Who We Were Before (15 page)

44

EDWARD, OCTOBER 2011

O
ne year. One year of husband and wife. A year ago today, we exchanged vows, exchanged forevers. I raise my flute of champagne in the air, marvelling at how quickly the year has gone. I know everyone says it, but time really does fly once you’ve had a child. It’s a visible reminder of how quickly things change and grow. I can’t believe Milo is six months old now, flailing and grunting as he tries to crawl. He’s a persistent little guy who doesn’t give up, which usually results in tears and screams until I manage to distract him. Zoe finds it hard, I know, but that trait will serve him well later in life. The persistence, I mean, not the tears.

I smile, meeting Zoe’s eyes across the sofa as she sips her drink. It’s been a wonderful year full of firsts, and nostalgia stirs in my stomach that this is the end of that year. Being jammed in a tiny flat in the heart of a noisy city doesn’t exactly make things easy, and having a baby has definitely put an end to us going out – but our little boy makes it all worthwhile. We’re a family, a solid unit of three, and I love how having Milo has connected us in a way nothing else could. I can’t wait for the next chapter in our lives.

‘Oh, that tastes so
goooooood
.’ Zoe takes another sip of her champagne, eyes rolling back in her head in bliss. After a difficult start, she’s still breastfeeding, so she doesn’t drink nearly as much as she used to. ‘You know, this is just as good as going out. I don’t think I have the energy to even comb my hair, let alone leave the flat.’ She yawns and drains her glass. Milo’s teething and was up half the night. We were too, taking shifts of endless rocking and walking until he managed to drift off. I feel like a zombie, but excitement darts through me when I think of what I’ve organised for this evening.

A knock on the door makes me jump from the sofa. Right, time to put the plan into action.

‘Who’s that?’ Zoe’s brow furrows. ‘Did you order dinner already?’

I shake my head as I cross the room. ‘All will be revealed,’ I say in a mysterious tone.

‘Hello! Happy anniversary!’ Zoe’s parents cram into the tiny space, her father nearly tripping over Milo’s walker.

Zoe unfurls from the sofa. ‘What are you two doing here?’ she asks, giving them a hug.

‘Babysitting duties, and that’s all we’re allowed to say.’ A smile creases her mother’s face, and Zoe raises her eyebrows at me in surprise. Over the past year, we’ve thought about getting her parents to babysit so we can go out – just for a meal, after Milo’s down at night. But . . . I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him with others, even if it was his grandparents. What if he cried? What if he needed to be put back to sleep, in that jiggling/patting way with the song only we know? It didn’t take much to bring Zoe round, and so we’ve basically kept the takeaway companies in business this year.

I’m still uneasy about leaving Milo, but this . . . well, this is for all of us. This is for the next stage of our lives. It’s a bold move, but I think Zoe’s ready. I know I am. We’ve talked about it loads, and I think she’s come round to the idea.

‘Babysitting? Really? Well, in that case, come in!’ Zoe ushers her parents into the room, whisking toys and other baby paraphernalia out of the way. She turns to me with a grin. ‘I know I said I was too tired, but it
would
be nice to go out and do something. Thank you, honey.’ She puts a hand on my arm, and I bite my lip. Yes, we’re going out, but it’s probably not exactly what she thinks. ‘Just let me get changed and throw on something that hasn’t been peed or drooled on!’

‘You always look good,’ I say, meaning it. No matter how tired she is, or what she’s wearing, Zoe has a way of lighting up a room. ‘Anyway, you don’t need anything dressy. What you’re wearing is fine.’

‘For our first night out in bloody forever?’ Zoe shakes her head. ‘No. No way. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be right back.’

I chat with Zoe’s parents for a bit, filling them in on Milo, his latest accomplishments, and what to do if he wakes up.

‘Okay, ready!’ Zoe appears in a cloud of her favourite perfume. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her wearing make-up and ‘normal’ clothes that my mouth drops open. God, she looks sexy. I can’t wait to get her back here tonight.

‘You look fantastic.’ I kiss her glossy lips.

‘Very nice, darling,’ her mum says. ‘Now, you two go off and have a good time. I’ve got the mobile right here and we’ll call if we need you. Go!’

Zoe laughs as she shoos us out the door. ‘You don’t need to tell me twice. Come on, Edward!’ She grabs my hand and tugs me down the stairs. ‘God, it feels so weird not to be carrying Milo or any of his stuff! So, where are we going, anyway?’

I wag my finger in the air. ‘No questions. Just wait and see.’

‘Okay . . .’ She takes my arm, and we walk down the busy pavement towards where I’ve parked the car. Now that the plan is underway, doubts start to creep in. Maybe I should give her a heads-up; tell her where I’m taking her. She thinks we’re going to dinner, or the theatre, or any of our old haunts. Where we’re going is new territory for us both.

‘Ooh, the car! So it’s somewhere outside the neighbourhood. Hmm.’ She climbs in, and I close the door and start the engine, navigating the packed roads as we cross the city.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Zoe asks several minutes later, when we’ve left London behind us. ‘Is it one of those country pubs? Or a country home with a fab restaurant? Come on, Edward, give me a hint.’ She pokes my side.

I squint at the satnav. ‘Almost there. I think. Just around this roundabout . . . ah, here we are.’ I smile as I navigate the narrow country road into the village of Cherishton in deepest, darkest Surrey. The village has great transport links, with a fast train into Waterloo. That’s one of the reasons houses are so pricey around here, I reckon, but I’ve found one I’m sure Zoe’ll fall for. I certainly have. Putting in an offer without talking to her first was risky, but it’s not binding and I didn’t want to lose the house to anyone else. This place is perfect for us.

‘It’s pretty here, isn’t it?’ I glance sidelong at Zoe as we enter the chocolate-box village, complete with thatched cottages lining the road, a village green flanked by a pub, a church and a post office, and even an organic shop and café. Making their way down the pavement are two mums laughing and chatting, each pushing a buggy. The trees glow yellow as the sun sets, and I can see by Zoe’s expression that she’s impressed too.

‘It’s like something from a postcard,’ she says. ‘But why are we here?’

‘Just wait.’ I turn onto a small side street past the church, and right at the end is my dream home.
Our
dream home, I hope. In estate-agent speak, it’s an old stone farmhouse, built in the mid-1800s and recently renovated to a high standard. There’s a huge kitchen with an island and breakfast stools, a separate dining room, and a homey lounge with a massive fireplace. Upstairs, our master bedroom with en suite is at the front of the house, and at the back are two bedrooms, another bathroom and a box room that Zoe can use as her office.

But best of all is the garden, accessible through French doors from the kitchen. It’s at least an acre, completely enclosed by mature trees and bushes, so Milo can run around safely with no chance of escape. Already I can picture a slide, some swings and maybe even a trampoline for him to work off that excess energy. Milo tearing across a dappled garden, chasing a ball. A kitchen where more than one person can enter without having to perform a manic version of Twister.

Bloody amazing.

I pull in to the driveway, the gravel crunching under the car wheels.

‘Why are we stopping here?’ Zoe asks, slicking on more lip gloss. A woman inside waves through the bay window, and I wave back. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Well,’ I take a breath. ‘You know how we’ve talked about getting a bigger place, but we can’t afford to buy in the city?’

‘Yes . . .’ Zoe tilts her head, her eyes darting from me to the house and back to me.

‘I signed up to an estate agent’s website a while back. They’ve been sending me alerts whenever new properties come up. I just wanted to get a sense of the market – not seriously look or anything – but then I saw an email about this one. I managed to get a viewing yesterday after work, and, well . . . it’s incredible.’

Zoe’s mouth is opening and closing. ‘You want to live
here
?’ The way she says the word, it’s as if I’ve asked her to pack up and move to the Sahara. ‘I know we talked about moving further out, but this is the freaking countryside!’

I swallow. ‘Okay, so it’s not right in London, but it’s not far, either. We can still come in whenever we want. And wouldn’t you like to have your own office? And a garden for Milo to run around in? Just . . . room to spread out?’

Zoe’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the wheels spinning in her head. It is a lot to absorb, but once she sees the inside of the house, I know she’ll be won over.

‘Extra space would be nice,’ she says finally. ‘But—’

‘Come on.’ I lean over to kiss her and undo her seat belt. ‘Don’t say anything more until you see the rest of it.’

‘The outside is pretty,’ she says, somewhat grudgingly. Stones line the walkway, and trees arch overhead. The glossy red door looks like it’s beckoning us in.

I take her hand and together we walk up the pathway. Then I bang the heavy knocker against the solid door, waiting for the estate agent to open up. The door swings open, and I try to keep the excitement off my face when I take in, once again, the wide corridor with solid oak floors, the skylight letting in the last rays of sun, and the lovely cream walls. If possible, I like it even more than I did when I saw it yesterday.

‘Come on in,’ the agent says, ushering us into the warm interior and out of the crisp autumn evening.

Half an hour later, we’ve poked into almost every nook and cranny, and the agent is looking at her watch.

‘I hate to rush you, but I have a viewing across the village in just a few minutes,’ she says. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as the vendor tells me anything about your offer. They’re overseas so it’s always hard getting in contact.’

I nod, wincing as I catch a look of surprise on Zoe’s face. I wanted to be the one to tell her about the offer I put in, and perhaps – perhaps I should have talked to her before making it. But I was so confident she’d like this place . . . I can’t tell a thing from the carefully neutral expression on her face right now. I’ve tried to catch her eye all through the tour, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze. I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t been wrong.

‘So what do you think?’ I say to Zoe when we’re back in the car.

She clicks her seat belt closed and shifts in her seat. ‘What did the agent mean about your offer? You already made one without talking to me first? Shit, we haven’t even looked at other places yet!’

‘I know, I know, but this house . . . well, isn’t it ideal? There’s been a lot of interest, and I didn’t want to lose out. Anyway, we can always pull the offer if you don’t like it. Of course we’ll make the decision together.’

It’s so quiet in the car that I can hear the muffled song of birds outside.

‘Look, I know this is a huge change for us,’ I continue, ‘but think of how brilliant it’ll be for Milo. The roads are safer, we’ll actually get to know our neighbours, and the estate agent says the primary school is outstanding.’

Zoe sighs. ‘It’s a wonderful house,’ she says finally. ‘Great space, lots of original features, and I love the garden. Obviously you’ve already made up your mind.’ She pauses. ‘It’s just so far away from what we know, from our life now. We love the city, popping out with Milo to the café around the corner, or hopping on the Tube to central London.’

‘And that’s fine at the moment,’ I say, ‘but what about when Milo can walk? He’ll want space to run and play, not cafés and museums. This move isn’t about us, it’s about him – our family.’ A family I really, really want to grow. What’s that saying: new house, new baby?

‘You know what? You’re right.’ Zoe smiles, but I’m not sure it reaches her eyes.

‘Really?’ I’m almost afraid to ask in case she changes her mind, but I want to be sure. The last thing I want is for her to be unhappy because she thinks she’s making
me
happy. I want this to be our dream together.

She nods. ‘Yes. It is a beautiful house, and it’ll be great for Milo. The garden is amazing, and really, if we do want a night out, there’s that fast train, right? Anyway, it’s not like we go out a lot now. It’ll be an adjustment for sure, but I’ll get used to it.
We’ll
get used to it.’

‘I love you, Zoe. This is going to be perfect.’ I put my arms around her, pulling my wife as close as the seat belt allows. I’ve loved living in Zoe’s flat – there’s so many memories there – but a place we own outright, a space we can make our own?

I’ll finally feel like I’m home.

45

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 10.45 P.M.

T
hrough my alcoholic haze, I’m vaguely aware of my mobile ringing. I glance down, noting it’s Zoe’s parents, then see that an unknown French number has rung me at some point, too.

Ah, whatever. I slide the phone into my pocket again and stand, the night swinging around me. Now I remember why I don’t drink much: beer gives me the spins, and I know I’ll spend half the night with one foot on the floor praying to get off the self-induced merry-go-round. Zoe used to call me a lightweight, and compared to how she used to be, she was right. Before she had Milo, she could down tequila shots like water, then carry on as if nothing had happened. I’d have one shot and stagger around for the rest of the night. Talk about role reversal.

That wasn’t the only role reversal in our marriage, I think, lurching towards the pavement. I was the one pushing for our dream house, I was the one wanting another child. And with Milo, I was the one seeing danger at every turn, the one who’d get up when he cried while she slept through. I reckon if men could breastfeed, I would have done that too.

I’m not complaining. I loved that time with my son, the early mornings when the house was still and the sky outside was just beginning to lighten. I’d wipe his tears and scoop his warm limbs from bed, cuddling the limp, barely conscious body on my lap, rocking him back and forth until he felt ready to face the world with a huge yawn and a wiggle.

A shot of anger darts through the layers of alcohol I’ve wrapped around me. Why couldn’t Zoe have watched him more closely? Why couldn’t she have held his hand with just that much more strength? Is it really so hard to keep a child –
our
child – safe? I know I said I don’t blame her, and I don’t . . . for the most part. But even though I told her it could have happened with me, it wouldn’t have. Not a chance.

I forgave her . . . or did I? Every so often, like right now, when I’m not expecting it, rage ambushes me, swarming over me like an army of biting ants, making every bit of me prickle and sting. She lost our child. She let him go. Sometimes I can’t bear to be near her. Most times, lately. I can’t wait to sell that house and get back to the city, back to the river where I used to walk for hours.

Back to the life I had before.

I lurch towards the hotel and my bed, the anger I felt at Zoe propelling me forwards. Suddenly, my rage is focused on her, like she’s the lightning rod for the horror and pain of the past few years. I want to track her down, to shout and let loose all my fury, to vent in the face of her indifference. My life is shit, and it’s all her fault.

I’m about to pull open the hotel door when I change my mind. The last thing I want is to lie on the bed and watch the room spin for hours. I’m solidly drunk, and I need to wait for that to wear off. Besides, my anger has given me a spurt of energy so intense I swear I could run a marathon without stopping.

A group of blokes about university age swarm past me, laughing and shouting in American accents about some all-night club that’s supposed to be nearby. I’ve never been one for clubs, but right now, I’ll take anything that’ll give me a chance to work off this buzz. I’m drunk enough not to care how ridiculous I look when I dance.

‘Hey!’ I raise a hand, and their heads swing back towards me. ‘Can you tell me where this club is?’

A few of them lift their eyebrows quizzically at the sight of me, and I’m suddenly aware I’m old enough to be their father. Well, maybe not, but I probably look that way to them.

‘Sure thing.’ One of them beckons me forward. ‘Come on, we’ll take you there.’

I fall into step with them, trying not to show how drunk I am. Their easy banter fills my ears, everything from picking up hot chicks to . . . more hot chicks. I smile and shake my head, feeling every minute of my forty-one years. It seems like aeons since I was single and out drinking with my mates. Being a husband, fatherhood and tragedy all create an ocean between me and them.

But these blokes don’t know any of that. All they can see is an old guy who wants to have a good time. And damn it, I’m going to if it kills me. I’m sure tomorrow that I’ll feel like it will, but I’ll deal with that later.

‘It’s right here.’ One of the blokes points to a nondescript door down some stairs. I can already hear the bass booming, and I follow them down the steps and hand over crumpled notes to the man at the door. Inside the club, the air is dank, and I blink against the strobe lights flashing at a blinding pace. The music is so loud I can feel it vibrating my insides, and I’m constantly jostled as people push around me. It’s everything I would have hated a few short years ago, but now I welcome the assault on my senses.

I fight my way to the bar, then order two tequila shots. I down them both and head out into the crowd again, onto what I think must be the dance floor. As the alcohol slowly burns its way down my throat and into my gut, I feel my body start to move as the beat takes hold, like something primitive inside me is responding to a tribal call. I shake my head back and forth, and everything blurs in front of me.