I ran into my ex after thirty years—there she was, behind the till at a supermarket in Manchester. I placed my yoghurt, bacon, and cigarettes on the conveyor belt. The cashier quickly greeted me without even looking up, scanning the items and asking, “Is that everything?” She flicked her dyed fringe back in a gesture so familiar it hit me like a gut punch. I might have just walked away if I hadn’t glanced at her name badge: *Margaret Atherton.*
“Rita? Is that you?”
She finally raised her eyes to mine. “Yeah… Why? Oh my God—Alex?”
“That’s me. Never expected to bump into you like this.”
…Summer 1988. Rita and I are walking through London on a Sunday afternoon. She’s in a tiny black skirt, all sharp angles and restless energy. Rita had gorgeous legs, a slightly cheeky sway in her step, and this constant half-smile, like she was always about to slip right through my fingers. Wildly flirtatious, too—men turned to watch her pass by. I was torn between pride that she was with me and frustration that she wouldn’t even let me put an arm around her.
I told her I dreamed of becoming a journalist. Rita laughed. “Sounds boring. Me? I’m going to be a singer—no question.”
We were twenty. She was finishing at the Royal College of Music, piano, but summer break meant long nails painted cherry red. Those hands drove me mad.
“I’m starving!” she announced. “There—that café!”
I had exactly a tenner in my pocket—meant to last me the week, left by my mum before she went away. That café looked pricey, one of those fancy co-ops, but I played it cool: “Yeah, let’s go!” Inside, I was praying the tenner would cover it.
Rita ordered pizza and champagne. We drank. At that point, I didn’t care—I just wanted her to come back to mine. Then *Duran Duran* started playing, and Rita leapt up, dancing wildly, singing along: *”The reflex… is a lonely child…”* Every bloke in the place gaped at her, drinks forgotten.
The bill nearly cleaned me out, but Rita tossed a pound on the table. “Come on, let’s go! What’s next?”
We went back to my place. Best night of my life. A perfect, boozy blur, that song still ringing in my ears.
Three months later, autumn, she dumped me. “Look, I met this bloke—really cool. Plus, he says he can introduce me to someone at a recording studio. I’m gonna make an album. I’ve even got a title: *My Happiness.*”
“Stupid title,” I said.
Then I left. I wanted to scream. To hurt her. To drag her back to my bed. Twenty-year-old idiots feel everything too hard.
Thirty years had passed. *Thirty.* Now here was Rita, plump, tired, ringing up groceries.
“Still dreaming of being a singer?” I smirked.
She gave a tight little laugh. “We all wanted things once. But I read your pieces sometimes. You’re good.”
I left the shop. Funny thing—I *did* get my revenge, in a way. I didn’t take my change. A fiver, left there deliberately. But these days, a fiver won’t even buy a coffee, let alone champagne. The music’s gone quiet. Rita’s thick around the middle now, life reduced to barcodes and beeps.
Two days later, I went back—no real reason, just did.
She was there. Lit up when she saw me. “You still smoke? Come on!” She threw on her jacket, and we stepped outside.
“Listen,” she said, exhaling. “I was stupid back then. I’m sorry.”
“Rita, it doesn’t matter. Thirty years. I’m on my third marriage. Three kids.”
She grinned—just like she used to. “You pity me, don’t you? Poor old Rita, stuck on the till.”
“Not exactly—”
“I get it. But remember that album title? *My Happiness*? It wasn’t dumb. Happiness just… changes. I’ve been married twenty-five years now—Dave. Solid bloke. No ear for music, snores like a tractor, but he built us a conservatory. Our daughter’s twenty-two—older than I was back then. Lawyer. Got a little girl, my granddaughter. Also Rita. She’s two. I sing to her—badly! But she adores it. So I *am* a singer, in a way.”
I laughed. “You’re right. Absolutely right. And no, I don’t pity you.”
As she turned to leave, she called over her shoulder, “Oh, and Alex? I *am* a star. Just ask my granddaughter.”
