Ten Years On by Alice Peterson

story.’
    She waits, expecting it to be exciting, or at least hoping it might be.
    A young dark-haired woman wearing leggings, flipflops and a flowery top enters the shop carrying a cup of coffee.
    ‘Listen, you have a customer,’ I point out, relieved as I scurry back into the changing room, the cushion falling out of the dress on the way.
    ‘Customer? Don’t be daft. That’s Lucy, she works here,’ Annie calls.
    ‘Oh, right!’ I pull the curtain across and fight to get back into my jeans.
    ‘Have you got time for a coffee or a quick lunch?’ Annie asks me when I emerge red-faced from the cubicle, telling her I’ll take the dress. ‘There’s this great wine bar in the square …’
    ‘Maison Joe?’
    ‘You know it?’
    ‘I know Joe.’
    ‘Lucky you,’ Lucy says, impressed.
    ‘Half of Winchester wants to marry him,’ Annie confides. ‘I just want to have a steamy affair with him.’
    ‘Here we go again,’ says the voice, disgruntled.
    ‘How do you know him?’
    ‘University – but we lost touch,’ I add.
    ‘Why? I mean, why would you do that?’ Lucy asks, as if it’s as stupid as throwing a winning lottery ticket away.
    ‘Oh, you know how it is.’
    ‘Lucy, it’s as dead as a dodo in here, but if by some miracle it gets busy, call me and I’ll shoot back,’ Annie says, gathering her handbag. ‘Shall we go?’
    We walk through The Square, past my favourite old art shop and a couple of cafes, a new hairdresser’s and aboutique clothes shop. From the distance I can see Maison Joe is a handsome building with a rich wine-coloured awning. Tables with stripy parasols line the pavement and many people are eating outside today.
    Annie is saying something about how working in this part of Winchester is dangerous for her credit card. She thinks Cadogan is one of the best men and women’s clothes shop; even her husband Richie doesn’t mind shopping there. ‘Becca?’
    ‘Um?’
    ‘It’s a great location too, isn’t it?’ Ahead of us is the view of the cathedral grounds, with the avenue of lime trees framing the stone paved pathway. Bicycles are chained to the black railings. ‘Lovely,’ I say, watching students and tourists sunbathing on the grass. A man wearing a straw boater sells ice cream; schoolchildren pile out of the City Museum in a stream of noise, one boy laughing and bending down to stroke a spaniel walking by. The sight of an old couple sitting, hand in hand, on a bench with their packed lunch, touches me.
    We enter the wine bar. It’s a large open space, bigger than I’d imagined, set on two levels, with stairs leading down to a basement floor. I look around. Now that I’m here I don’t feel quite as brave as I did this morning.How can I tell Joe about Olly? I should have asked him to the funeral. I realize it was not only a mistake; it was unforgivable. I can excuse myself for not being in my right mind, for being numbed by grief, but deep down the truth is I was, I am , a coward. I thought about trying to get hold of him but did nothing. What will Joe think of me? What if he hates me? He has every right to.
    But there’s no sign of him. It’s noisy and packed; the sound of clanging plates coming from the kitchen is accompanied by the whirring of the coffee machine in the background. I recognize the music playing. It’s ‘Volare’ by the Gipsy Kings. Olly and I played this song in our holiday apartment in Spain, dancing, laughing and fooling around … Don’t cry, Rebecca. You owe this to Olly. You must tell Joe .
    ‘Relax. Take a deep breath,’ the voice says, ‘and then when you see the bastard, slap him.’
    A young waiter rushes past me, moving in time with the music as he balances three plates of food. ‘I’m starving,’ Annie says. I don’t feel as if I could eat a thing.
    Annie introduces me to Edoardo, who’s serving behind the bar. He has a mop of dark wavy hair that reminds me of a 1980s Top of the Pops singer and he tucks his shirt neatly into his