Who We Were Before (22 page)

66

ZOE, SUNDAY, 12.45 P.M.

I
’ve been walking by the river for almost an hour now, I guess, and it’s time for me to make my way back to the Gare du Nord. Just the thought of the long trek makes my feet throb painfully, but this is the last leg of the long journey I’ve been on this weekend. One more time, and then it’s over. I’ve done more exercise today than in the past two years combined.

I spot a set of stairs leading up to a bridge and I quickly make my way towards them. I’m eager to traverse the Marais for the last time, to get on that train and head back . . . although I’m not sure the word ‘back’ is the right one. I’m going forward, finally, with the past inside me.

A touch on my arm makes me whirl around, and my mouth drops open. There, right in front of me, is Edward. I blink to make sure I’m not imagining things – I have been out in the sun all weekend, I haven’t eaten and I’ve barely slept – but when I open my eyes, he’s still there. I do a quick scan to see if Fiona is anywhere in sight. He goes to take my hand, but stops suddenly, letting his arm swing down by his side.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask when I’ve recovered from the surprise. Christ, he looks absolutely dreadful – and he doesn’t smell so great either. His shirt – one I don’t recognise – is stained, and his eyes are bloodshot. My eyes widen as I notice the stitches on his forehead. ‘Are you all right?’

He nods, grimacing at the movement of his head. ‘I’m fine. It’s a very long story. Well, not that long, actually. I went out to a club, I got drunk, I hit my head.’

Edward?
Clubbing
? I try to keep my face neutral, reminding myself that I really don’t know this new Edward at all.

‘Look, about Fiona . . .’ He tries to take my hand again, but I move it firmly behind me.

‘You don’t need to tell me anything,’ I say, stepping back in case he tries to touch me again. I don’t think I could take it. ‘I understand.’

‘You do?’ His eyebrows shoot up.

‘Well, sort of.’ I force a shrug. ‘I mean, we’re not together, are we? We haven’t been for ages. I know you tried to get through to me after Milo’s death, but I . . . I didn’t
want
someone to get through to me.’

There’s a silence, and we both stare out at the river. ‘I don’t think my way of coping was much better,’ Edward says finally. ‘I wanted
to make a new start and forget everything. But I realised you can’t forget everything; it just keeps coming back. It might have taken a knock on the head, but I finally got it.’

A half-laugh burbles out, and I reach up to touch his stitches. He sucks in his breath and I jerk back, realising what I’m doing.

‘Sorry.’ I glance down at the ground, thinking how weird this all is. I feel like we’re really talking, finally, but it’s too late.

‘So what now?’ Edward holds my gaze, his eyes boring into mine. I stare back, feeling that familiar connection spark between us for the first time in years.

I shrug. ‘We head back to Cherishton. We put the house on the market, and we go our separate ways. I think that’s the easiest thing.’ It won’t be easy at all, but I don’t want him to see that. He’s moved on to other women, and even if our relationship can barely be qualified as one, I can’t say that doesn’t hurt.

‘The easiest?’ Edward takes my hand, and this time, I let him. I don’t have the energy to pull away. ‘Since when have we ever done things the easy way?’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing happened with me and Fiona. I thought you’d taken off, and I was angry. I’m not saying it was the right thing to do, but I called Fiona to come. Her train was delayed, so I went out and partied . . . and got so drunk, I fell into a wall.’

I can’t help a small guffaw escaping, and Edward shakes his head. ‘I know, I know. Pathetic, right? That’s when I realised I was just running, trying to escape from everything.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘I don’t want Fiona, or anyone else in my life, for that matter. I want
you
.’ He takes a breath. ‘Can we . . . maybe . . . try to be together again? I don’t think we’ve done that since Milo.’

I look down at our hands, entwined together without our wedding bands, and I think how marriage doesn’t have the power to bind – only the actions of two people can do that. ‘Forever’ and happy endings aren’t a given, and life can be shit, just like the woman on the train said. But perhaps you do need to have faith, too. Faith in yourself, and faith in your relationship.

I take a deep breath.

‘I have something I need to tell you,’ I say. I don’t know how he’ll react that I’ve kept the pregnancy hidden from him for so long, but I know I need to tell him – for me, if not for us. I’ve enough guilt and blame inside of me, and right now I feel like he can help me carry it. I trust him to help me carry it.

‘Okay.’ He motions me over to a bench and we sink down, side by side, my mind flitting back to how we used to sit by the river for ages, back in London. Edward turns to face me and takes my hand. ‘What is it?’

I meet his eyes, scanning the face I know so well. Without his beard, he looks naked somehow, and vulnerable. I fill my lungs, and push out the words.

‘I found out I was pregnant the day before Milo died.’ Even as I speak, a cloud inside of me releases a tempest of grief. I can’t even look at Edward as I carry on. ‘I lost the baby,’ I say in a whisper. ‘I lost her three months after Milo’s accident.’

My words hang heavy in the air between us. I glue my eyes to his again, wondering what’s going through his head. His face is frozen and he shifts his stare to look out at the river – away from me. He lets my fingers go and they slide limply from his grasp.

‘Edward?’ I say, when the silence has stretched too long and I can’t take it any more.

He turns towards me, and I flinch at the shock mixed with hurt in his eyes – a look that says I betrayed him. Again.

‘Three
months
? Three months you knew, and you didn’t tell me?’ His voice shakes, and my heart starts banging in my chest. ‘How could you not tell me something like that?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my mouth going dry. ‘I should have, I know,
but after Milo was gone, I couldn’t cope. Couldn’t
talk
. I was afraid
 – just so afraid. And then when I lost the baby, well . . . it was too much. Too much to even think of getting out the words.’

Edward jerks like I’ve slapped him in the face. ‘
Too much
? Too much to tell your husband you were pregnant? Too much to let me know you had a miscarriage?’ His leg starts jiggling. ‘I wanted to be there for you. I
tried
to be there for you – all those years we were together. But once again, it’s about what you want, isn’t it? What you can deal with. Never mind what it might mean to me. Never mind that not getting you pregnant was eating me up inside –
has
been eating me up inside. Never mind that just knowing I could would ease the pain a fraction.

‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Edward continues in a cold voice. ‘You weren’t even going to tell me you were pregnant the first time, either, were you?’

I struggle to breathe as his words hit me like bullets, trying to grasp the words clawing at my throat. But they slide away and more pop up faster than I can grip onto them, and all I can do is sit in silence.

‘Let’s go.’ Edward stands, towering over me. ‘The sooner we get back, the sooner we can put an end to all this.’ He strides off towards the stairs and I’ve no choice but to follow. Bitterness and resentment cloud the air behind him, and I turn my head to gulp in oxygen. I should have told him, yes. I knew it was hard for him, that he took my not getting pregnant as a personal failure. Perhaps I didn’t know how much, but still.

I trusted him. I took a leap of faith. I fell on cold, hard ice, and everything inside me rattled and jarred.

But I haven’t cracked.

67

EDWARD, SUNDAY, 1 P.M.

A
s I cross the bridge, fury propels me forward. I’m not even tired
any more – at least, I can’t feel it. All I can feel is a blind, burning
rage. How could Zoe not tell me she was pregnant? How, for three hideous months after Milo’s death, could she keep that to herself? Sure, we were in a daze, barely managing to hold it together. I couldn’t slow down to sit for a second, let alone talk to anyone. But news of another baby – of a glimmer of hope, in the darkest time of my life – would have helped, would have given me something to briefly hang onto, even if it came to an end.

And it’s not just that. This whole time, these whole two years, I’ve been beating myself up for not being able to give us another child before Milo died, for my body failing us. Nothing would make Milo’s death easier, of course. But knowing my body didn’t cop out – that I
did
give us a chance at life – might have kept my heart from hardening. Because that’s exactly how I feel right now: hardened. I picture Zoe going through a miscarriage alone, and my only emotion is anger. Anger that she didn’t let me in; anger that she went through that alone, rather than leaning on her husband. Does she hate me that much?

So much for her promise never to lie. This is the worst kind of lie possible – again.

I spin to where she’s trotting behind me, words forming then dying on my lips. There’s so much more I want to say, but I don’t have the energy to begin a conversation. There’s no point, anyway. I must have been mad to think we could start over.

I flag down a taxi and wave Zoe in, then ask it to take us to the Gare du Nord. Everything feels like a strange déjà vu, except I know this won’t be happening again. We’ve come full circle, right back to the place where we started the weekend, and I can’t keep on cycling any more. Once we get home, I’m finished. We’re finished.

Forever, happy endings . . .

Fuck that.

68

ZOE, ONE WEEK LATER

‘A
re you certain you want to do this? I’m sure your parents would be happy for you to stay with them as long as you need to.’ Kate wipes a hand across her brow as she helps me pack the last box of clothes.

I nod, thinking how good it is to have her back in my life. I rang her up as soon as we returned from Paris, and even though she was surprised to hear from me and has a million things of her own going on, she was only too happy to help – the sign of a true friend. ‘I’m sure. And yes, they did say I could bunk in with them. And Edward said I could stay here as long as I needed to.’ I tape the box closed and sit back on my heels. ‘But honestly, I need my own space, you know? Where I can try to build a life again.’ I sigh, gazing around the room as memories hit me at every turn. ‘It’ll be hard to leave this house, but I have to.’ I’ve rented a studio flat back in North London. It’s tiny, but I can’t wait to make it home. This place hasn’t been home for years.

Kate nods and reaches out to touch my arm. ‘I get it.’ She shakes her head. ‘But I still can’t believe that after everything you both have gone through together, this is the end.’

‘It’s
because
of everything we’ve gone through,’ I say. ‘It’s just too much for one relationship – well, for
our
relationship, anyway – to carry.’ Edward’s face when I told him of the pregnancy flashes into my mind, and I shudder. The anger and coldness reminds me of when he first saw Milo after the accident, as if I’d devastated him twice. The whole way home, in the taxi, then the train, then another train, we didn’t exchange a word. He didn’t even look at me, but this time was different. This time, there was no cold indifference. This time, I could feel the fury coming off of him in waves.

I was angry too. Angry that my faith in us had been misplaced. Angry that after that weekend, the weekend where I thought we might actually have a chance of making it again, we were broken – a clean snap, the pieces separated. But this time was different for me too. This time, I wasn’t going to retreat into grief and sadness. This time, I was going to make a life. It wouldn’t be how I thought my life would turn out, but I think I can still be happy, if I let myself.

‘Where is Edward now?’ Kate asks, helping me carry the box downstairs and placing it next to the other boxes by the front door. For someone who has lived here for almost four years, the pile is
surprisingly small. There’s not much I need to take, besides my meagre
wardrobe. Everything else I’ll leave for Edward to use until he sells the house. And, of course, Milo’s room has been empty ever since Edward packed it up all those months ago.

‘
At work, I guess.’ I shrug, wondering if he’s with Fiona. A pang of hurt hits, but I push it away. We’re not together any more, even in pretence, and he can do what he likes. I gaze down at my bare ring finger, wondering what I should do with my wedding band. I put Edward’s in the top drawer of his bedside table, and . . . I swallow hard against the rising sadness. Perhaps I can take mine to a pawnbroker. I could certainly use the cash until I get my freelance business back up and running.

‘Okay, I guess that’s everything,’ I say a few minutes later, when all the boxes are loaded in the car. ‘I’ll be out in a sec. Just want to take a quick look and make sure I’ve got everything.’

Kate nods and pats me on the back, and then she’s gone. I stand in the doorway, gazing at the kitchen. Milo’s laughter floats through my mind, and I picture the toys scattered around the floor; the thud of the door as Edward comes home and scoops up his son, then turns to me with a huge grin as we have a group hug. Then I blink, and all I can see is an empty space, the only sound the steady dripping of the tap.

‘Goodbye,’ I say, closing the door softly behind me. I don’t know who I’m talking to – my vanished family, my son, my husband, or the mother who lived here – but I know that somehow, I’ll be okay.

69

ZOE, TWO MONTHS LATER

H
ouses whizz by me, chimney after chimney blurring into one. I’m on the train back to Cherishton, back to the tiny, moss-covered graveyard where Milo is buried. Two years ago today, I lost my son. I lost
me
, in the haze of grief and blame. I’ll never get Milo back, but accepting that he’s gone has let me start to find my way to who I am. And after all this time, I can finally visit Milo, too. I haven’t been able to do that until now.

I stare down at my hands clutching the bag with Milo’s jumper. It’s royal blue, with a huge pirate on the front. It took me ages to knit – I spent a good two hours every night – and it’s full of holes and funky stitches, but I don’t care. With every row, I felt like somehow, I was connected to Milo. He’d be four now, probably skinny, all elbows and knees like his father was. I hope he’d like pirates; Kate’s kids are all mad about them. Strange how I used to think I’d fall apart if I thought of my son. It hurts like hell, but it’s also comforting, like I’m keeping him with us. With me.

The train pulls into Cherishton and I get off. I walk through the station and the turnstiles, then hurry down the track to the church off the green. It’s a beautiful June day, and the trees are bursting with fragrant blossoms and green. The church gate opens with a clang, and I make my way up the cobbled path. I haven’t been here since Milo’s burial. That day is a blur, but somehow my subconscious seems to know exactly where my son is.

I pick my way between several tombstones, and there he is.

Milo Morgan, 2011 – 2013. Beloved son of Zoe and Edward. The beginning of our own happy ending. Rest in peace.

I jerk back.
The beginning of our
own happy ending
? I don’t remember reading that before, but then, I could barely see straight at the funeral, let alone focus on the tombstone, and Edward took care of all those details. It’s an echo of our rings, a nod to the fact that Milo brought us together, that he did set us on the path to our happy ending. We never got there, but he was part of us from the very start, even if there’s no ‘us’ any more.

I reach into the bag and touch the jumper, then change my mind. Milo’s not here in this damp earth. He’s inside me, in my mind, and I can’t bear to think otherwise. But there
is
something I want to leave. I slide my hand into my pocket and take out my wedding band. For the last time, I run my finger over the inscription, then place it on top of the stone. I don’t know why, but it just feels right, as if it belongs here, along with all the other hopes and dreams I laid to rest. This ring is part of another life, a life that ended with my son.

I place a hand on the grave, whisper that I love him and that I’m sorry, then turn to go.