Who We Were Before (3 page)

4

ZOE, JUNE 2008

‘I
’m sorry, but you’ll need to make those a few sizes larger.’

A male voice cuts across the
click click click
of my knitting needles, and I shield my eyes against the bright sun as my gaze travels upwards. Baggy jeans with a hole in one knee, a boring checked shirt, dark hair and insanely long lashes I’d kill for. At least he doesn’t look crazy, homeless or drunk, which is usually what you get when strangers speak to you in London. Plus, he’s cute.

I lower my needles. ‘A few sizes larger? Why?’

He plops down on the bench beside me, and I notice he smells damn good, too – a mix of vanilla and spice, just right.

‘Well, I have rather large feet.’

He stretches out a leg, and even though it’s such a rubbish pick-up line, I can’t help smiling. His cheeks are tinged with pink, as if he’s embarrassed himself, but he meets my eyes with a grin.

‘You mean you’d actually wear these?’ I shove my half-finished creation his way. Bright-pink yarn edged with green probably wouldn’t be his first choice of socks. I wrinkle my nose. Truthfully, it wouldn’t be mine, either. I’m not the world’s best knitter by far – my repertoire extends to socks and scarves – but the repetitive motion is so soothing, and I love looking at a pile of yarn and transforming it into something else, even if that something is full of dropped stitches and unravelling seams.

‘If I agree to wear those,’ the bloke says, tilting his head to the side, ‘will you let me take you out to dinner?’ His cheeks are even redder now, but his gaze is steady.

I laugh, trying to imagine him in bright-pink socks. ‘It’ll take me a bit to finish them.’

‘How long?’

I shrug. ‘A week, maybe.’

‘Okay, then.’ He nods with a determined expression. ‘I’ll meet you here next week, same time, same place. Bring the socks, and I’ll buy you dinner.’

I stare up at him, trying to decide if he’s worth the risk of a potentially painful blind date. Either way, it might be worth the dinner just to see him wear these socks. I like the forthright way he strolled
up and asked me out – I even like the way he blushed. Confidence without arrogance, and a willingness to push his boundaries: so far, so good. Anyway, it’s not like I have hundreds of viable men to choose from. I
keep waiting for men to improve with age, but thirty-something blokes
my age are just as bad. Okay, so he’s an absolute stranger and we’ve only just met, but we’ll be right here in broad daylight on the South Bank, and he’s hardly going to jump me over dinner.

‘Why not?’ I say, trying to sound casual, but feeling nervous excitement at the thought of an evening together.

‘Brilliant.’ His face lights up, and I can’t help smiling, too. ‘My name’s Edward, by the way.’

‘Zoe.’ I extend my hand, praying he doesn’t have a limp, sweaty grip that’s an instant turn-off. But his fingers curl warmly around mine with just the right amount of pressure, and now
my
cheeks colour as a tingly feeling starts up in my tummy.

‘See you here next week, then. And don’t forget the socks!’ And with that, he strides off before I can even ask for his phone number.

5

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 1.30 P.M.

T
he taxi turns onto a narrow, dead-end street, and through an arch at the end, I can see a grassy square – the Place des Vosges, I reckon. I wonder if Zoe is there now, stretched out on the grass, arms flung out as she soaks up the sun. A true sun worshipper, she used to drive me crazy with her insistence to lie outside and bask, the way cats constantly flop on sunny patches. I picture the way her skin would turn the colour of almonds, and my mind flips to a memory of tracing my finger down the inside of one leg . . .

I shift, forcing my mind away from that image. These days, I’d be lucky to even get near a bare leg. Frigid doesn’t come close to describing my wife. It’s more like— shit, I don’t know. What’s colder than frigid? About a year ago, I casually mentioned we could start trying again for another baby, something to revive our home, to fill it with laughter . . . and, just maybe, bring us back together. But apart from going off sex, Zoe’s also gone off the notion of family. She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility with me, even if – despite all our attempts – it is just that: a possibility. Guilt sweeps through
me once more that I couldn’t give her another child, back in the days
when we longed to add to our family, when we were on the same page. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this place right now.

I pay the driver and tug our small case out of the back seat, then duck inside the narrow entrance to the hotel. The reception is small and dark, dust hanging in the air and the ceiling pressing down as if the building is enforcing on you just how old it is. I should have been expecting something like this: Zoe’s parents pride themselves on finding ‘authentic’ hotels, steering clear from bland chain hotels in favour of quirky, the kind of thing
The
Guardian
would describe as a ‘hidden gem’. Fingers crossed our room at least has an en suite.

‘Edward Morgan, checking in,’ I say to the woman behind the desk. ‘My wife might be here already?’ I slide the mobile from my back pocket – still no messages, apart from a smiley face from Fiona and a reminder to have a drink for her. I can’t help grinning in return.

The woman rifles through an antiquated filing system. Clearly they’ve never heard of computers here, along with dusting. ‘Ah yes, monsieur. No, your wife has not been here.’

‘Oh.’ I raise my eyebrows. If she hasn’t come here, where else would she go? And why hasn’t she rung? I look at my watch. It’s only been a couple of hours since we parted ways at the station. She has her mobile, she has her wallet, and she’s a big girl. I’m sure she’ll turn up, just like she did those other times. I’ll enjoy this time away from her while I can. Perhaps she’s trying to do us both a favour, reducing the unbearable time we spend together.

I take the key card from the receptionist and climb the twisting stairs, shaking my head. Sometimes, I can’t get my head around the fact that we’ve become this couple: two people who
can hardly stand to be in the same room – so much that one half has actually disappeared.

I fling the suitcase on the bed, then close the door again and head back outside. Zoe can do whatever the hell she wants.

I’m going to have that drink for Fiona.

6

ZOE, JUNE 2008

I
’m meeting Edward on the South Bank tonight, and of course it’s raining. Not the soft, gentle rain that hangs in the air, making halos in the streetlamps and adding a softness to London, as if
you’re seeing the city through a filter. No, this is a driving rain out to get you, paired with a biting wind that flips umbrellas inside out
with such ferocity the spokes break. The kind of rain that makes you want to crawl under your duvet and knit another pair of socks, not drag your work-weary self to a windy, waterlogged bench on the river.

As I log off my computer at work after yet another crazy day designing websites for clients who haven’t a clue, I contemplate blowing off my meeting with Edward. For all I know, he could be the world’s biggest twat, a borderline alcoholic who’ll get blind drunk, or one of those blokes who take you for dinner and think you owe them a shag.

As if on cue, my mobile bleeps.

All set for tonight?

I think my best friend Kate has more invested in this date than I do. Ever since she got engaged to her ‘one and only’ (as if that exists), she’s been desperate to pair me up, too. I think she feels guilty about moving from our two-bedroom flat to live with Giles (
Giles!
), even though she’s agreed to keep paying rent until she finds someone to take her place. So far she hasn’t, and that’s fine by me. I loved living with her, but I’m also happy with my own space at the end of the day.

Not sure I’ll go
, I text, leaning back in my chair as my mouth stretches into a yawn. Already I’m fantasising about that turquoise yarn, and after the day I’ve had – the day I have
every
day – I’m craving making something just for me. When I first went into web design, I had grand visions of creating artistic masterpieces my clients would truly appreciate. In reality, though, it’s all about budgets, ease of use and trying to explain that no, you can’t use your son’s photo on the product page just ‘because he’s cute’. Still, it’s better than lots of jobs out there, and the one time you do get a client who gives you free rein makes it all worthwhile. Plus, I work with a great group of people who can usually be counted on to join me after work for a drink, or hit a random gig if I have a spare ticket.

The shrill ring of my mobile jerks me upright, and I sigh as I spot Kate’s name.

‘Not going?’ she squeals before I can even say hello. ‘Are you on drugs? Do you know how hard it is to find a man once you get past thirty? They’re either married, about to get divorced with loads of baggage, or bachelors for life. You’ve had a man – a cute man, based on what you said – practically land in your lap. You
have
to go!’

I roll my eyes. Talk about pressure! But I suppose she’s right. I’m in no hurry to settle down, and marriage couldn’t be further from my mind, but I do want to be with someone. I’ve tried online dating for months at a time and got absolutely nowhere, so why not? I smile, remembering the cute way his cheeks turned red and how he hurried off as if he was scared I’d change my mind. Anyway, I don’t have his number to cancel, and I hate to think of him sitting on that bench in the rain, waiting for someone who never comes. I glance down at the lurid-pink socks in my handbag, smiling again as I picture them on his feet. His feet
were
quite large, it has to be said, and if that myth has any truth to it . . .

‘Okay, okay, I’ll go.’

‘Good. Make sure to ring me afterwards. I want to hear everything.’

I hang up and stand, glancing at my watch. I’d better get a move on if I don’t want to leave him waiting too long. From my office on Warren Street, it’ll take about thirty minutes to hop on the Northern Line and make my way to Waterloo, then over to my favourite bench by the river on the South Bank, where we met last week. As it is, I’ll already be about ten minutes late. I spritz on some perfume and shut down my computer.

The streets are a combat zone of stabby umbrellas, and by the time I get to the station my feet are wet and my hair is whipped across my face. I approach the entrance only to see the attendant pull down the iron grate that blocks the entrance.

‘Sorry, folks!’ he bellows. ‘This station is closed due to overcrowding. There’s a signal failure at Camden Town and no trains are running at the moment.’

Bloody Northern Line!

Rain pelts down on me as I stand in the swarming crowd, trying to decide what to do. Should I try for a bus? I’ve no idea what buses to catch, or how long it’ll take me. I spend the next ten minutes or so trying to find my mobile in my black hole of a handbag, then frantically opening the browser to plan my new journey. Just as I’m about to push back up the stairs, the grate opens and the crowd surges forward.
Phew!

I leap off the train at Waterloo and dodge the rush-hour com
muters towards the exit to the South Bank, splashing through puddles
and running down stairs until I’m out on the riverside terrace. It’s empty except for a few forlorn souls, and my heart is pounding as I race towards the bench at the far end of the walk. Given I almost didn’t even come, it’s funny how much I want to see Edward now. I squint, trying to see if there’s a person on the bench, but it’s still too far away to make out.

I’m sure he’ll be there, I think, breath tearing at my throat as I fly past the National Theatre. Okay, it’s pouring rain and I am a little late – a
lot
late – but still. Finally, the bench comes into focus and my heart drops.

It’s empty, except for a pigeon pecking away at God knows what. I shoo off the bird and flop down, trying to catch my breath. As the minutes tick by, rain soaks through my trousers and my hair is plastered to my forehead, but I don’t care. I stand and pivot in a circle, straining my eyes for someone coming my way. The walkway is deserted.

He’s not here. Either I missed him, or he didn’t turn up. Whichever, it doesn’t really matter. Water trickles down my cheek, but I don’t know whether it’s a tear or a random raindrop. I let out a laugh, telling myself not to be ridiculous.

How can you feel like you’ve lost something when you never had it in the first place?

7

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 2 P.M.

N
ow that I’m sitting outside in the sun, a frothy beer on the table in front of me as the parade of chic Parisian women march by, I’m starting to unwind a bit. I’m on my second pint, and it’s taken the edge of the niggling guilt that I should be doing something to find my wife. Is it so bad that I
don’t
want to find her? If she were here now, she’d be staring into her glass of wine or gazing blankly down the street. We’d be sitting in silence, just like we did the whole train ride over, and I’d be itching to get away. Away from the permanent reminder of grief and loss that radiates from her with every breath, away from the bleakness of the past two years.

Anyway, I’d bet a hundred pounds when I get back to the hotel, she’ll have checked in. I gulp my drink, watching the punters come and go from the tables around me, then take a selfie of me with my beer and send it to Fiona. My phone buzzes straight away and I grin, picking it up.

Looking good! Have another for me. Xxxx

I’m not going to argue with that. I flag down the waiter and order a third, sipping it slowly as the clenched fist of tension inside me relaxes even more. It’s been ages since I’ve drunk this much, but right now, the soporific, numbing effect is doing the trick. Ever since Milo died, I find it hard to sit still longer than a minute. Even at the funeral, Zoe reached out a hand and, without looking at me, pressed on my knee to stop my jiggling leg. That only worked for a minute.

Reluctantly I finish my drink and stand. I can’t put it off any longer – I need to go back to the hotel. As I plod down the street back towards our ‘gem’, I pray the effects of the alcohol will be enough to get me through the rest of the day. What will we do? A sombre dinner, a forced march along the Seine, like two lovebirds whose monogamy has become a death sentence?

‘Ah, monsieur.’ The receptionist stops me in the entrance, and I turn, sure she’s going to say Zoe has checked in. Automatically, my shoulders tighten at the thought of the two of us in that tiny room.

But the receptionist just smiles and says if I need any extra towels, to let her know as the hotel is a member of such-and-such green scheme,
blah blah blah
. I nod and squeeze into the coffin-sized lift, the thread of worry I buried under booze rising up again. It’s one thing to disappear back home, and another to take off in a foreign city.

What the hell could Zoe be up to?

It’s not like she knows the city. I remember her saying, years
ago, when we were discussing honeymoons, that Paris is
such
a cliché
and that, if we were going to embrace tradition, we could at least go somewhere more exotic. I’d clamped my lips closed; Paris would have been my suggestion. It didn’t matter in the end. With her morning sickness, we ended up in Dorset.

Maybe she ditched Paris all together? She could be home right now. But why would she even bother coming, if she felt so strongly about it? Can she not bear my company so much that she needs to reverse direction to get away from me? Despite myself, I feel a pang of hurt and rejection at the thought. I shake my head, thinking that’s what we’ve both been doing for the past two years: reversing directions from each other, like two magnets that once attracted, now flipped upside down, repelling.

I try Zoe’s mobile one more time, but once again, it goes straight through to voicemail. Sinking down on the too-soft bed, I tap my foot on the rug, trying not to inhale the resulting cloud of dust. What to do now? I’m not keen to wait around the poky hotel room in case Zoe reappears, but I need to do something to make sure she’s okay.

I bet Kate knows where she is. Those two used to drive me and Giles crazy whenever we all went out together, giggling and whispering over God knows what. They’ve always been close, and Kate was such an enormous help when Zoe got pregnant – against all expectation. I definitely owe her.

I pull up her contact and hit ‘call’, then stretch out my legs on the bed and stare up at the ceiling fan slowly pushing the air.

‘Edward!’ Kate sounds surprised to hear from me, and I can’t blame her. I’ve been so busy working that I can’t recall the last time we spoke. Kate’s always been more Zoe’s friend than mine, and our usual interactions – over lengthy lunches with Giles burning steak on the BBQ as the kids go wild in the garden – came to an abrupt halt with Milo’s death. I can hear the clamour of children now in the background, and a mixture of longing and sadness burns in my chest. I wanted that so badly, to fill the bedrooms of our house and to fill our hearts. If only . . . I shake my head. Where to start?

‘Hi, Kate. Sorry it’s been so long since we chatted. We really should meet up soon.’ I grimace, thinking how much I don’t want to do that. Giles has given up his job to write novels, constantly bleating on about complex and boring plot lines. ‘Anyway, just wondering if you’ve heard from Zoe today?’

The line is silent for a few seconds, and I wonder if we’ve been cut off. ‘Kate? Hello?’

‘I’m still here,’ Kate says slowly. ‘Um . . . no. No, I haven’t heard from Zoe today. I don’t think I’ve heard from her for the past year, actually.’

What?
I swing myself up to sitting position, as if that will help my hearing. Has Kate just said she hasn’t heard from Zoe for the past
year
? On the rare occasions our conversation progresses past needing loo roll, sometimes Zoe tells me – in a slurred voice, her eyes unfocused – she’s been out with Kate, who now lives in a neighbouring village. It’s obvious the two of them have a drink together (quite a bit of drink, if Zoe’s old level of high tolerance is anything to go by), but I never worried. I was happy Zoe was out there, doing something, even if it wasn’t with me . . . It gave me hope. At least she wasn’t knocking around the house on her own, I thought.
Drinking
on her own.

So much for that.

‘Sorry, Kate.’ I speak slower and louder, in case the line isn’t clear or Kate can’t hear me properly over the shrieks in the background. ‘Did you just say you haven’t heard from her in over a year?’

I hear a door close, and then silence. She must have escaped to another room. ‘It’s been at least that long,’ Kate says. ‘Not that I haven’t tried. I can’t tell you how many times I rang or came to the house. Zoe never called back or answered the door – I’m not even sure she was home.’

I nod, Kate’s words flowing over me. If Zoe isn’t home, and she isn’t with Kate, what does she do all day . . . besides drinking? Where does she go? A sharp pain jabs my gut as I picture her slumped alone, po-faced in an empty pub – a stark contrast to the animated girl who’d drag me clubbing, laughing as we pulled crazy dance moves on the packed floor.

‘Is everything okay?’ Kate’s tone is tinged with concern.

‘Fine, fine. Everything is fine.’ The words leave my mouth automatically, the same way they have over the past two years. I think I believed that if I said them enough, everything
would
be fine. It had to be.
Time is the best healer,
and all that.
I wish.

‘Please tell her I miss her,’ Kate says. ‘God, we’ve been friends for yonks, and been through loads together. I wish I could help her through this too, you know? I want to be there for her.’

I swallow. ‘I know.’ And I really do, except I’m not sure I feel that way any more. I did want to be there for her. I
tried
to be. I tried my best to help. But how can you help someone who won’t just let you in, but who is also
lying
to you? Anger builds as I realise Zoe hasn’t merely been sleepwalking through our marriage these past couple of years; she’s been pushing me away, lie by lie.

We say goodbye and I hang up, then stand and open the window, gazing out across the rooftops.
Where are you?
I want to scream, and I know I don’t mean just now. Wherever my wife has disappeared to – here, at home – I don’t think she’s coming back.