The invite had sat on my kitchen table for a couple of weeks before I really looked at it. I’d assumed it was some sort of alumni fundraising circular; the usual plea for funds to refurbish the science labs or name a building after some long dead headmaster. I hadn’t dismissed it, it wasn’t mentally earmarked for the shredder, but it was a long time since I’d really thought about school. Seeing that name again, the old latin motto, brought back memories I’d long since let settle. They’d taken a long time to sink and silt over and the envelope shone out at me like the search lamp on some sort of submersible come to dredge my past. I’d had to google the motto. Ironically it was ‘ad perpetuam memoriam’.
The fact that there was a reunion wasn’t the thing, at first, that I noticed. I was fixated on the opening paragraph of the letter and three words in particular. Twenty five years. There was something about seeing it in black and white that shook me out of myself, took me out of my comfortable, self imposed solitude. Not a content comfortable. More a best-we-can-do-is-make-him-comfortable comfortable. I was sober after smoking too much in my 20s and drinking too much in my 30s but I was still rounding off the sharp edges of living, now through routine and work and exercise. I didn’t feel much anymore – my heart rate only spikes now in spin classes – but that seemed better than the relentless sense of disappointment and dislocation of the past couple of decades.
Twenty five years. The words seemed to press play on a montage of memories I didn’t know my brain had edited together. It had done a pretty professional job. There was a soundtrack. Soft filters. I’m sure we didn’t all look that good. I know we were all younger but the photographic evidence would suggest a greater number of dodgy haircuts and bad fashion choices. I knew because I’d pulled all the old ones out to look through. Me and K seven or eight years ago at someone’s 35th birthday, the whole night spent fielding questions about when we were going to get a place, when I was going to pop the question. It was round about the time the penny dropped for me with Bob Dylan. Maybe just after it fell apart, I don’t properly recall. She should have been everything I wanted: smart and funny and confident. Like all the bits of myself that I liked reflected straight back at me. I can’t tell you why it didn’t really work out.
There were earlier pictures when me and S were together, mostly late night, early morning pictures. We were always laughing. Half the time we were high as kites which explains some of it but there’s a kind of youthful mania in those shots that I barely recognise now. Back when we thought we were indestructible and the world was laid out solely for us to experience and enjoy. There’s a couple of pictures of my flat in Harrow, presumably taken sometime in the aftermath of great love number 2 imploding. The flat’s littered with pizza boxes, my old acoustic guitar propped up in the background, a copy of ‘After The Goldrush’ on vinyl set in front of it. Looks suspiciously like I staged that shot. This was all pre-instagram and social media though so I’m not sure who I was trying to impress. Possibly myself. I don’t really listen to Neil Young anymore. Better to close that whole period off.
There’s only one picture of Anna. The American Girl. Someone at school must have had a polaroid – first time round before they came back as some kind of ironic, kitsch reminder of more innocent, less digital times. She’s gazing off into the middle distance, knees tucked up under her chin, hand resting on top of one of them with her obligatory silk scarf tied around her wrist. I’m not in it but I remember it. I was sat a couple of feet away, eyes fixed on her as she looked out towards some imagined future. I was always sat a few feet away staring at her in those days.
I wasn’t in touch with anyone from that far back. I’d often wondered why you’d never written but as the years had passed I’d accepted that I must have simply misjudged the connection. Mistaken your amusement for affection. It had taken me a long time. I think it’d have been easier if there hadn’t been that one moment, the day you left, when we held each other. I felt awkward at first but you wrapped your arms around my back and buried your face in my neck. You said something but I didn’t quite catch it, your voice muffled by my body. It sounded like ‘I’d give you my world’ but I don’t know now. Memories play tricks. I must have listened to Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ a hundred times after you left, anything that Stevie sang on, anything that spoke to heartbreak in a language that we shared, and maybe I just came to believe that in your moment of leaving that you were quoting lyrics back to me. You were packing up. Years later I assumed you’d long since been shacking up too.
I put the invite back onto the kitchen table. I knew without checking my calendar that I was free the night it was on. I was always free. That night I put ‘Go Your Own Way’ on for the first time in too many years and all I could hear was Lindsey Buckingham singing ‘everything’s waiting for you’ over and over again.