Who We Were Before (16 page)

46

ZOE, SUNDAY, 12 A.M.

T
he small clock on the bedside table says it’s midnight, and after the long day in the sun and all the walking I’ve done, I’m struggling to stay awake. Freshly showered, smelling of soap and not sweat, and with neatly curled hair, I’m perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for Edward. I’m afraid to lie down in case I drift off, and anyway, this nightgown thing he bought me itches like mad if it presses on my skin. It looks rather hideous on me, but I’m touched by his effort . . . an effort I haven’t made for years. No wonder we’re in such a state.

I glance at the clock again, wincing when I notice only a minute has passed since I last checked. Where the hell is he? I’ve used the room phone to call his mobile several times, but each time it goes straight to voicemail without even ringing first. I tap my fingers on the duvet. I hope he’s okay. How ironic that I’m now worrying about him after being lost myself.

A loud growl from my stomach surprises me. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry. Usually, I force myself to eat some cereal, or a slice of bread, or just anything to keep me going. The time when fantasising about dinner was the highlight of my day is long gone.

Edward and I used to go out for lunch every Sunday, a tradition we continued even after Milo’s birth, even after moving from the city. It was impossible to confine our son to a high chair once he started walking, but the village pub had a huge garden he could run in. We took it in turns to play with him, shoving steaming food in our mouths when we could. It may not have been the most relaxing lunch – and it couldn’t have been further from the trendy glass-and-chrome places we used to frequent – but somehow it felt right. My memory fills with laughter, spilled wine on wooden tables and the way Edward would pat my belly once I’d cleared my plate, even though he knew I hated it.

There’s hardly any belly to pat now. Where I used to have curves
is now stiff and bony – what I would have died for, about ten years
ago. My boobs have deflated, thanks to a combination of breastfeed
ing for over a year plus the weight loss. My body is one of the many reasons I don’t make love to Edward any more. I see the way he looks at me now. Where once his gazes were hungry – as if I was a delicious dessert he couldn’t wait to devour – now he seems repulsed.

I remember how sex used to be, back in the early days. I remember the way Edward’s tongue felt against me, how his lips moved on my neck, the way he slid into me. A charge goes through me, forcing my lids open in surprise. I can’t recall the last time I felt turned on by anything. My body aches with longing and a kind of restless urge to . . . I’m not exactly sure. Have sex? Eat? I don’t know what could satisfy the stirring inside of me right now.

I stand and yawn, desperate to stay alert, trying to envisage what’ll happen when he walks through that door. He’ll be surprised I’m here, that’s for sure – surprised in a good way, I hope. When he sees me wearing what he picked out, that should send the right message: that I’m
here
, I’m present. It feels weird to be receptive to my husband after tucking myself away for so long. But I’m ready now – maybe not for sex, not just yet – but ready to talk, ready to touch.

Waiting for Edward to walk through the door reminds me of when we first moved into the new house, leaving our old life behind but not yet adapting to our present. I’d cut down my workload to make the transition easier, and without the banter of my clients, the familiar hum of traffic outside my window and the comforting wail of sirens, the place felt . . . oppressive, as if Milo and I were alone in the world, with no one around. The lovely back garden eliminated our need to hit the cramped play areas with rusted equipment like we used to, joining countless other city mums desperate to escape their tiny confines. The one café in the village opened only from eleven until two, and the buggy wouldn’t fit through the door. There
was no library to decamp to on rainy days, no raucous soft-play cen
tre, and no ridiculous music class during which I could trade eye-rolls with other mums while Milo mouthed the maracas. The dads magically disappeared to their city jobs, and while there were plenty of mums around, I’d yet to really connect with them.

So the days seemed endless. Around four, I’d start to crave human interaction (beyond baby talk), and count down the minutes until six, when Edward would walk through the door if the train was on time – never a guarantee. Once he was home, hugs traded with Milo and kisses with me, I could feel contentment creep over me like sinking into a hot bath. It was those times he was late or had a meeting that I’d itch to get away, run off to the city and submerse myself in cinema or theatre, or just walk down the busy streets.

But I adjusted – or I was starting to, anyway, when Milo’s accident happened. I got to know the other mothers in the village through my daily strolls with Milo, my parents moved nearby, work picked up again and the minutes ticked by faster. Slowly, the house that had seemed so grown-up, so adult, so foreign, began to feel like a fit. And slowly, we both wanted more – more family, more love, more life to fill it.

And then, in just a minute, the home we’d made together was wrong. Every time I entered it was a reminder of what we’d lost: the idyllic life I’d baulked at.

How I long to have that back now.

I sink down on the bed, willing away the tears pushing at my eyes. I’ve cried more today than I have in two years. That life is gone, and I’ve only myself to blame. I don’t know where to go from here, or what Edward wants. Stay put? Sell the house? Move back to the city?

We can talk about all this later, I think, finally succumbing to the urge to lie down. The most important thing now is to just . . .
connect
. I let out another yawn and my eyes sink closed, and the last memory that floats through my mind before everything goes black is Edward,
Milo and me, pushing open that red door to our new home.

47

EDWARD, OCTOBER 2012

T
his time last year, I was showing Zoe the house. Now, we’ve settled in nicely, and at the risk of sounding smug – okay, at the
certainty
of sounding smug – life is brilliant. More than I ever imagined, even. It feels like tempting fate when I think that, but I can’t help it. Married two years now, with a wonderful son.

I shake my head, thinking it couldn’t be better . . . well, maybe with another baby, but we’ll get to that. I hope, anyway. I want another child. I want us to be an even four and not a lopsided three. I want Milo to have a sibling, the way I never did. If I could get Zoe pregnant once, I’m sure I can again.

I glance around the kitchen as I open the fridge to get out the champagne. I love this place. It feels like we’ve lived here forever
now – like this is where we’re meant to be. Milo adores
the space, Zoe’s settled into the kitchen table, despite me telling her to move to the box room, and to my surprise, I’ve actually started gardening – and I’m enjoying it. We may have become fully fledged adults, but it feels right, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together here.

I hand her a dewy glass and she lifts it to her lips. ‘So, I’ve been thinking.’

‘Uh-oh,’ she jokes. ‘I know that look! Last year you sprang this house on me. What do you have planned this time?’ She reaches out to take my hand, and I glance down. Our wedding rings slide against each other as our fingers intertwine, and happiness gushes through me as I remember that moment two years ago when she finally said ‘I do’.

Milo’s cry squawks through the baby monitor, and Zoe and I both laugh.

‘Perfect timing,’ she says. ‘As usual!’ It’s a running joke that whenever I open my mouth to say something important, or we try to have sex, or just close our eyes for an instant, our son starts wailing.

‘I’ll go.’ I put down my champagne glass and start to get up, but Zoe presses on my arm.

‘No,
I’ll
go,’ she says, springing from the sofa and heading up the stairs before I can protest.

I watch her leave, sipping from my flute as her croons and soft murmurs drift from the monitor. It’s been wonderful watching Zoe adapt to being a mother. She was hesitant at first, unsure what to do and how to occupy that space. But now it seems so natural to her, and I love witnessing the connection between mother and son. She doesn’t even seem to miss the city, which only goes to show how moving here was the right thing to do.

‘Okay.’ Zoe settles onto the sofa again and picks up her glass. ‘I
think he’s all right now. What were you going to say?’

‘Well.’ I swing round to face her and take her hand as I draw in a breath. ‘Milo’s getting easier now, and we have an extra room . . .’

‘You want to try for another baby,’ she finishes with a smile, and my eyebrows fly up that for once, we actually seem to be on the same page.

I nod. ‘I’d love another one. There’s no guarantee, but it happened once—’

‘It can happen again.’ Zoe squeezes my hand. ‘We may have to try a lot, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’

‘Really?’ Excitement builds inside at the thought of a newborn nestling in my arms, of running in the garden playing football with my two little children. I’m surprised she didn’t need a little more convincing, but I love that we’re in tune.

Zoe nods. ‘Yup. In fact, why don’t we start now?’ She slides a hand down my leg. ‘There’s no time like the present.’

A shudder of desire runs through me. ‘Happy anniversary,’ I say, as she lowers her body onto mine.

48

ZOE, SUNDAY, 6.30 A.M.

M
y eyes open slowly and I stretch out on the bed, taking in my surroundings as my mind whirls, trying to place where I am. The arches of my feet cramp and my legs ache, and the strangeness of yesterday filters into my consciousness. I jerk towards the other side of the bed, but Edward’s not there. Judging by the first rays of light coming through the crack in the thin curtains, it’s still very early in the morning. Where on earth could he be?

I grab the room phone and dial his mobile for the countless time, but again it goes to voicemail. I hang up, drumming my fingers on the bed. It’s not like him to stay out all night – at least, I don’t think it is. Not the Edward I know, anyway. Is it possible he came here, saw me, and left? No, he wouldn’t do that. We did come here to Paris together, after all. I shake my head, wondering if this is how Edward felt when I disappeared: confused, anxious, yet hopeful I’d turn up any second.

He
will
turn up, I tell myself, quashing down the familiar worry rising inside, unwilling to let myself go there again. There’s no way I can sleep now, so I peel off the awkward-fitting nightgown and lay it neatly on the bed, saving it for another time . . . maybe tonight? I open the case to throw on some fresh clothes. The sight of my jeans and T-shirts nestled up to Edward’s shirts and socks makes me smile, and a jolt of hope goes through me. We have spent years together and been through so much. Can we somehow make our marriage work again?

I hop into the shower, rinsing off the sleep and drowsiness, then make myself a strong cup of instant coffee with the kettle in our room, my lip curling as I sip the sour taste. It’s absolute rubbish, but I crave the caffeine. Today, for the first time in ages, I want to be awake, alert. I want to be
alive
.

I pull a chair over in front of the window and lever it open, breathing in the sharp coldness of the morning air as the first rays of sun bathe the building opposite. The street is quiet and the shopfronts shuttered, but even after my long day yesterday, I don’t want to stay inside and wait. In a way, I feel like I’ve spent the past few years doing that . . . Waiting for what, I don’t know. The pain to ease? The blame to shift? Now I want – I need – to do something, even if that something is just a walk through the streets as the city awakens.

I grab the hotel pen and notepad, and scribble a note for Edward outlining what happened, that I’m here, and I’ll be back soon; to please please
please
not go anywhere without me. I bite the end of the pen, wondering if I should write more: that I want to talk . . . that I’m sorry. I shake my head, staring down at the expectant paper. I can’t write that here. Those are words that need to be said face-to-face, when I see him again. I add two kisses under my name, hoping they’ll signal my state of mind, then slip on my dusty shoes, grab a cardigan from the suitcase, and head out the door.

My footsteps echo on the street as I walk under the archway and into a beautiful square with arches waving down each side. The last time I was out this early – stayed out this late – was . . . no, I won’t think of that now. I open my eyes wide, drinking in the sights. The sun hits the top of the buildings, highlighting their glorious symmetry. In the middle of the square, a fountain gushes water, glis
tening in the morning sun.
Edward would love this,
I think, wondering
if he’s seen it yet. Automatically my head swivels left and right, as if I’ll spot him leaning under one archway, but of course he’s not there. The square is deserted except for one poor punter, obviously the victim of too much drink, being helped by a hotel porter as he heaves in the corner. Ah, the aftermath of Saturday night, I think, shaking my head. It’s the same the world over.

I head out of the square and down a street I’m sure I walked on yesterday. Everything looks different in the early morning, when the age-old beauty of the buildings isn’t clad in darkness and the pavements are peaceful and calm. It’s as if the city is recovering from the long night, gearing up to embrace the day and all its potential. In a way, I feel like that, too.

I’m about to turn and head back when the sun hits something in a crack in the pavement, the reflective rays almost blinding me
. Just a coin,
I think, as I squint to get a better look. But it’s not a coin, I realise, leaning closer. Jammed between two broken paving blocks, it looks like a ring. I stoop down, the muscles in my legs screaming, as I try to jimmy it out with my finger. It
is
a ring, a thick gold one, like a man’s wedding band.

Actually, I think as I turn it this way and that, it looks remarkably like Edward’s wedding band. But there’s no way it could be; that ring is glued to his finger. He refuses to take it off to give it a proper clean, even when it got splashed with paint when he was doing up Milo’s room. A memory floats into my mind of him, swiping at his finger with white spirit, and laughingly saying I’d have to kill him first if I wanted to get this ring off his finger. I just rolled my eyes, thinking how I removed the ring when I did the dishes, at those silly baby swim classes, when I showered . . . how it wasn’t the ring that symbolised the health of the marriage, but rather the connection between two people. For him, though, that ring was everything.

I lean against the stone wall and lift it to my eyes to get a better look, then run my fingers along the inside to see if it’s engraved. I know it’s impossible that this is Edward’s, but the resemblance is so uncanny, something inside me is driving me to just . . . check. The scratch of engraving meets my fingertips, and my stomach flips. Slowly, I lift it even closer to my eyes.

E & Z. Our own happy ending.

I stare at the letters, feeling a thousand times older than the woman who first laid eyes on them, even though it’s only been a few years. Back then, we thought our happy ending would be a house filled with children and laughter.
Can
we find our way to another ending – together?

I take a deep breath, my fingers closing around the wedding band. I don’t know, but I want to try. To talk, to finally open myself, and see if there’s anything still inside. We’ve both changed; both been through so much, but I hope there’s something between us worth saving.

I head back to the hotel, his ring biting into my palm, I’m clutching it so hard. Now that the shock of finding his ring has passed, a little dart of worry flies towards me, piercing the balloon of anxiety I managed to quash earlier. The Edward I know – I
knew
 – wouldn’t willingly take this off. So how on earth did it end up on the pavement? Is he all right? Has he been mugged, and his ring dropped by the muggers by mistake? Does this have something to do with where he’s been all night?

I quicken my steps through the square, crossing my fingers he’s back in our room. Inside reception, the air is heavy now with the scent of coffee and warm croissants, and I cast a quick look inside the tiny dining area, but he’s not there. Too anxious to wait for the lift, I take the winding stairs two by two, my breath coming in puffs as I near the top. When I swing open the door, my heart is pounding and I feel lightheaded, but I’m not sure if that’s from the burst of exercise or my nerves.

I cock my ears for the shower, for the splash of water in the sink, for anything telling me he’s there. But my note rests on the pillow just where I left it, the curtain’s fluttering in the breeze of the window I threw open, and there’s no sign of him.

Where are you?
I want to yell out the window like they do in the movies. I picture my voice floating over the potted chimney-tops and grey-slated rooftops, wrapping around the Eiffel Tower and sliding off the dome of Sacré-Coeur.

Is it daft to think that somehow, somewhere, he can hear me?