Who We Were Before (4 page)

8

ZOE, JANUARY 2009

‘H
appy New Year!’

Kate’s voice is shrill in my ear, and I pull away from her sweaty embrace, planting a big fat kiss on her cheek. ‘Happy New Year to you, too.’

‘This is the year I’m getting married!’ She raises her hands in the air in victory, then leans drunkenly against Giles’ side. ‘Can you believe that this time next year, I’ll be a
wife
? Now we have to get you hooked up, Zoe!’

I roll my eyes at her familiar refrain as one of my favourite songs starts pounding through the air.

‘Come on!’ I grab Kate’s hand. ‘Let’s dance!’

I tug her away from Giles and through the crowd, elbowing my way onto the dance floor. Kate’s so smashed she can barely stand upright, so I grab her hands and move her back and forth in a crazed version of swing dancing, grinning as people around us give us funny looks.

I spin her around and we crash into bodies, but we’ve both drunk so much, we don’t feel any impact. Kate tries to spin me, too, but her arm somehow winds around my neck, tilting me to one side. She sways back and forth . . . then topples over in what feels like slow motion. I shriek as she pulls me down with her, feeling the damp of spilled drinks and I don’t even
want
to know whatever else seep through my tights. We lay there for a minute, both breaking out in huge guffaws as feet stomp around us and the bright lights from above hurt our eyes.

‘Can I help you get up?’

A deep male voice filters down, and my heart stops. For a second – for
just
a second – I think it might be Edward. I’ve often thought, or more accurately wished, for this since I met him. Then, a hairy arm reaches down and hauls me upwards, and I’m staring into the face of a bloke my height, a man without Edward’s long legs or, presumably, big feet.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, trying to ignore the disappointment crashing through me as I pull Kate to her feet.

‘What’s your name?’ Kate reaches out to steady herself. ‘Ooh, nice arms.’ She leans into me. ‘This is Zoe. She’s single and looking for love!’ It sounds bad enough normally, but with Kate’s drunken slur, it’s even worse.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ The man’s eyes bore into mine, and I shake my head.

‘No, sorry, we have to get going. Thanks.’ I hustle Kate off
the dance floor and back through the crowd, depositing her into
Giles’ arms.

‘Kate! For God’s sake!’

‘What? If you’re not going to try to find this Edward bloke, then . . .’

I shake my head. Ever since our failed rendezvous, Kate has been constantly at me to go to the South Bank, sit on that bench, and keep doing it until I find my man. And if I’m being truthful, I can’t say I haven’t done just that . . . every once in a while, when the weather’s nice, or when I have time, of course. I’ve even kept those silly socks in my handbag, just in case.

If only he’d given me his bloody phone number! If only the Tube had been working . . . if only. I’ll tell you one thing: if I do manage to find that bloke again, I’m going to get all his contact details, from phone number to Twitter handle. There’ll be no place to hide.

I sip my cocktail, trying not to vomit as I watch Giles slobber all over my friend. It’s funny that Edward’s in my thoughts so much, given we only spoke for five minutes. It sounds so cheesy, but something about us just
worked
 – in a way I haven’t experienced since my last relationship crashed and burned a few years ago. I’ve learned not to believe in a one-and-only, but out of all the dates I’ve had in the past year or so, I have to say that men like Edward – men I’d want to spend more than five minutes with – are thin on the ground.

We might end up hating each other after those five minutes, or he could reveal some hideous deformity. But one thing’s for sure: this year, somehow, I’m going to find out.

9

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.

I
stare at the mobile, then roll my neck and shoulders in a futile bid to ease the tension inside. I still can’t believe Zoe’s lied to me for so long, but in an odd way, it makes me feel better. Better about the past, and better about the present. Zoe’s not lost; she’s been doing what she wants, going where she needs to. Wherever she is, wherever she has been, she definitely doesn’t want me to know. And you know what? That’s fine by me. I just need to check that she’s all right before I can hit the streets and see what Paris has to offer. I’m not going to waste the trip here.

Right, last attempt. If she has gone home – and I can’t think what
else she’d be doing in a city she doesn’t even like – I can ask her parents to see if she’s there. If she turned around and went straight back, she could be home right about now. I don’t want to worry them, but they know as well as I do how difficult it’s become to track Zoe’s movements.

Sighing, I hit ‘call’ again, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage of it’s-been-way-too-longs. There was a time Zoe’s mother practically lived in our house. Her parents moved into the village a month after we bought our place there, wanting to be closer to their grandson. I know they drove Zoe crazy when she was growing up, always after her to study harder, dress more sensibly and stop wasting time in drama and art clubs. But once Milo appeared, she and her mum seemed to click, as if he was the missing piece of the puzzle. Zoe would actually call for advice: unheard of in her pre-Milo days.

I don’t even know if they still talk.

‘Hi, Helen, it’s Edward. Listen, can you pop round to the house and see if Zoe’s there?’

I hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘Zoe? Isn’t she with you? Jack and I were so pleased when she agreed to go along with you. We thought she might take a bit more convincing.’

I nod, wondering for the first time why she
did
decide to come. Why did I, for that matter? ‘Well, she was with me, but we got separated at the station when we arrived. Her mobile’s going straight to voicemail, and I just thought, well, if maybe all this was too much for her she may have headed home.’ Or something like that.

‘Oh.’ Zoe’s mum sounds disappointed, and I realise how much she must have been counting on this trip to jump-start her daughter. If only it were that simple. ‘Hold on, then. I’ll get Jack to run down and check.’

I hang up, picturing Zoe’s spritely, white-bearded father pulling on his wellies, heading out into the fresh spring air, and hurrying the short distance between our house and theirs. In the first few days after Milo died, that short distance was a blessing. The two of them were constantly there, filling the house with food and sound, unlike my parents who wanted ‘to give us some space’. Now that Milo’s gone, the presence of my in-laws so nearby seems superfluous, a reminder of what’s missing. I guess that’s why we both avoid them.

My phone rings, and I pick up. ‘Is she there?’

‘Well, Jack didn’t actually see her,’ Helen says. ‘But he did hear music, and the lights upstairs were on, too. Zoe didn’t answer the doorbell, but then, that’s hardly unusual.’ Her voice is tight.

I let out my breath. ‘Okay, thanks.’ So Zoe
did
do a runner, I think as I click off. Well, at least I know she’s safe. My jaw clenches, and I get to my feet. Shit, could she not even tell me she was leaving? What kind of person gets on an intercontinental train, then takes off back home without even a phone call?

My wife, I guess. My wife.

Before the familiar cocktail of anger and despair hit, I pick up my phone again and dial a number.

‘Fiona?’ I say quickly, trying to hold the feelings at bay. ‘Want to come to Paris?’

10

ZOE, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.

T
he sun slants from the sky as I wander down streets, turning this way and that. I don’t even know what time it is, since I always use my mobile. Without anything tying me to my life, I feel like I’m about to float up and away, into the dazzling blue heavens. If only.

People push past me on the pavement, muttering under their breath as they nip my dragging heels. As I catch sight of myself in a shop window, I can only imagine what they’re thinking. My salt-and-pepper curls are tangled, my cheeks are hollowed out, and my grey T-shirt hangs like a tent. Clients always exclaimed how young I looked, and whenever we went out, I was sure to get ID’d – much to Edward’s embarrassment, since at five years my senior, he always joked he was robbing the cradle. I peer closer, noting the perma-bags under my eyes and the wrinkles etched on my forehead. Now, I suspect people would be surprised how young I actually am.

If I look older than my years, Edward’s gone the opposite direction – or he’s trying to, anyway. He’s never been a hipster, keeping Gap in business with his regular supply of basic shirts and baggy jeans. Lately, though, he’s started using gel to get a quiff, his baggy jeans are skinny, and even his normally crinkled work shirts are slim-fitting and crisp. It’s like he’s trying to shed his old self, to evolve into something new, while I’ve been rooted to the spot, barely able to brush my hair.

I wonder what he’s doing now? I start walking again, turning down a narrow street. That one time I went off the radar, he moved heaven and earth to find me – calling the police, scouring the station, driving our car through the streets . . . At least that’s what he told me. A car whooshes by and my head snaps up, almost as if I expect to see him driving by now. Has he informed the hotel staff I’m missing, maybe made some inquiries what to do next? Or have I disappeared too many times for him to really worry?

Paris is different than I expected – at least this part is. I don’t spot many tourists, the Eiffel Tower’s nowhere to be seen, and I reckon I must be miles from the river. Quirky galleries and shops line the street, the kind I’d have rushed into in a heartbeat way back when. Now, I let myself drift by, their wares passing in a blur.

Up ahead, I spot a gendarme, hand on hips, surveying the street. I stop for a second, my mind whirling. I could talk to him, tell him what happened, and ask for help. He’d lend me a phone, help me find my way back to my husband. But that’s not what I want – I want to stay here, in this unknown landscape, where nothing makes sense and I don’t need to try: try to block out the past, try to shut my eyes to the dreadful familiar, try to force myself to breathe. If I stop taking in air, well . . . I’m already a skeleton, anyway.

And maybe it’s better I stay in this state, that I
don’t
find my way back to Edward. He’s doing fine; he’s moving on, if his new wardrobe is any indication. That, and the fact he’s rid the house of anything to do with Milo, cleansing it of any trace of our son.

Pain flares when I remember that morning, barely even two months after the accident, when I hauled myself from bed amidst the noise of ripping packing tape. I stumbled through the door of Milo’s room – what used to be his room, anyway – recoiling like I’d had a punch to the gut. The once-cluttered space, packed with toys, books, nappies and baby clothes I hadn’t the heart to pass on, was stripped to its bones, a carcass of what it used to be. The mattress stared at me like an accusing eye, the bookshelves screamed their barrenness, and guilt streamed down the bare walls like a waterfall. In the middle of the space knelt my husband, emptying the toy chest into one last cardboard box.

Packing up my son. My soul.

I wanted to scream, to kick the box and let the contents fly out. Instead, I stood there, frozen with hurt and disbelief. How could he do this? How could he consign our child to the past, when he’d only just gone? And how the
hell
could Edward not ask me first? That one action put us firmly in two separate spheres, and we’ve remained there ever since.

I walk even faster now, moving past the gendarme and away from my husband.

11

EDWARD, JULY 2009

I
don’t think I can stand the rest of this date, even on the off-chance of the night ending back at mine. Nod nod nod; sip sip sip; nod nod nod. Who knew so many breeds of horses existed? The way this woman’s on about them, I’m sure human males are a disappointment.

Julia – or is it Julie? – pauses to shovel in some lettuce, and I take the opportunity to signal for the bill. It’s only gone seven and the sun’s still high in the sky, but I have to get out of here now. That’s the peril of online dating: the girl might look nice on a computer screen, but there’s no mute in real life. The more dates I go on, the more I can’t forget Zoe, ‘South Bank Girl’, as my friends have taken to calling her with a roll of the eyes. She’s the one I really want, but it’s been over a year now since that day we met, and despite my frequent trawls along the river, I’ve yet to see her again.

I need to forget her, I know. If Zoe really was interested, she would have turned up that rainy evening. I probably scared her off with my pathetic pick-up line. What the hell was I thinking? I usually need a good three or four drinks before approaching women like that. It’s definitely not something I should do sober.

I shake my head as Julia drones on, recalling how I sat on the bench in the rain, cold moisture trickling down the back of my neck and wind whipping my face. I was already soaked through to the skin, but that didn’t matter. For the first time in ages, I was excited about meeting a woman, even if we’d barely spoken. Zoe’s laughing eyes – okay, and bloody fantastic legs – had looped through my mind 24/7, making my routine workweek suddenly seem full of possibility. I’m normally a local pub kind of bloke, but I’d spent hours researching and planning our date: a walk along the river, a drink at the Founder’s Arms, then all the way down to Borough Market where we’d have dinner at a new restaurant that just opened. I was even prepared to wear those hideous socks – and given my usual colour palette of black and grey, that’s saying something. That’s how much I liked what I saw.

After about forty minutes, my fingers turned numb with cold, I was drenched, and I had to accept she just wasn’t coming. That’s what you get for taking a punt. I dragged my waterlogged self back home, then drowned my sorrows in Heineken.

‘Shall we make a move?’ I ask now, scraping back my chair as Julia finishes her salad. I’m not even sure why she suggested this place on the South Bank, seeing as how she’s only eaten a handful of rabbit food. I usually meet internet dates at the café around the corner from my North London flat, so I can make a quick getaway if they turn out to be like Julia.

At least it’s not pouring with rain tonight, I think, holding open the door as we walk out to the terrace. The golden sun flares in my eyes and I slip on my glasses, trying hard to suppress a yawn.

‘Which Tube do you need to catch?’ I ask to make it clear I won’t be accompanying her anywhere else, and vice versa. Her long face gets even longer, and a pang of guilt goes through me. Apart from the horse fixation, she’s a nice girl with a good body . . . but she’s definitely not for me. Zoe’s face flashes into my mind for the countless time, and I sigh, pushing it away.

‘I can go from Waterloo,’ Julia says, then launches into a long story about her favourite horse growing up. Her voice washes over me and I stare out at the river, gleaming now in the evening light instead of its usual sludgy brown.

No more internet dates
, I decide. I’ve met loads of nice women, but none of them appeal. Maybe it’s not the women. Maybe I’m not ready to settle down. Thirties are the new twenties, right? So I still have plenty of time. Look at what happens to all my mates once they’re in a relationship: they disappear, emerging with new haircuts, pastel jumpers and a dazed grin. I should enjoy my freedom while I can.

Even as the thoughts run through my mind, though, I know that I
do
want to settle down. I’m thirty-five now, and I want to find
my future wife and start building a life together. If Zoe
had turned up a year ago – and if she turned out to be who I thought she might be – I’d happily be wearing a pastel jumper right now. Christ, I was going to wear pink socks!

I wave Julia off just outside the station, then wander back to the river, wondering what to do. It’s still early, the weather is perfect, and I don’t feel like heading home to my stuffy flat. Ever since I moved into London proper, the walkway by the Thames has become my spiritual home, as lame as that may sound. I can wander on my own for hours there, just watching the water.

I’ll have a drink at the Founder’s Arms and combine my two favourite pleasures: the river and beer. I pick up pace, already antici
pating the frothy bubbles slipping down my throat. As I near Zoe’s
bench, I can’t help casting my eyes towards it, the same way I have countless other times this past year
.
It’s normally occupied, but that person is never Zoe. There’s no reason to think that this time, it’ll be
any different. And even if it was her, she’s probably long forgotten me.

Still, I have to check. As usual, someone is sitting there, and it does look like a woman – hardly something to shout about, since the chance is 50:50. I squint, only just making out the back and forth movement of what looks like knitting needles, and my heart jumps. How many people knit? And on that particular bench?

The same dark hair, lovely curvy legs and pixie-like face come into view, and before I get any closer, I duck behind a tree. I’ve no idea what to say to her! Shit, I hope she hasn’t seen me. First the lame pick-up line, and now she’s going to think I’m stalking her. You’d think after all this time, I’d have come up with an opening gambit, but my brain is blank.

She makes a move as if to gather her things, and I jerk out from behind the thick trunk. Even if she does reject me, I’m not going to miss out on talking to her again. Striding towards her, I can hear my pulse whooshing in my ears. I wish I’d had more of that wine at dinner.

‘Still have those socks?’ The words fly from my mouth and I mutter a curse under my breath as my cheeks heat up. I stop in front of the bench, jamming my hands in my pockets in a way that I hope looks casual, and not as if I have a misshapen dick.

Her head flies up and her coffee-brown eyes meet mine, the eyes that have been haunting me since I first met her. They widen in what I hope is recognition, then crinkle at the corners as she smiles. ‘You!’ The word bursts from her in a laugh. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’

‘Did you
want
to?’ I make the question sound like a joke, but I’m serious. After all, she never did come that night.

She nods. ‘Yeah, of course I did. And I’m so sorry I never made it to see you, like we arranged. There was a problem with the Tube, and I guess by the time I got here, you were gone. I didn’t have your mobile to let you know.’

Relief rushes through me and I lower myself down beside her on the bench, trying to keep my eyes from the rise of her breasts
underneath the tight white shirt. So she
did
come, I think, breathing
in the soft scent of her perfume. I knew I should have waited longer. If I hadn’t been approaching hypothermia, I would have.

A warm glow builds in my stomach, like I’ve downed a shot of whisky, and I turn to face her. ‘So, do you?’

‘Do I what?’ she asks, her brow furrowing in a cute way.

‘Do you still have those socks?’ I grin as she rummages around in her handbag, thinking that there’s no way she still has them in there, but hoping, too, that she does. That means she’s been thinking about me as much as I have about her.

She holds them up triumphantly, and my smile gets bigger. God, those things are hideous. ‘I knew something good would come from never cleaning out this bag. I
do
still have them.’ She tilts her head. ‘And are you going to make good on your promise?’

‘Well, that depends.’ I pause, my gut churning. ‘Are you going to go out with me tonight?’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ve been waiting a year.’

I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, but I can’t help it. I take the socks from her, jimmy off my shoes and black socks, then pull on the pink knitted ones. They barely come to the back of my heel, they’re itchy as hell, and I look ridiculous, but I don’t care.

If I could, I’d stay here in this spot, with her, forever.