**Diary Entry**
Thirty years. Thirty whole years, and there she was—Margaret Ainsley, scanning my kefir, ham, and cigarettes at the till. The cashier barely glanced up, rattling off the usual, “Is that all?” as she flicked a dyed fringe from her eyes. So familiar, that toss of her hair. I’d have walked out none the wiser if I hadn’t caught the name badge pinned to her chest.
“Rita… is that you?”
Finally, she looked up. “Yes… Why? Oh my God—Alex?”
“Yeah, me. Didn’t expect to bump into you like this.”
Summer 1988. Rita and I strolled through London on a Sunday. She wore a black mini-skirt, slender as ever, with legs that turned heads and a careless sway in her walk. That faint smirk never left her lips. She always seemed just out of reach, and I was always chasing. Rita was wildly sensual—men craned their necks, and I burned with pride, then frustration, because she wouldn’t even let me put an arm around her.
I told her I dreamed of being a journalist. She laughed. “Sounds dull. I’m going to be a singer—that’s a proper job.”
We were twenty. Rita was finishing music college, piano mostly, but summer break meant long nails painted scarlet. Those hands drove me mad.
“I’m starving,” she declared. “That café!”
In my pocket, I had a tenner—supposed to last all week. Mum slipped it to me before she left town. That café looked posh, the kind that’d clean me out. But I played it cool. “Of course, let’s go!” Inside, Rita ordered pizza and champagne. I stopped caring—just get her home tonight, I thought. Then a *Spice Girls* track blasted through the speakers. Rita leapt up, dancing wild and alone, while every bloke in the place forgot their pints, gaping. She even sang along: *“If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends!”* Like she was born for the spotlight.
I nearly came up short, but Rita tossed a fiver on the table. “Let’s keep moving! What next?” We went back to mine. Longest, best night of my life. Some private aerobics session for two. *“Music’s got me feeling so free…”* buzzed in my drunken, blissful head.
Three months later, autumn, she dumped me.
“Listen, I’ve met someone—proper fit, sorry. Says he knows people at a recording studio. I’m making an album. I’ve even got the title—*My Happiness*.”
“Stupid name,” I said, and walked. I wanted to howl. To hurt her. To drag her into bed again. So much rage and longing in one stupid boy.
Now, thirty years on, here was Rita—plumper, behind a checkout.
“Still dreaming of being a singer?” I teased.
She smirked. “We all had dreams… But I know you became a journalist. I’ve read your stuff—good on you.”
Outside, I thought about Rita. Revenge, thirty years late, I suppose. I left my change—a tenner, but not the kind that could buy champagne anymore. The music had faded, Rita had thickened, and here she was, ringing up groceries to the beep of a barcode scanner. So bloody sad.
Yet two days later, I went back. No reason.
She was there. Recognised me, lit up. “You smoke? Come on!” She threw on a jacket, and we stepped out.
“Listen,” she said, exhaling. “I was daft back then. Sorry.”
“Rita, it doesn’t matter. Thirty years. I’ve had three wives, three kids.”
She grinned—just like before. “You feel sorry for me, don’t you? Poor Rita, wanted fame, now weighs spuds.”
“Not exactly—”
“I see it.” She flicked ash. “That album title—*My Happiness*—wasn’t stupid. Happiness changes, you know? Been married 25 years to Dave—good man. Solid. Terrible snorer, but he’s a whizz with cars, built us a fireplace at the cottage. Our daughter’s 22—lawyer, sharp as anything, nothing like me. She’s married, and I’ve got a granddaughter—Rita too, eighteen months. I’m happy. Could retire, but why? I like people. Right, gotta dash.”
“Rita—” I called after her. “You’re right. Damn right. And I don’t pity you. Go on, good seeing you.”
At the doors, she turned. “Oh, and I *did* become a singer. I sing to my granddaughter—she loves it. So I *am* a star. Her star.”
