdeputy head mode kicking in. “Selective memory? Thats a *fail*.”
“I dont remember because it *didnt* happen,” Tommy said firmly, his old eyes steady.
Maybe his mind had scrubbed the embarrassing bitsold age changes perspective.
*Mortifying then, humiliating now. If I dont recall it, it didnt happen. Take that, Holloway.*
The conversation died. They parted ways.
*Why lie?* Grace wondered. *His eyes gave him away.*
And Tom Redford? Of course he remembered. The first woman to reject himthat sticks.
*Serves you right, Gracie-Gravy.*
