“Hullo. We never did go to that cinema, did we?” he blurted out, all his carefully prepared lines vanishing like morning mist.
Oliver and Poppy sat on the embankment, dreaming of university flats and futures bright as new pennies.
“I’ll buy a proper motor, a real stunner. And we’ll make it, you’ll see,” Oliver said, skimming a stone across the Thames.
“Holidays in Cornwall or maybe abroad,” Poppy chimed in, watching the ripples fade. “But first, we’ve got to get through A-levels. God, I’m sick of revision already,” she added with a sigh.
“We’ll manage.” Oliver squeezed her shoulder.
It felt like no one had ever loved as they did, that nothing could ever pull them apart.
“Best get back. Mum’ll be worrying. And it’s brass monkeys out here.” Poppy stood and winced. Her new heels had rubbed her feet raw. She kicked them off and padded barefoot over the cool stone slabs.
“Fancy the pictures tomorrow? That new Nolan film’s on,” Oliver offered as they ambled home, chatting about nothing and everything.
“See you then,” Poppy said outside her terraced house, rising on tiptoes to peck his cheek before darting inside.
“So shall I get the tickets?” he called after her.
Poppy didn’t answer, just smiled from the doorway.
The city still drowsed, but the short June night had ended, dawn smudging the stars away. The first day of adulthood for two school-leavers.
Oliver crept into his flat, careful not to wake his mum, and fell into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow—a sleep full of certainty. That afternoon, he was beneath Poppy’s window. She peeked out, then came bounding down.
“Got the tickets,” Oliver said, waving them.
“Sorry, Ol, can’t. Mum’s sister’s here. She’s married some bloke from Berlin, left us her flat in Chelsea. We’re off tomorrow to sort it… I’m moving.”
“When’re you back?” Oliver asked, not quite grasping it.
“Dunno. Applying to unis there.”
“What about me? About us? We had plans—” His voice cracked.
“Ol, chances like this don’t come twice. It’s not Mars—you can visit. Or apply to London unis too!” Her eyes lit up. “Come with me?”
“And live where? What’ll your parents say? I haven’t got some rich aunt handing me flats. How d’I tell Mum? She’s on her own—”
“We’ll figure it out,” Poppy said airily.
“When’re you leaving?” His voice was flat.
“Tomorrow morning. Still packing. It’s all so sudden… Ol, they won’t let me stay. If you love me, you’ll find a way.”
“And if you love me—” Oliver broke off, turned on his heel, and ran.
Poppy called after him, but he didn’t look back. Only when she was out of sight did he slow to a trudge, heart howling worse than a winter gale. *Poppy’ll forget me. New friends, new life… Who am I? Just some bloke from Norwich.*
“Sod it. Go, then. I’ll manage. I’ll show you,” he muttered all the way home.
For two days, he lay facedown on his bed. His mum nearly called 111, thinking he was ill.
“You ought to revise, Oliver. Lie about like this, and you’ll end up in some dead-end job. Then Poppy really won’t look twice.”
That snapped him awake. He forced himself to study—but saw only Poppy. Between chapters, he punished himself on the pull-up bar, sweating her out of his mind. He’d achieve everything they’d dreamed of. Then he’d find her in London and… But first, uni.
He got in—his mum wept with pride. Every post, he hoped for a letter. He’d have written, but hadn’t asked her address. Stupid, stupid. He’d sulked like a child, not even seen her off… Now, how to find one girl in a city of millions?
All through uni, he waited for word. In final year, recruiters circled like seagulls. Oliver signed with a new tech firm in Surrey—closer to Poppy, maybe.
Mum blessed it. Six months in, they gave him a flat. A year later, he married Lucy from Accounts—grinning, brown-eyed Lucy. They had a daughter: Margot.
“Hate that name. Sounds posh and old,” Lucy pouted.
“Posh is good. Timeless. Margot—it sings,” Oliver insisted.
Ten years on, Oliver was deputy director. A big house in the Cotswolds, a Jag. Mum sold her flat to help, moved in.
Business took him to Shanghai, Rome, Berlin…
Then Poppy haunted his dreams. On the embankment, the Thames rushed behind her. *We never did go to that cinema,* she murmured.
The older the memory grew, the less he thought of her—until that dream. After, he couldn’t stop wondering: Where was she? Married, probably. That thought he forbade. Yet he longed to flaunt his success—success earned *without* her.
One lunch break, he searched her name + “London.” Hundreds of Poppys grinned back. Only when he added “Norwich” did he find her.
He devoured the photos. Poppy by a mansion pool, laughing with a Rottweiler, holding a boy’s hand…
Her bio was sparse: *Berlin, divorced, one son.* Unpronounceable town. *Her lucky chance,* he thought bitterly. She’d outdone their dreams. So had he. So why this hollow ache?
He messaged: *Stumbled on your profile, chuffed life’s treating you well…* No reply. Then he noticed she’d last logged in two years prior.
For weeks, he gnawed on it. Then it hit him like a Tube train—she’d made that profile *for him.* Listed Norwich so he’d find her. She’d been searching too. The thought warmed him absurdly.
He rang an old mate in the Met, begged for Poppy’s parents’ address.
“Chelsea? Having a laugh?”
“Please. They didn’t vanish.”
“Could be in Berlin with her. Alright, for old times’ sake.”
Days later, the mate called back: “Sold the flat two years after moving. Dad’s passport details are here—”
Lately, Oliver was always on his laptop. Lucy grew suspicious. One evening, she confronted him:
“How long’ve you been cheating on me?”
“*What?* How could you—”
“Who’s this?” She jabbed at Poppy’s photo.
“Just an old schoolmate. Found her online.” His conscience was clear, yet he felt caught.
“Just,” Lucy echoed. “Mum said you had some schoolyard romance. Still hung up? Is that why you named her Margot?” Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled. “All these years—the house, the car, the promotions. You wanted *her* to see. Wanted her to regret it.”
Oliver flushed with shame.
Lucy went on: “But you can’t rewind. You’re chasing a girl who doesn’t exist anymore. She’s got her own life, probably doesn’t want to chuck it for some midlife do-over.”
She took a shaky breath. “Know what? I almost wish you’d meet. Maybe then you’d see—it’s gone. Then you could *let* it go.”
Oliver assured her she was right—he *had* chased ghosts. But now, his love was for her and Margot.
Yet the address burned in his pocket. Months later, he cracked. In Chelsea, Poppy’s mum didn’t recognise him.
“Mum, who is it?” Poppy’s voice—then she appeared.
“Oliver?” Shock, joy, confusion tangled in her tone.
Pale, thinner, changed—but Poppy.
“Hullo. We never did go to that cinema,” he said, all planned speeches forgotten.
“What cinema?” But her eyes said she knew.
“After prom. I bought tickets, but you left for Chelsea. Why didn’t you write? I was a prat, didn’t even say goodbye… Found your profile. Visiting your parents?”
Poppy just stared.
Over tea, she admitted: divorced, broke, ex took their son.
“Mum and Dad wired train fare. So here I am.”
Oliver took in her wan face, the peeling wallpaper, scuffed floors. She knew what he saw—shame flushed her cheeks.
“Remember how we planned to travel after uni? I did it.”
Poppy bit her lip.
“Good job, wife, kid, Jag. I’d trade it all to go back. To that day you stood me up.”
“What would you do?”
“Not let you go. At least got your number. Pop, we loved each other—”
“Can’t undoHe walked away from her doorstep, the weight of twenty years lifting with each step, knowing home wasn’t in the past but with Lucy and Margot, who were waiting for him with the kettle on.
