Who We Were Before (19 page)

56

ZOE, JUNE 2013

‘M
ore, Mama! More ladybird!’ Milo struggles to sit up in bed, grabbing my hand.

I lean down and tuck his blue blankie under his arm. If I need to make up yet another story about the ladybird we saw in the park today, I’m going to lose it.

‘No, sweetheart. It’s time to sleep now.’

‘No . . .’ The protest emerges in a low howl from my son, and I kiss his soft cheek as I try to extricate my hand from his grip. Normally Edward’s on bedtime duty, but he’s off in the wilds of Buckinghamshire on a corporate retreat. After a busy day of park, park and more park, I can’t wait to settle down in front of the telly with a glass of Cabernet – although I may need to rethink the wine. I might be wrong, but my period was due a few days ago, and there’s been no sign of it. I’m also feeling a bit nauseated, the kind of sickness that sits on your shoulder and refuses to budge.

I say goodnight to Milo and creep from the room, praying he falls asleep quickly. As I pad down the stairs, my hand slides to my stomach. Could there be a baby growing inside me? Another little one to complete our family – finally? I pray to God there is, at the very least to bring back my normally happy, solid husband. Usually I’m the moody one, but ever since he got those test results, he’s become increasingly stressy. It’s as if the doctor increased the pressure on him to get us pregnant, instead of easing the strain of thinking there might be problems. I dread the day my period arrives now, because I know he’ll stalk out the door and walk for hours, returning only when I’ve gone to bed.

He’s even started asking me if I’m open to fertility treatments. I want another baby, but the cost of those treatments is astronomical, and there is still a chance we can conceive naturally – a very good chance, if my suspicions are accurate. Plus, I’m not keen on injecting myself with hormones day after day, not to mention having my womb ‘harvested’, like it’s some kind of pick-your-own. I want this baby to happen naturally, as if it was meant to be. Not to be coaxed into being with needles and drugs.

But all this is irrelevant if I am pregnant right now. I take the packet from the Boots bag and rip open the foil. Then I carefully close the bathroom door so I don’t disturb Milo, who I swear has supersonic hearing. As I aim for the stick, I can’t help thinking of that day when I first found out I was pregnant with my son. So much has changed. I’m a wife, a mother, and I live in a small village in the sticks. If you’d have told me then what my life would turn out to be, I’d have said you were crazy – and crazier still if you said I was happy.

Because I am, I think, sliding the cap on the test stick and laying it on the side of the sink to await the results. I am happy. It’s taken a bit to settle in – both to motherhood and to our home – but I can’t think of another life where I’d be happier.
Well
, I yawn,
maybe one with more sleep.

I grab the stick off the sink, almost afraid to look. When I see the second pink line meaning I’m pregnant, a funny feeling flutters through me: excitement and hope, mixed with a little worry. What if I can’t cope? What if two is too many? What if—?

I shake my head. I know from having Milo that you can never be prepared. That somehow, you just do it. I’ll be fine.
We’ll
be fine. God, I can’t wait to tell Edward. He’s going to be ecstatic! I’m tempted to pick up the phone and dial him right now, but this isn’t something to tell him over the phone. I want to see his face, to see the spark in his eyes. He’ll be back the day after next, and I’ll have to try to keep the news under wraps until then.

In the meantime, I’d better prepare myself for even less sleep. I wrap my arms around my tummy, a smile curving my lips.

A baby!

Already I’m in love.

57

EDWARD, SUNDAY, 9 A.M.

I
hobble from the hospital, feeling like I’ve aged fifty years. My head stings where the doctor stitched it, the throbbing – while dulled by several strong painkillers – still hasn’t stopped, and my stomach is churning. I don’t smell too great either. What I really need is a shower, some strong caffeine, and a bed, but if I lie down now, I’ll be too comatose to meet Fiona’s train. My heart sinks at the thought of telling her I can’t do this, but once she gets a good look at me, she’ll probably run off screaming anyway.

I squint against the bright sunlight and climb gingerly into a cab. ‘Hotel Le Marais,’ I say, my mind flipping back to yesterday when I uttered the same address. It feels like a million years have passed since then, that the person who said those words yesterday was someone else, someone who was climbing an endless ladder to escape rising black water threatening to engulf him. And now that it has engulfed me – now that it’s finally caught up – I’ve discovered that I can deal with it. That it’s all right to let in the dark every once in a while; that it can help quell the restless feeling too. And it’s maybe even helped me understand a bit of what Zoe was feeling, that her coldness was nothing to do with me. It was about
her
, about trying to survive each day with the grief. Shame that understanding is too late now.

Or is it? I turn my head to take in the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral, my mind running in a million directions as images of the past two years float through my head. All the distance between us, the disconnection, the silence. Can we ever bridge that again? I can’t even start to think about that through the pounding of my head.

The cab pulls up to the hotel, and I climb out into the fresh morning air. The street is alive now, the cafés unshuttered and windows cranked open. I open the hotel door and force a smile at the receptionist, even though just that movement makes my temples explode with pain. Her eyes widen when she sees me, and my cheeks colour as I realise how I must look.

‘Did your wife find you?’ she asks, smiling benignly.

My brow furrows.
Ouch
. ‘My wife?’ Am I hallucinating, I wonder? Has that blow affected my hearing?

She nods. ‘Yes, monsieur,’ she says slowly, as if I’m a three-year-old. Right now, a three-year-old would probably be cleverer. ‘Your wife. She checked in late last night and she went to the hospital to find you. She has not returned.’

I move my head back and forth, trying to take in her words. Has Fiona somehow arrived early? Does this woman think Fiona is my wife? ‘What does she look like?’

The receptionist tilts her head, likely now really thinking I’m a head case. ‘Short, curly hair, pretty.’

Oh my God.

My mouth drops open. That’s
Zoe
. But what the hell is she doing here? Did she change her mind and come back again? ‘Thank you.’ Despite my throbbing head, I charge up the stairs and scrounge in my pocket for the key. I slide it into the lock and open the door.

Sure enough, she’s been here. The bed is rumpled, and a wave of guilt crashes over me as I notice the nightgown I purchased for Fiona. Zoe must have thought that was for her. I sink down on the bed and lower my aching head into my hands, and that’s when I spot a note. As I scan the lines explaining what’s happened, my guilt spreads until it sinks into every pore. While I was drinking, shopping, shaving – Christ,
clubbing
! – Zoe was wandering the streets of Paris with nothing.

Suddenly I remember the missed calls from the foreign numbers, and I grab my phone and dial voicemail. Her voice comes through, plaintive and scared, and I sink down as emotions swirl over me: regret, self-loathing and despair at my actions. I did try to find her, but I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t
want
to try hard enough.

My fist hits the bed. We may have grown apart, but I want her to be safe, to be happy, if she can. The anger I’ve carried towards
her these past years has somehow drained away, like the plug has been pulled on a boiling cauldron inside of me. I just want to see her now, to hug her and tell her she’s found.

And that I’m sorry.

My mobile rings and I jump. Could that be her?

‘I’ll be arriving in half an hour! Finally!’ Fiona’s voice chirps merrily through the receiver, its brightness like someone shoving a screwdriver into my eardrum. ‘You’ll be there to meet me, right? I was hoping we could get a late breakfast and then head to—’

Her voice cuts off sharply as the train enters a tunnel or something. I try to ring, but I can’t get through. The last thing
I want to do is leave the hotel room in case Zoe comes back, but I
don’t want to let Fiona wander around the station on her own either – not when she’s expecting me, and not when I’m about to blow her off after inviting her here for the weekend.

I grab a pen on the bedside table and scrawl beneath the note Zoe’s left me that I’ll be back in about an hour and to please stay put and wait. Then, just in case, I peel a hundred euros from my wallet and place them on the bed, wondering how on earth she’s survived the past twenty-four hours with no money.

As much as I don’t want to leave, I head back down the stairs and ask the receptionist to call me a cab to the Gare du Nord. She gives me a strange look but does as I request. A few minutes later, a taxi pulls up in front of the hotel. I clamber in, and the driver pulls away.

I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of Zoe’s curly head on the pavement, but soon the taxi is swallowed up by traffic on both sides and all I can see is other cars.

I’ll be back soon
, I tell her, hoping that somehow – even though I know it’s ridiculous – she can hear me.
Stay put. Just please stay put. I’m coming back.

58

ZOE, SUNDAY, 9.45 A.M.

M
y heart is pounding and adrenaline courses through my veins as I rush down the street towards the hotel. It’s not far but the walk seemed to take forever. Finally, I’m here. Edward would have seen my note by now; he’ll know I was mugged. I still don’t understand what happened with him, but I just want to see his face, and maybe . . . feel his arms around me.

I dash into the hotel, and the receptionist glances up from the computer screen.

‘Is my husband back?’ I ask, my voice coming out breathless and reedy. After all my exertions, I can barely breathe, let alone form words.

She nods. ‘Yes, he came back, but he left about . . . oh, fifteen minutes ago.’

My heart crashes so hard it hurts. ‘He left?’ I croak. ‘He hasn’t checked out yet, has he?’ I hold my breath. Surely he wouldn’t do that after reading my note.

‘No, he hasn’t checked out,’ she says, and I feel like I can breathe again. ‘He has gone to the Gare du Nord. I called him a taxi.’

I shake my head, trying to take in the words. The Gare du Nord? If he hasn’t checked out, why on earth would he go there? Unless . . . for some reason, he’s gone to look for me? That doesn’t make sense, though. Our tickets home aren’t until this afternoon, and he has them both. Why would he think I’m there, of all places?

An incredulous laugh bubbles out of me. This whole thing is getting ridiculous, as if we’re playing cat and mouse, popping into sight then hiding away again. I don’t feel like going up to the room, sitting down and waiting patiently for him to return. He’s gone to the station for a reason, and I’m going to go there, too – even if I have to sit and wait on the platform until our train home. In a way, it feels right, as if we’ve come full circle. Maybe we have.

I’ve no choice but to walk again, and the receptionist tears off a paper map and traces a route on the streets back to the Gare du Nord. I can’t help wondering what she must think of this very strange couple, back and forth and all over the city without intersecting.

Sharp pain shoots through my feet with every step, as if each tiny bone is cracked. My shoes have rubbed my tender feet raw, blisters dotting my soles like fleshy polka dots. I don’t care, because this is the final journey to find Edward. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

And so, after everything we have been through – and after everything that’s still ahead of us, because I know life is never easy and I still have some burdens to unload – I step back onto the pavement and cross through the square on my way towards him. The fountain sparkles in the sun, the soft hush a lullaby to my tired ears. A man and woman, their faces deeply wrinkled and hair white as snow, nestle together on a bench. Despite fatigue pulling at my bones, I can’t help smiling as the man gently tips his partner’s head back to watch a flock of starlings take flight, their dark bodies a sharp contrast to the red rooftops. Hope swells inside as I take in the couple’s upturned faces, swivelling in tandem as they watch the birds, and it strikes me that the beauty of this place – a perfect kind of beauty I used to scorn – is just what Edward and I need right now: untouched, unsullied, unmarked by our past mistakes.

The babble of the fountain is replaced by people chatting as they devour croissants on packed terraces, cars navigating the now-busy streets, and shopkeepers chatting over their wares. I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop’s front window, and I jerk in surprise. My hair is a mess, I don’t have any make-up on, and my T-shirt hangs off me, but I look . . .
alive
. It’s the first time in a long while that I’ve looked that way.

I quicken my pace, hoping Edward will still be at the station by the time I make it. If I don’t take a wrong turn, the receptionist said it should take me around half an hour. My breath comes in fast puffs and my mouth is dry, but I’m determined to get there as fast as I can.

I miss him,
I think again. I didn’t realise it; I couldn’t feel anything other than the blackness inside of me. But now, I sense his absence as keenly as if he’s been physically gone these past couple of years. I push past punters on the street, desperate to see his face. The closer that I get to him, the more I long to see him.

I plod on, the sun getting higher in the sky and the restaurants filling up even more. Finally, just when I think I can’t take another step, the façade of the train station comes into view. I almost collapse in relief, but I force myself to cross the busy road and go through the door. I stand at the entrance, people rushing around me, as I wonder what to do now. Should I stay in one place and try to spot him, or should I move around and seek him out that way? Every inch of me is dying for a rest, but something inside urges me on. After the paralysis of the past few years, I can’t be the one who stands still. I need to be the one who finds him.

As I circulate around the station, I can’t help thinking back to yesterday, almost twenty-four hours ago now, when Edward and I arrived. One day – one day, and I feel so different. I actually
feel
; something inside me has been turned on again. I’ll never stop blaming myself for Milo’s accident. That jagged sadness will sit on me for the rest of my life. But I do want to have a life now, and I want that life to include Edward.

I walk up and down the concourse, wincing with every step, ducking into the shops I spurned the last time I was here. Where on earth would he be? I stop for a second as passengers stream from one of the platforms, swarming the concourse. I scuttle back towards one of the cafés. The scent of coffee floats through the air, and I breathe in deeply. I’d kill for some caffeine right now. I move closer to better inhale the scent when my heart stops. There’s a man who, from what I can make out through the crowd of people, looks a lot like Edward.

Is it him? Could I have actually found him? Heart pounding, I squint to get a better look. He’s shaved his goatee and he looks like he’s been through the wars – there’s a bandage on his temple, and his shirt is grimy – but it’s
him
. Warmth builds inside and my lips curve in a smile as I try to cut through the crowd before him. I’ve no idea what he’s doing here, but I knew I’d find him. And now I have.

‘Edward!’ I call out, but my voice is swallowed up by the buzz of people around me. I lift a hand and try to jimmy myself through the sea of travellers. I’m just about to step over a glittery suitcase when something stops me in my tracks.

Edward’s not alone. Chatting and smiling by his side, nibbling on a croissant, is a slender woman with long blonde hair, the kind of hair I coveted as a child. He’s nodding and gripping a pink case, resting beside them. Unable to move, I watch as she puts a hand to the bandage on his forehead, then draws him in for a hug.

I watch the scene unfold as if I’m in another place, behind a one-way mirror. My mind works furiously as I try to place the woman. I’ve seen her before . . .
ah
. It’s Fiona, from Edward’s work. I’ve met her a couple of times at company functions, and she’s always been friendly with Edward – maybe a touch too friendly, although Edward and I laughed about it at the time. I attempt to unravel the chain of events, trying to understand why she’s here. If Edward arranged to meet her, he knew she was arriving. But why – why would she come to Paris?

I swallow hard as thoughts run through my head. Edward didn’t know I’d been mugged until this morning . . . he thought I’d gone back home. Did he ask her over, once I was out of the picture? A weekend with another woman, courtesy of his in-laws? Anger shoves out the glow inside me, anger mixed with hurt. How long has this been going on for? Is she the reason he’s been spending so much time at work? I didn’t think I could feel more pain, but apparently I can – pain and humiliation. My cheeks flush as I realise that nightgown, the champagne, weren’t for me. They were for
her
. My fingers slide down to my pocket, where the ring is, and a bitter laugh emerges. I guess now I know why his ring was off.

I stare at my husband, my eyes tracing his freshly shorn face. He looks more than ever like he did when we first met, but he’s a stranger. The Edward I know would never cheat on his wife. The Edward I know believed in family – in forever. Another stab of pain jolts through me, and nausea tears at my throat. The Edward I know is gone. How stupid, how naive, now absolutely
idiotic
to think otherwise.

I push blindly through the crowd, catching my foot on a suitcase and tumbling hard to the floor. As I fall, Edward’s head swivels towards me and his eyes meet mine, as if I’m a homing beacon.

‘Zoe!’ I hear his voice as I scramble on the floor, trying to right myself amidst the forest of legs and suitcases. I jerk to my feet and keep my head down, desperate now to get away. I found Edward, yes, but he’s not the man I want to find. And now, all I want is to crawl back inside myself, to put away the hope and let the familiar emptiness seep back in, blotting out the pain, the feeling, and leaving a void in its place.

‘Zoe!’ Edward’s voice fills my ears again and I hurry dazedly through the crowd, joining the stream on an escalator, and going down, down, down into the depths of the city.