So I ran into my ex after thirty years—just at a corner shop, at the checkout. I was putting down my yogurt, some bacon, and a pack of cigarettes. The cashier quickly says, “That everything?” without even looking up, then flicks her dyed fringe back. Such a familiar little gesture. I would’ve just walked off, but something made me glance at her name badge. Margaret Atherton.
“Rita… is that you?”
She finally lifts her head. “Yeah… why? Oh my God—Alex?”
“That’s me. Never expected to bump into you like this.”
…Summer of 1988. Me and Rita strolling through London on a Sunday. She’s in a tight black mini skirt, all skinny legs and effortless swagger—Rita had these gorgeous legs, this careless walk, and this grin like she was always one step ahead. She’d slip away if I tried to hold her hand. Couldn’t help it—she was magnetic. Men turned their heads everywhere we went. Part of me loved it, showing her off. The other part hated that she wouldn’t even let me put an arm round her.
I’m telling her how I wanna be a journalist. Rita just laughs. “Sounds dead boring. Me? I’m gonna be a singer. That’s the dream.”
We’re twenty. Rita’s just finished at music college—classical piano. But it’s summer term break, so her nails are long, painted red. Those hands drove me mad.
“I’m starving,” she announces. “There’s a café.”
I’ve got a tenner in my pocket—meant to last me the week, my mum’s parting gift before she left town. This place looks pricey, probably some artisan spot. But I play it cool: “Yeah, let’s go!” Inside, I’m praying the tenner covers it.
Rita orders pizza and champagne. We drink, and by then, I don’t care—just wanna get her back to my place. Then this Spandau Ballet song comes on. Rita’s up in a flash, dancing like no one’s watching, all fire and energy. Every bloke in there’s staring, forgetting their pints. She’s even singing along: “*Gold… always believe in your soul…*” Like she’s already on stage.
The bill comes—I’m a quid short. Rita tosses a coin on the table. “Sod it, we’re outta here. What’s next?”
We went back to mine. Best bloody night of my life. “Gold” ringing in my head, all warm and fuzzy.
Three months later, autumn hits—she dumps me. “Listen, I met this bloke. Really clever, sorry. Says he knows someone at a recording studio. I’m gonna make an album—call it *My Happiness*.”
“Stupid name,” I say.
Then I walk off. Wanted to howl. Wanted to ruin her. Wanted to drag her back to my bed. Just a idiot kid drowning in feelings.
Now—thirty years later. Bloody hell, thirty years. And there Rita is, behind the till, grown softer round the edges.
“Still remember you wanted to be a singer?” I grin.
Rita gives a tight little laugh. “We all wanted something. But you did it—became a journalist. I read your stuff sometimes. You’re good.”
I walk out. Thinking about her. Funny—I got my revenge, in a way, thirty years late. Left the change on purpose. Four quid. Not enough for a coffee now, let alone champagne. The music’s gone, Rita’s got thicker, her life’s wrapped up in barcode beeps. Sad, innit?
Couple days later, I go back. Don’t even know why.
She’s there. Lights up when she sees me. “You still smoke? Come on—I’ll get Lucy to cover the till.”
We step outside. Rita pulls her coat tight. “Listen, I was rubbish to you. Sorry.”
“Rita, that was a lifetime ago. I’ve been married three times. Got three kids.”
She laughs—just like she used to. “Oh, I get it now. You feel sorry for me. Poor Rita, stuck on a till, weighing spuds, dream long dead.”
“Nah, it’s not—”
“You do. Remember that album title? *My Happiness*? Wasn’t stupid. I’d still call it that now. Just… happiness changes, you know? Been married twenty-five years to a good man, Dave. Solid bloke. No ear for music, snores like a train. But he fixes cars, built us a shed—can do anything. Got a daughter, twenty-two—older than I was back then. Studying law, proper sharp, nothing like me. She’s married, gave us a granddaughter—little Rita, nearly two. I’m a happy nan. This job? Don’t need it, Dave does alright. But why not, while the little one’s at nursery? I like the chat.” She checks her watch. “Right, gotta run.”
“Rita,” I say. “You’re right. Proper right. And I don’t feel sorry for you. Go on—good seeing you.”
At the door, she turns back. “Oh—and I did become a singer. Sing to my granddaughter. She loves it. So I’m a star. Just for her.”
