I ran into my ex after thirty years—just a checkout girl at the supermarket. I placed my yoghurt, bacon, and cigarettes on the conveyor belt. The cashier gave a quick “Hello, is that all?” without even glancing up, then flicked her dyed fringe away from her face. It was such a familiar gesture. I would’ve walked out without another thought if I hadn’t caught sight of her name tag pinned to her chest: *Margaret Avery*.
“Rita… is that you?”
Finally, she looked up.
“Yes… why? Good Lord—Alex?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Never expected to bump into you like this.”
…
Summer 1988. Rita and I are walking through London on a Sunday. She’s in a little black mini-skirt, slender, with killer legs and that slightly reckless sway in her step, always smirking. She always seemed just out of reach, and I was always trying to catch her. Rita was wildly sexy—every bloke turned to look. Part of me swelled with pride that she was mine; the other part burned because she wouldn’t even let me put an arm around her.
I told her I dreamed of being a journalist. She just laughed.
“Sounds dull. Me? I’m going to be a singer. That’s the life.”
We were twenty. Rita was finishing music college—piano, of course. But it was summer break, and her nails were long, painted a deep red. Those hands drove me mad.
“I’m starving,” she announced. “There’s a café!”
I had exactly a tenner in my pocket, meant to last me the week—my mum had slipped it to me before she left town. This café looked posh, the kind that would clean me out. But I played it cool: “Of course! Let’s go.” Inside, I was praying the tenner would cover it.
Rita ordered pizza and champagne. We drank, and by then, I didn’t care—I just wanted to take her back to my place. Then *Take That* came on the radio. Rita jumped up, dancing wild and passionate, all by herself. Every bloke at the bar forgot his pint, staring. She even sang along—*”Everything changes, but you…”*—like she was already the star she dreamed of being.
I nearly didn’t have enough, but Rita tossed a fiver onto the table without a second thought. “It’s fine! What now?”
We went back to mine. That was the longest, best night of my life. A marathon for two. *”Everything changes…”* hummed in my drunken, happy head.
Three months later, in autumn, she dumped me.
“Listen, I met someone else. Really cool bloke. And—he knows a guy at a recording studio. I’m cutting an album. I’ve even got a title—*’My Happiness.’*”
“Stupid name,” I said.
Then I walked away. I wanted to howl. I wanted revenge. And I wanted—more than anything—to drag her back to bed. All the fury of a stupid young man.
Now, thirty years later, there she was: Rita the cashier, heavier, older.
“You wanted to be a singer,” I said with a smirk.
She gave a tight little laugh. “We all wanted something. But I know you made it as a journalist. I read your pieces sometimes. Good on you.”
I left the shop thinking about her. In a way, after thirty years, I’d gotten my revenge—I didn’t take my change. A tenner. Funny, it was just enough back then for champagne and pizza. Now? Barely covers a pint. The music faded, Rita got plump, and here she is, ringing up groceries to the beep of a barcode scanner. Depressing.
A couple of days later, I went back to that supermarket. Hardly ever go there, but I did. No real reason.
She was there again. Recognised me, lit up. “You still smoke? Come on—I’ll ask Lucy to cover the till.”
Rita threw on her jacket, and we stepped outside. She took a drag.
“Look, I was awful back then. I’m sorry.”
“Rita, it doesn’t matter now. Thirty years. I’ve been married three times. Got three kids.”
She grinned—just like she used to.
“You pity me, don’t you? Poor old Rita, dreamt of stardom, ended up weighing potatoes.”
“Not exactly—”
“See, I know. You pity me. Remember my album title? *’My Happiness’*? It wasn’t stupid. I’d still call it that now. Thing is—happiness changes. I’ve been married twenty-five years to a great bloke, Dave. No, he’s not musical. Snores like a chainsaw. But he’s a brilliant mechanic, built us a fireplace at the cottage—he can fix anything. We’ve got a daughter, twenty-two, imagine that—older than I was then. She’s sharp, studying law. Nothing like me. Married already, and we’ve got a granddaughter—little Rita, eighteen months. Best nana ever. My life’s been bloody brilliant. This job? I don’t need it. Dave does alright. But why not earn a bit while the little one’s at nursery? I like people. You know that. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Rita,” I finally said. “You’re right. Dead right. And I don’t pity you at all. Go on—good seeing you.”
At the doors, she turned back.
“Oh—and I *did* become a singer. I sing to my granddaughter. She loves it. So I *am* a star. A real one. Just for her.”
