Who We Were Before (17 page)

49

EDWARD, SUNDAY, 6.30 A.M.

M
y vision is blurry, I’m cold although I’m drenched in sweat, and the pounding music and flashing lights are making me queasy. I’ve no idea what time it is, but I know one thing: I need to get back to the hotel room and crash. It was good to go crazy in a way I haven’t done for years – maybe ever – but I’m too old to keep it going.

I stumble towards the club door and up the stairs, grabbing onto the railing to stop from falling over. Outside, light is slowly creeping into the dark night sky, and the first rays of sun are touching the pavement. I shut my burning eyes, then quickly open them when the world starts spinning. Christ, what have I done to myself?

Right, which way to the hotel? I wasn’t paying attention when I followed the Americans to the club, but I don’t think it was too far. Anyway, maybe walking a bit will help me work off the spins. I start to move hesitantly down the pavement, feeling as if I’m moving through treacle.

One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other.

If I concentrate on that, I’ll get there eventually.

After what feels like forever but is probably only a few minutes, my eyes widen – as much as they can, anyway – as I spot a fountain through the arches. This is the square around the corner from the hotel. Somehow, I’ve made it back, and not a moment too soon because my guts feel like they’re about to expel themselves through both ends. I quicken my pace as much as my muscles will allow, across the grassy bit, past the fountain, and—

My breath leaves me in a
whoosh
as I crash into one of the many arches. A sharp pain comes from my temple, and I dazedly lift a hand to my head. My fingers come away covered in blood.

‘Monsieur?’ A man is at my side, taking my arm. ‘Monsieur, are you all right?’

I can’t even bring myself to answer or even nod, the pain clutching my head is so intense.
Good thing I’m drunk
, the thought bubbles up in my brain.
Otherwise this would really hurt.
I want to laugh, but my stomach is starting to shift, and I’m afraid any movement will make me vomit.

Too late. All the beer and everything I’ve eaten splash in a waterfall on the pavement. The man moves away, his face registering disgust
. I’m disgusted too, mate,
I want to say. I can’t believe the state I’m in. I’ve never been sick from drink, and starting in my forties is downright pathetic.

‘Sorry,’ I croak, wiping my face with a hand. He takes my arm again and beckons me over to an empty bench. I slump down, feeling like absolute hell. I can feel a line of blood snaking down the side of my head, and the throbbing is getting worse, like someone’s jammed an ice pick in my skull.

‘I have called an ambulance,’ the man says. ‘You sit here. It will come soon.’

‘No, no.’ I try to shake my head but it hurts like hell. ‘I don’t need an ambulance. I’ll just rest for a minute and then I’ll go to my hotel. It’s over there.’ I wave an arm in its direction.

‘You fell very hard into the wall,’ the man says in an authoritative voice. ‘And that cut on your head looks like it needs stitches. You must wait here.’

I want to argue but I can’t find the words. I can’t find the energy to move either. When the ambulance comes, they’ll see it’s a wasted call and send me on my way. I lean back and close my eyes again, praying for the world to stop moving.

50

ZOE, APRIL 2013

I
stare at the blood on the loo roll, the knowledge sinking in as instantly as my PMT arrives: I’m not pregnant. Outside the bathroom, Milo is banging on the door, calling ‘Mama! Mama!’ so insistently you’d think I’d buggered off to Mars instead of treading the few steps from the lounge to our downstairs loo. I used to think those mums who said they’d give anything to go to the bathroom in peace were slightly demented. How hard can it be to leave a child and pee? Now, I’d give anything for a little bit of headspace to absorb that, yet again, we haven’t conceived.

It’s only been a few months. Six months, in fact, since Edward and I started trying. And even though I know that’s not very long, and that it likely won’t happen easily, the very fact of
trying
makes me long for an outcome. I’ve never been good at waiting around, believing in fate for a positive outcome. To that end, I’ve been doing everything I can to get pregnant: taking those horrific vitamins, giving up booze (!!), and even checking my temperature to confirm when I’m ovulating. Still . . . nothing.

It’s so funny that when I didn’t want to get pregnant, didn’t think it could happen, I did. And now, when we’re actually ready, I can’t. Even though I know where the problem lies, I can’t help feeling it’s somehow my fault. Or my body’s fault, rather, since I’m starting to feel like it’s not my own property any more. Kate (now living in a madhouse with two children, a dog and three hamsters) keeps telling me to relax, that it will happen, and to enjoy life with one child while we can.

And we are, of course we are. No one can claim motherhood is easy, and sometimes my head aches from the relentlessness of it all. But just like I imagined, those little moments every day – the moments when your child flings his arms around your neck, or when his giggles burst like bubbles in the air – make the hardship fade away into oblivion. I can barely remember my life before him; it feels empty somehow, without this weight of love and emotion.

Edward’s trying to be calm about the whole thing, but I can see the disappointment and longing in his eyes when I tell him, month after month, that it hasn’t happened. He nods, gives me a hug, then just says we’ll keep trying. I want to ask how long – how long all this will go on for, because I don’t think I can bear year after year of failure. Instead, I clamp my lips closed, breathe in his scent, and tell myself that if it doesn’t happen, it’s fine. We have our family, we have the world’s most wonderful boy, and anything else is just a bonus. Perhaps we’re being greedy wanting more. Perhaps we
should
just bask in what we have. It’s hard, though, when desperation pours from Edward’s every cell.

‘Mama’s coming!’ I call to Milo when the banging and shouting reaches such epic levels, I’m afraid the door will cave in. Sighing, I pull up my knickers and wash my hands, gazing at my reflection in the mirror.

Anything else is just a bonus
, I repeat like a mantra, opening the door and gathering my wiggly son in my arms, breathing in his little-boy scent. He bites my nose and squirms away, and I lever myself into a sitting position just as the front door swings open.

‘Daddy!’ Milo breaks free and streaks towards his father, throwing his chubby arms around Edward’s legs.

‘Hey! Good day?’ Edward ruffles Milo’s soft brown hair, then bends down and kisses me. ‘Any news?’ He knows my period’s due today, and I try not to seem too anxious as I shake my head.

‘No. Not this time.’ I look away from Edward and over at Milo, unable to stand the disappointment etched in Edward’s face. ‘Come on, little boy. How about you tidy up before you trip on a toy?’

We both watch as Milo runs to his toy box and proceeds to empty the rest of it rather than the reverse. Edward laughs, and I let out a big sigh. It’s only funny when you haven’t been tidying toys all day.

‘Come here.’ Edward pulls me up and over to the sofa. God, it feels good to sit on something cushioned rather than the hard floor I’ve been playing with Milo on all day. I lie back and shut my eyes, feeling myself relax now that Edward’s home and the weight of responsibility for Milo has been lifted a bit.

‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ Edward’s voice cuts into my haze, and I reluctantly lift my lids. ‘I know we haven’t been trying that long, but maybe I should get some tests done, just to see what the picture really is.’

I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘Yeah, that makes sense.’ If it makes him less anxious, I’m all for it. ‘What do you need to get the process started?’

‘I’ll see our GP,’ Edward says, stretching out his long legs. I make a face, eyeing a hole in the seam of his jeans. I really need to take him out shopping soon. ‘The last time, it took about a month to book me in for testing, so I’d expect the same again.’

I swing towards him. ‘The last time? What do you mean? You had the tests done before?’

Edward shifts on the sofa. ‘Well, no. I didn’t actually go.’

My brow furrows and I try to straighten it out. Mum keeps telling me I’m going to get wrinkles, and she’s right. ‘Why not? When was this, anyway?’ I cast my mind back over the past couple of years, trying to remember if he ever told me he was going to get tests done, but the results come back blank. And why would he not tell me, anyway?

‘It was after Kate told me you were pregnant. I wasn’t sure what to think – if it was even possible – so I went to see the GP, who booked me in for the tests. But then when you told me it wasn’t mine, then it was, and everything, well . . . there really didn’t seem to be much point.’

‘Ah.’ Both of us are staring at anything other than each other. It’s the first time we’ve ever spoken of that terrible chain of events – of the terrible thing I did. Looking back, I can’t believe I told Edward that Milo wasn’t his. I can’t believe I lied like that to the man I loved, the man whose son was inside of me.

But I’m not the same person. I’m not that woman who baulked at forevers, at filling in the blanks of my future, at building a life full
of love. Hell, I even want more of it, despite what that means – more
sleepless nights, even less freedom and even more juggling.

I’m not afraid any more.

51

EDWARD, SUNDAY, 7 A.M.

T
he wail of an approaching ambulance cuts through the wall of pain that’s imprisoning me. I try my best to turn in its direction, but it hurts even more. I must have hit my head really hard.

‘English?’ The paramedic asks when he reaches me, accompanied by the man who first helped me.

‘Yes,’ I say through gritted teeth. Even speaking that much is agonising.

The paramedic tries to turn my head and a sharp yelp escapes me. I’d be embarrassed, but honestly, I’m still too drunk to care and it hurts like fucking hell.

‘You come with us to hospital,’ the paramedic says. ‘A doctor will need to stitch this.’

‘No, no, no,’ I say. ‘Can’t you just put a plaster on it?’ Suddenly, a thought enters my mind. What time is it, anyway? Fiona’s train will arrive this morning, and I’m in no fit state to meet her. I can only imagine how she’d embrace the winning combination of booze and vomit. At the very least I need a shower. A trip to the hospital – a French hospital, at that, where I’ll have no clue what’s happening – is not on the agenda.

But the paramedic has other ideas. He’s already taking my arm
and helping me up. ‘You don’t get that stitched, you’ll have a
big . . . what do you call it? Scar. Plus risk of infection. Come. It won’t take long.
’

Yeah, right. Since when have hospitals been known for their speed? But Fiona still hasn’t rung, and I don’t want a scar or infection either. Sighing, I let the paramedic lead me into the back of the ambulance and position me on a stretcher. The doors slam closed, the engine starts up, and my eyes close as it pulls away.

The clang of the doors opening again jerks me back to consciousness. I try to sit up but the pain is blinding, so I lower my head. As the paramedics carry me into the hospital, the bright lights and the smell of antiseptic, dust and the musky scent of people crowded together hit my senses.

All of a sudden, a wave of memory sweeps over me so quickly I don’t have time to push it back.

It’s the day of Milo’s accident, and Zoe’s just rung. She’s in the back of the ambulance with him, she says, in a voice so flat and lifeless, it sounds like a stranger. Sirens blaring in the background, she asks me to meet her at the hospital, then hangs up. I try to call her back, but the mobile signal at the godforsaken location my company’s holding their corporate retreat is so weak, I can’t get through.

Why the fuck has this happened on the one day I’m miles from home?

I hastily make my exit and grab a taxi to the train station, praying to God the next train is soon. For once, my luck is in. A train pulls in with a screech and I hop onto it, my heart beating fast. At this time of day, there are plenty of seats, but I can’t bear to sit. Instead, I stand in the doorway, as if being right there at the ready will make the train go faster. All the while I dial Zoe’s number over and over, but it just keeps ringing, then goes to voicemail.

As the rows of suburban houses and chimneys flash by, my mind fills with images of Milo, lying in the back of the ambulance – if they could get him to lie down, that is. We always joked he’d need to be sedated before anyone could get him to be still; putting him to bed could sometimes take hours. Maybe it’s a broken arm, or a twisted ankle? A knock on the head needing observation? Perhaps he’s sitting up, tugging at the cords and banging on the wall. I pace back and forth across the narrow space, trying to speculate on the nature of the accident and cursing my wife for not telling me more.

Finally, the train pulls into the station. I press the door release button over and over, willing it to hurry up. When the doors hiss open, I dash off the train and down the platform, then up the stairs and over the bridge to the waiting rows of taxis.

‘Royal Surrey Hospital, please,’ I say, barely able to speak after my burst of exercise. I try to ring Zoe once more, the mobile phone sweaty in my grasp. Still no answer.

I throw a few notes at the driver as the car pulls up to the hospital, then slam the door and hurry into A&E. We’ve been here once before, a few months ago when Milo had croup. Christ, that was scary. Just listening to him struggling to breathe put the fear of God into my heart. Seeing him in pain made me physically sick, and in that one night, I realised I couldn’t bear to lose him.

I push past a huddle of tired-looking people towards reception. Normally I’d be mortified to queue-jump – I’m a proper Brit that way, Zoe always jokes – but now, I don’t even care.

‘My son was brought in by ambulance an hour or so ago,’ I say, wiping the sweat off my brow. ‘Milo Morgan. Please can you tell me where he is?’

She looks like she’s about to order me to the back of the line, but something in my face must have communicated my desperation, because she asks for his date of birth, and then clacks away on the computer.

‘Have a seat right here,’ she says, her tone brisk, but her eyes have softened. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you to him.’

I move a few steps back but there’s no way I can sit. I run a hand over my face again, and once more it comes away slick with sweat. Somewhere inside this huge behemoth of a building is my son. I need to see him, to hold his hand and to kiss his chubby cheek. I need to make sure he’s okay, or that he’s going to be soon. I need him to know that Daddy is here.

‘Mr Morgan?’ An orderly appears at my side. ‘Come this way, please.’

I follow him through a set of swinging doors and down a corridor, the only sound the squeaking of his shoes. As we move away from A&E and through yet another nondescript hallway, my brow furrows. Where are we going? Has Milo been transferred to another unit? I want to ask, but I don’t want to slow the man down. I just want to get to my family as fast as possible. The orderly is moving quickly, thank goodness, and I churn my legs to keep up. I’d run if I could.

He ushers me into a lift, then presses a button and the lift shudders into action. As the doors slide open, a blue sign with white letters meets my eyes. It takes a while before the letters actually gel together to make a word, and when my mind understands what that word is, my feet refuse to move any further. They can’t move any further. I’m not going there. That’s not for me – not where Milo is. They’ve somehow got it wrong.

The sign says ‘Morgue’.

The orderly is halfway down the hallway, the squeak of his shoes even louder now in the silent corridor, before he turns around and sees I’m not behind him.

‘Mr Morgan?’

I’m still rooted to the ground, my muscles shaking now as the tremor that started inside me spreads through my body. My head shakes back and forth too. Every part of me, every cell, rejects where this man is taking me.

‘I’m looking for my son,’ I say, my voice somehow emerging from the desert that is my mouth. ‘My son. Milo Morgan.’

The orderly steps towards me, and uncertainty mixed with panic flashes across his face. For the first time, I realise how young he is – he’s probably not even twenty.

‘Er, yeah, I’m sorry, reception told me to bring you here,’ he says. ‘For the boy that came in by ambulance, right?’

I nod, and the orderly bites his lip.

‘Please follow me.’ It sounds more of a timid request than anything else, and even though I still can’t believe I’m in the right place, in a strange way, I feel compelled to help out this young man. I force my legs to move towards him, then around another corridor, until we stop outside a room. There’s a small window with a curtain drawn across it, and I can feel my breath catch in my throat.

‘Your wife is inside here, along with your son,’ the orderly says, then turns and walks quickly down the corridor again, the squeaks increasing in frequency as if he can’t wait to escape the scene.

I still can’t believe they’ve got it right, but I need to allay the dread and fear inside. Like something in a nightmare, in slow motion I raise my hand and knock on the door, my heart pounding as I wait for whoever’s inside to open it.
Please let it not be Zoe. Please let it not be Zoe. Please let it not be Zoe.
A desperate kind of prayer runs through my head as footsteps approach.

I see the door handle twist, and then Zoe appears, and everything inside me goes black.