**Personal Diary Entry**
I ran into my ex after thirty years—right at the checkout in a supermarket. I placed my items on the conveyor: a bottle of yoghurt, some ham, and a pack of cigarettes. The cashier greeted me quickly without even looking up, tapping away at the screen. “That all?” she asked, flipping her dyed fringe out of her face. That familiar gesture. I might have walked away unnoticed if I hadn’t glanced at her nametag, pinned to her blouse. *Margaret Avery.*
“Rita…?” I hesitated.
Finally, she lifted her eyes. “Yeah… what? Oh my—Alex? Is that you?”
“The very same. Never expected to bump into you like this.”
…Summer 1988. Rita and I walked through London on a Sunday afternoon. She wore a short black skirt, impossibly slender, her legs catching every glance. There was something effortless about her—slight sway in her step, that teasing little smile. Always just out of reach. Men turned to watch her; I swelled with pride and bristled with frustration because she wouldn’t even let me put an arm around her.
I told her I dreamed of becoming a journalist. Rita laughed. “Sounds dull. Me? I’m going to be a singer—that’s a sure thing.”
We were twenty. She’d just finished music college—piano. School was out for summer, though, so her nails were long, painted a bold red. Those hands, those nails—they drove me mad.
“I’m starving,” she announced suddenly. “That café—let’s go.”
I had a tenner in my pocket, meant to last me the week after Mum left it before her trip. That café looked pricey, some posh cooperative. Still, I played it cool: “Sure, let’s go!” Inside, I prayed the tenner would cover it.
Rita ordered pizza and champagne. We drank; I stopped caring about the bill as long as I could get her back to my place. Then *The Cure* came on the speakers. Rita jumped up, dancing wildly, singing *Just Like Heaven* under her breath. Every bloke in the room forgot his pint, staring. And Rita? She looked every inch the star.
The bill was cutting it close—until she tossed a fiver on the table. “This is on me. What’s next?”
Then, my flat. The longest, brightest night of my life. “Just Like Heaven” hummed in my head, drunk on her, drunk on possibility.
Three months later, autumn came. Rita dumped me.
“Listen,” she said, “I met this guy—really great, sorry. He says he knows someone at a recording studio. I’m making an album. I’ve even got the title—*My Happiness*.”
“Stupid name,” I shot back.
I walked away. Wanted to howl. Wanted revenge. Wanted her back for just one more night. The wild, foolish heart of a young man.
Thirty years. *Thirty years.* And here she was—Rita the cashier, broader now, softer.
“Still remember your singing dreams?” I teased.
She gave a tight smile. “We all wanted *something*… But I read your articles sometimes. You did well.”
I left the shop thinking of her. Revenge, after all this time? Maybe. I left without taking my change—a fiver, of all things. Not enough for champagne now, not like back then. The music faded. Rita got older. Life brought her here, to the beep of barcodes. A dull ache settled in my chest.
Two days later, I went back. No real reason.
She was there. Saw me, brightened.
“You still smoke? Come on.” She pulled on her coat, asked *Naomi* to cover the till. Outside, Rita lit up.
“Look,” she said, “I was an idiot back then. I’m sorry.”
“Rita, it doesn’t matter—thirty years. I’m on my third marriage. Three kids.”
And then she laughed—just like she used to.
“Wait—you *pity* me, don’t you?” she said. “‘Poor Rita, wanted to be famous, now weighs potatoes.’”
“Not exactly—”
“See? You do. Remember that album title? *My Happiness*? It wasn’t stupid. I’d still call it that.” She took a drag. “Happiness changes, you know? I’ve been married twenty-five years now—Dave. Solid bloke. No ear for music, snores like a train. But he’s brilliant—built our summer house, fixes anything. Our daughter’s twenty-two—can you believe, older than *we* were? Lawyer, sharp as a tack. Married, too. Little Rita—she’s my granddaughter. And I *love* being a nana. So no, I don’t *need* this job. But why not? Chatting to customers, saving a bit extra. I’m happy, Alex.”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “Better get back.”
“Rita.” I stopped her. “You’re right—bloody right. And I don’t pity you at all. It was good seeing you.”
At the door, she turned.
“Oh—and I *did* become a singer,” she called. “For my granddaughter. She *loves* my songs. So I *am* a star—just hers.”
And then she was gone.
