I try not to think about what happened, but the memory stays stubborn. My wife, Lydia, never presses the issue: You know I know, you know I know. She caught my bewildered stare, and that was enough for her a man wracked with guilt is easy to steer.
Lydia is sharp, the very picture of wisdom, and she has those deep green eyes that Id never seen before, nor have I seen since. One glance and youre drawn into that bottomless well.
I fell for Harriet the moment I saw her love at first sight, absolute and irrevocable. She arrived late to the lecture, slipping into the room after it had already begun, and then we discovered we were in the same tutorial group.
Never before had I felt the world shrink to a single point, everything else fading into the background. Yet Harriet paid me no heed. If only she had tossed me a fleeting, curious look, asked a question, cracked a joke anything. But none of that happened. Harriet Harper simply wasnt interested in Nicholas Stead, however decent-looking and fitting modern standards of male appeal I might be.
That was my first major disappointment. At school Id been the top lad in the village, never short of girls. Yet this felt different, something raw and new perhaps thats what true love feels like.
A small consolation was that Harriet didnt flirt with any of the lads in our cohort. If this ever happens, I often thought, I have no idea what Id do with it.
She began to warm up by the third year; my feelings for her stayed unchanged I still loved her. Then, as if spring had melted the ice, she started laughing at a classmates jokes, and my heart lifted.
When we rode home together on the underground, I imagined a whole narrative of our happy life together. I asked her out for a date, and she surprisingly said yes. Harriet realized she was also drawn to my spiky haircut, which reminded her of a cartoon character.
I treated her to a steaming cup of coffee the song The Beat Goes On was on every radio, even in the kettles hum. We had a wonderful afternoon and ended up kissing; my dream was finally taking shape.
By the end of the third year we were a couple, and at the start of the next academic year Harriet discovered she was pregnant. It happens, they say. She found out on her birthday, 9June, when my parents were away at their cottage. In the heat of the moment we neglected contraception, assuming wed get away with it.
But we didnt. Harriet soon realised shed received a royalsized surprise. We spent the holidays with our own families; not everyone owned a mobile then, so young father Nicholas only learned the news after a trip down south in late August. Harriet was nervous two and a half, almost three months along, and we had decisions to make.
I, too, was at a loss. What should we do? Marriage felt premature I was still a youngster, and my own parents wouldnt be thrilled. An abortion required money and, of course, Harriets consent. She seemed ready to accept any outcome, like a character from a film who says, Do whatever, just get it done!
I promised to act, and I did though the result shocked everyone, myself included. I didnt turn up for lectures on the first day of term, having fled in a cowardly hurry. If anyone had told me such a turn of events could happen, I would never have believed them.
I had taken some paperwork and vanished to another university, leaving Harriet to face her dilemma alone. Our classmates wondered where Id gone; I didnt call anyone, and my parents claimed Id moved into a flat without a phone line.
In short, Harriet was erased from my life. The fear of losing freedom outweighed any lofty, pure love I might have felt.
Years later Im happily married, my son now twentytwo. I never learned what became of my former love; she passed away, and I never discovered her fate. Over the years my conscience has gnawed at me. Perhaps I acted too harshly? After all, I loved Harriet, and I would have loved the child she carried.
My wife, Lydia, is a wise woman. She never says, I know everything, you shameful man! She understands that people need secrets, especially those tied to dark deeds one prefers not to recall. She hints that shes aware, enough to keep my image as a respectable husband intact. Exposing the truth would have torn our marriage apart, especially since it all predated her.
One Saturday, my brotherinlaw Serge announced he was bringing a girl home: Svetlana and I are getting married! Though their son was still a teenager, his parents didnt object; hed been living independently in a flat his grandmother had gifted him and was financially selfsufficient.
When I opened the door for the boy and his date that Saturday, my heart stopped. There, on the doorstep, stood Harriet or rather, a perfect replica of her, as if a clone had stepped out of a sciencefiction story. It was the same August evening when Id left her, and she was back, a reminder that boomerangs always return.
Im not a fool. I realized at once that this wasnt just a lookalike; perhaps she was Harriets daughter, maybe even my own. Could I marry my own sister? The thought knocked the wind out of me.
My throat went dry, my heart hammered over a hundred beats a minute, cold sweat poured down the very punishment I feared. I forced a smile, tried to keep the conversation going, but I couldnt meet her eyes, terrified of seeing a silent reproach in those familiar green pupils. Was she there to sow discord in our family, seeking revenge for a story her mother had told her about a man who abandoned her?
My wife Lydia noticed my distress. Sit down, love. Lets check your blood pressure, she suggested, giving me an excuse to leave the table.
My father, did you not like Svetlana? our son asked, returning from the wedding reception. You didnt even look at her! Is it because of your blood pressure?
My pressure had indeed spiked; I swallowed a tablet. You wont marry her! our father shouted suddenly.
Why not? Serge protested. Explain yourself!
What could I say? Shes my sister? I left her mother pregnant twentysomething years ago? I couldnt bring myself to confess. Ill marry her anyway, Serge declared, and walked away.
Lydia, ever shrewd, asked, Whats gotten into you, you good girl? Shes a proper lass, loves Serge, why the sudden change, dad?
Inside I thought, If only I could turn back time My mind raced for a way out.
Two days of agony followed. I called in sick at work, citing a hypertensive crisis. Calm down, its not her, Lydia said over dinner. Not her? I echoed. Its not Harriets daughter, if thats what you think. She just looks alike, same type.
Lydia reminded me of a photo someone had once carelessly posted, showing a younger me grinning with Harriet during the height of our romance. Doesnt that prove anything? she asked. Isnt it possible for two people to look alike? There are lookalike contests, after all. Her mothers name is Lena, just like mine. Were meeting them on Saturday. So, will you finally give your blessing?
I sighed in relief, assuming the mystery was solved. Yet a closer look showed the hair colour was different, the eyes not quite the same shade. It was a strange coincidence, no more.
In the end, I tried not to dwell on the past. Lydia never brought it up again, and we carried on with our life, as any proper English couple would tea after tea, a quiet garden, and the occasional recollection of youthful follies that stay locked behind polite smiles.
