Field Notes on Love(70)

As he walks to meet her, he’s oddly jittery. It somehow feels both like a first date and like he’s cheating on someone, and by the time he reaches the coffee shop—a small storefront with a few wicker tables out front on a quiet street—Hugo is wishing he were anywhere else. Briefly he considers doing a U-turn and skipping this altogether. But then he sees Margaret waving to him from the window, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, takes a deep breath, and walks inside.

“It suits you,” Margaret says, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing a dress he’s always loved—a pale blue that matches her eyes—and her perfume is so familiar that it gives him a jolt.

“What does?”

She winks at him. “Travel.”

Hugo runs a hand over his hair, unsure whether she’s teasing him. “Who would’ve thought sleeping on a train would be so comfortable?” he says. Then his face starts to burn because of course he’d been sleeping there with Mae, and of course she doesn’t know that, and this whole thing feels like a terrible mix-up and there’s no one to blame but himself.

    “Better you than me,” Margaret says. “I looked up the compartments, and I reckon I would’ve felt like a hen in a chicken coop in those beds.”

“I suspect there’s a joke in there about pecking me to death,” Hugo says.

She laughs. “No pecking before coffee.”

Once they’ve ordered, they carry their mugs to one of the tables outside. It’s still early, and the street is mostly empty, just a few people out running or walking their dogs.

“When did you get here?” Hugo asks, warming his hands on the mug.

“A couple of days ago. Turns out it’s pretty quick by plane.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So how was it?”

“Honestly?” Hugo says. “You would’ve hated it.”

“But you loved it. I can tell.” She blows on her mug, scattering the steam, and Hugo flicks his eyes away. It feels so intimate, watching her lips form a perfect o like that, a reminder of how many times he’s kissed them. There’s a part of him that still wants to, though whether out of love or sadness, longing or nostalgia, it’s hard to be sure. She takes a sip, then looks up at him. “What about her?”

“Who?” he asks, then immediately hates himself for it. Margaret was part of his life for a long time; she knows when he’s hedging. Besides, they’re broken up now. It’s not against the rules to have feelings for someone else. So why does it feel that way?

She gives him a disappointed look. “Hugo.”

“Yeah, okay. Was it Poppy or Isla?”

    “Neither. It was Alfie. I ran into him at Tesco before I left.”

“Should’ve guessed,” Hugo says with a sigh. “He’s always had the biggest mouth. I suppose I should just be grateful he’s managed not to let it slip to Mum and Dad.”

“They don’t still think that I’m—?” she asks, looking uncomfortable.

“No,” Hugo says quickly. “It’s just—you know how they are. They weren’t too keen on this trip in the first place. And once I realized about the ticket—”

“What about it?”

“The package was booked under your name, and they wouldn’t let me change it. So I needed someone else to come or I wouldn’t have been able to go at all.”

“Wait,” she says, and her face darkens. “Does that mean you had some girl pretend to be me?”

“No, of course not.”

“So what, then?”

Hugo swallows hard, realizing how bad this will sound. But he doesn’t have a choice. “I, uh…I found another Margaret Campbell.”

“You what?”

“I really wanted to go,” he says helplessly. “And they wouldn’t change it. So I didn’t really have a choice, did I? Alfie and George helped me write up—hold on.” He stops short. “Did you think I just invited along some random girl a couple weeks after we broke up?”

She’s looking at him like he’s a complete idiot. “Well, didn’t you?”

“No—not like that. I needed someone with the same name. It was just for the tickets and the hotel reservations and all that. I picked someone who wasn’t—I found this eighty-four-year-old from Florida called Margaret Campbell.”

    Her eyes widen. “You’re in love with an eighty-four-year-old?”

“No,” Hugo says so loudly that the two women at a nearby table turn around. He lowers his voice. “No. She got bunions.”

Margaret looks like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “So you found a younger version?”

“Yes. No. Not like that. It was just about the name,” he says again. “It wasn’t supposed to be—” He pauses, frowning at her. “Wait. Who said anything about love?”

“Alfie.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“Alfie said, and I quote, ‘Can you believe our man Hugo is gallivanting around America with some new bird he’s in love with?’?”

Hugo puts his face in his hands and groans. “I’m so sorry. You know he’s a complete git. He was probably just trying to make you jealous.”