Miss Tara

Chapter seven

2015

June

The next time she sees him, he is indeed married and they are drinking cheap champagne from the nearest Co-op at Helen's second wedding. Travis is staring all dopey-eyed at the bride and Tara tips the drink back as she ignores the jealousy that coils inside her. Fabian has yet to even look at her.

He does look at her, though. It is later, after the bride and groom have had their first dance, after she has stood in the crowd of singles to catch the bouquet and after Travis's drunken attempt at snogging Helen. He finds her by the bar, clinking their glasses together, and exclaiming Tara! as if no time has passed at all. Three years, she seethes. And breathe.

"So, Travis clearly hasn't moved on," He leans back against the bar, and she is surprised at how familiar his voice still is. She knocks the glass of cider back in one take because really, who is she kidding?

"Uh ha," is her fantastic response.

Fabian does not seem bothered by her complete inadequacy at keeping up a conversation, but leans towards her. He is wearing a new cologne, it is stronger and spicier, and she is trying to find him somewhere in the folds of his Armani suit. Her eyes glide over his features, taking in the slick hair, his white teeth and tanned skin. It's the same face she has adored since she was seventeen, but he didn't have a beard then. Somehow she feels that the beard is the smallest change. Fabian meets her eyes before she can make any further assessments. (Not that she hasn't been ogling him all night.).

"Any bets on how long this one will last?"

"Six months tops -"

"Nah, I say a year at least -"

"You've always been such a romantic, Fabian."

"It might just be that you're a terrible cynic?"

He is watching her, some intense emotion in his eyes that she can't make out. At the moment she cannot do anything but stare back and raise an eyebrow,

"Me? I'm just trying to be rational."

Fabian snorts loudly but says no more. They return to observing the crowd once more, the grip on her drink very tight. Helen is slow dancing with that Tom-guy and Tara has to admit that he is a decent, stand-up bloke.

She sneaks a peek at Fabian and finds him staring at her. He looks terribly old, and Tara remembers with a start the difference between thirty-two and thirty-four. She is once again mesmerized by his long eyelashes and she turns around to face him fully, inspired by this image in her head.

"There's a great view from the top -" she says, knowing that this might be a very bad idea indeed. Fabian looks at her for a moment, his lips curling, not saying anything. Just as she is about to wander off, he tilts his head to look at her,

"Great view you say?"

"The best."

He pushes the chair out slowly, grabbing her hand. It wraps around her with a familiarity that both excites her and frightens her.

"Then we must see it, mustn't we?" He sounds half-teasing. It is how he often speaks to her, and she fumbles with her dress as his breath tickles her ear.

--

It all happens very fast. (Newton's law, you see?)

They walk up onto the rooftop, look out on the city light. Make chit chatter. How's life? Work good? Good to see you.

Then she says she misses him. Fabian has brought a bottle with him, he opens it with the flick of his house keys.

Then they're both drinking.

Then she tells him.

--

December

It is Christmas when they meet again, but this time it seems silly greeting him with a Merry Christmas when six months stand blaring against the ignorance of their relationship.

There is a wrinkle spreading across his forehead. She eyes it warily, finding it concerning to see age displayed on him. She did not think age would overcome them.

"Hey Tara," he greets her with a small smile.

"Fabian -"

She loved him once. Maybe she still loves him, but she knows now that thoughts like these are irrelevant and somehow she cannot erase the past sixteen years. They have been piling and, though she wants to, the lines in her face have been drawn. He has known her half her life, and this game - this pull and push - has defined half her life. It is all very different and then it is all very much the same. He is here. She is here.

"So, now I'm a divorcee, too," he laughs and flails his arms out. They stare at each other for some time; she can feel her face slowly breaking.

After a moment, she surrenders.

"I'm sorry."

--

He says "Tara," the way they do in those horrid BBC shows her mother used to watch, without the East Ender drawl but just as heartfelt and dramatic with the tinge of his Scottish slur. His hand is tangled in her hair and his nose is skimming along her jaw. "Tara," he says again, like she is precious and his mouth closes over hers. And then he is kissing her, kissing her harder with teeth, moaning.

She feels her back connect with the wall and his fingers are digging into her waist as if he wants to keep her for all eternity, and Jesus, his hand slips underneath her blouse, pushing it up.

And she loves those little sounds, loves the little signs of life, loves how they lose their mind. A tongue slips between her lips and Tara feels like they are seventeen again, meeting for the first time. He has taught her everything. She knows now that love indeed is beautiful, that she is capable of loving this greatly. She knows now that books and cleverness serve no one. She remembers her mother, her father, and knows in her heart that she could not have saved them, but that she will save herself.

"Tara," Fabian says again. He says it quietly, maybe in defeat, or maybe not, because he looks at her, like really looks at her and she can't really think anymore. Her hand is under the collar of his shirt, and she can't stop making these breathy little noises that Fabian seems to appreciate because he groans against her throat.

Her forehead bumps against his and he sort of laughs, lifting her up, kissing her thoroughly, Tara, finally, finally.

She is kind of blown away by the perfectness of it all.

(See? It was all meant to happen.)