Who We Were Before (23 page)

70

EDWARD, TWO MONTHS LATER

I
’ve got to get out of this house. I cram jeans and T-shirts into my suitcase, barely even noticing what I’m packing. It’s not like I’ll see anybody I know in Majorca, where I’ve booked a week’s getaway. The holiday will do me good, I think – give me a break from knocking around the place on my own. I don’t know how Zoe could stand being here alone. I guess she couldn’t. I still don’t know where she went every day, I realise.

It doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting the hell away from this building, where the emptiness is a constant reminder of what is gone. Even work, where I used to bury myself, has lost its hypnotic power. And Fiona, well . . . we don’t talk. I don’t have the energy; don’t have the drive. All the anger I felt after Paris has burned out, leaving hollowness in its wake.

Now where the fuck is my passport?
I pull open the drawer in my bedside table and root around inside, squinting as a flash of gold meets my eyes. What’s that? I move aside some envelopes, and there it is: my wedding ring.

My mouth falls open as I pick it up, looking inside the band, tracing the script inside.
Our own happy ending.
My fingers close around it, and I sink onto the bed as my mind whirls. I lost this ring in Paris, I know I did. I can picture perfectly the moment I took it off, lying there as the man shaved away my beard. And I remember the moment I discovered it was gone. How has it ended up here?

My eyes close, and images fill my head. Zoe smiling as she slides the ring on my finger. Her eyes lighting up as she reads the identical inscription inside the next day – our first day as husband and wife. We may not have our own happy ending, but we did have a lot of great times, and I’ll never forget those. Part of me will always love her, I guess, and nothing life throws at me will take that away. Not even her withholding a pregnancy, a pregnancy we were both desperate to have.

I sigh, thinking of that day in Paris. It’s true I could have responded better, but my anger wiped everything out. In the weeks that followed, I wanted to sit down with Zoe and talk – to hear what happened, what the doctor said, and more about why she didn’t tell me. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t talk. My insides were locked up tightly, a corked bottle stopping anything from escaping. I guess that’s what it was like for Zoe, too, once Milo died.

Funny how I understand that now.

I open my hand and stare at the ring on my palm, then slide it into my pocket. I’ll decide what to do with it later. Now, before I take off to the airport, there’s somewhere else I need to be. Two years ago today, Milo died, and I want to visit his grave. I tried to get Zoe to come with me last year, but I’m not even sure she heard my requests.

I cross the kitchen, my footsteps echoing in the silence, then open the door. Outside, it’s a beautiful day, and the sound of bird
song meets my ears as I make my way down the narrow road, pausing
where I think the accident happened. I’ve asked Zoe so many times to show me – I just need to know – but all she could do was shake her head and turn away from me.

I take a deep breath as I remember the night of the accident. Once Zoe finally passed out on the bed, I pulled on my jacket and boots, then walked down this road at a snail’s pace, trying to find something, anything, that would give me a clue what happened – or rather,
why
. I never found any answers, but I did uncover something else. By the side of the road, Milo’s orange welly lay wedged between the branches of a bush. I fished it out, ignoring the scratches on my arms, thinking Milo would need this tomorrow; it was supposed to rain . . . and then my legs gave way as reality sunk in.

I don’t know how long I sat there, by the side of the road, that night. But I do remember getting up, carrying Milo’s boot in my hand, then placing it with the other one in the bag of his personal effects they’d given us at the hospital. Staring at those small, glossy wellies, encased in crinkly plastic now, made me double over as every bit of air was squeezed from my body, replaced by something I can only feebly describe as
pain
. It was too much to bear, and I forced myself to straighten up and move. I made it through the rest of that night by making a start on funeral details, busying my mind with logistics and concrete items, as a way to keep the horror at bay.

And that’s what I’d been doing ever since, until Paris. Until even now, I guess, remembering my reaction to Zoe’s news and how I tried to stave off anger and grief by concentrating on selling the house and throwing myself into work – and escaping to another country.

I’m tired of running,
I think, stopping in front of the gate to the churchyard. I’m so, so tired, and it’s not working any more. Maybe it’s time to finally stand still, to face what my life has become head-on. Once this trip is over and I have a chance to relax, I’ll think about how to do just that.

The church gate squeals as I push it open, and I make my way to my son’s grave. I reach out to stroke the top of Milo’s tombstone, and my fingers touch a slender band. It’s Zoe’s wedding ring. I don’t even need to look inside to see the inscription to know. Finally, after all this time, she’s made it here. My eyes go from the script on the tombstone to the ring in my hand, and I understand instantly why she left it. What we had – our family, and the happy ending – is gone.

A great sadness comes over me and I sink to the ground, not even caring that the sodden wetness is seeping into my trousers. I can’t bear to leave her ring here, along with my son, so I slide it into my pocket with my own.

I stay at the grave a few minutes longer, then head back to the house, grab my suitcase, and retrace my steps to the train station. A few minutes later, a train pulls into the station and I get on.

71

ZOE

A
s the train heads back towards Waterloo, a strange emotion steals over me . . . something like peace; something I haven’t felt in years. Accepting Milo’s death and how it happened feels like someone has brought my son back to me, as if I now have permission to remember him and his life. And permission to live my own, too.

I stand as the train nears its destination, threading through the busy corridor towards the doors.

‘Ouf!’ The train jolts and I crash into a solid form, my breath knocked from me. My eyebrows rise in surprise when I spot who it is. What on earth is he doing here?

‘Sorry,’ Edward says, reaching out to steady me.

‘That’s all right.’ I straighten up and try to catch my breath. I start
to move away, but Edward takes my elbow.

‘Wait,’ he says, then runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are red and his clothes hang off him, like he’s lost weight. ‘Look . . . I’m sorry for how I reacted when you told me about the pregnancy. Losing the baby, well, I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it was to go through that by yourself. You took me by surprise, that’s all – not that it’s an excuse.’ He shakes his head. ‘You knew how much I wanted another baby, and I couldn’t believe you didn’t tell me. Not only because I needed to know I
could
get you pregnant again, but because I was desperate to be there for you too.’

I meet his eyes. ‘I should have said something, and I’m sorry I didn’t. I just . . . couldn’t. I wanted to keep her safe, away from everything, away from the world. I wanted to keep her locked inside.’

Edward nods slowly, and I can see from the expression in his face that something I’ve said rings true for him. ‘How are you doing, anyway?’

‘I’m . . . I’m okay.’ I’ve said that countless times, but now, I think I actually mean it. ‘Business is picking up after a slow start. I like my new place, and I’m even knitting again.’ I hold up the jumper. ‘I made this for Milo. I know it’s silly, but I’m going to make him one every year.’

Edward picks it up, a smile on his face. ‘It’s not silly at all. I think it’s great that you’re doing that. And knitting again, too. But no fluorescent socks?’ That cheeky grin I remember flashes across his face, and I can’t help smiling back.

‘Maybe next year.’ We stare at each other for a minute as memories tumble through my mind: that first night on the South Bank, losing each other, meeting up again and him wearing those hideous socks . . . and then everything after that. Sadness and pain stir inside, and I take a deep breath as the door hisses open. ‘Oh, we’re here. Well, it was nice seeing you.’ My gut contracts as the words leave my mouth.
Nice
seeing
you?
It’s like I’m saying goodbye to a stranger, not the man I’ve been with for years.

We are strangers, I remind myself, even though looking at him now, he resembles the man I knew: baggy clothes, shaggy hair, terrible beard. I have to stop myself from reaching out to tidy it.

I clamber onto the platform, forcing step after step, faster and faster, away from him. If I stop now, I know I won’t be able to start walking again. I’ve just reached the main concourse when I feel someone touch my shoulder.

‘Zoe, wait a second!’ Edward sounds breathless and I spin around to face him. ‘What are you doing right now?’

‘Right now?’ I repeat, wondering where he’s going with this. ‘I’m going back to my flat. Why?’

‘Do you want to go for a drink?’ He runs a hand through his hair in a gesture I remember so well. ‘Okay, it might be a bit early for a drink. Maybe . . . a walk by the river?’

I meet his eyes, thinking it would be nice to chat. We may not be together any more, but he still has a piece of my heart – he always will, I guess. And it’s just a walk, after all. ‘Sure. But do you have somewhere you need to be?’ I gesture to his suitcase. ‘I mean, where were you off to?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says, waving a hand in the air. ‘I’d rather be with you.’ He smiles and his eyes crinkle up, then he takes my arm and leads me out of the station and onto the terrace of the South Bank. The sunny spring-like day has clouded over; a wind has come up and I shiver. Edward puts his arm around me to keep me warm, and I find myself relaxing into him.

‘Want to have a seat?’ he asks, pointing to our bench.

I stand for a second, staring down at the familiar wooden slats. This place is our starting point, the beginning of our journey, where we found each other. Now here we are again – but we’re not back to where we started. We’ve been pulled apart and separated by grief, our marriage stretched to the breaking point.

But, as I meet my husband’s warm eyes, I’m not sure it
has
broken. It was battered, a tender bruise we pressed on too many times without letting it heal.
We
needed to heal – separately – before we could come together again. Before we could finally find each other.

‘Yes,’ I say, settling onto the bench and pulling him down beside me. ‘Yes, I do.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A
huge thanks, as always, to India Drummond, Mel Sherratt and Glynis Smy for their continued encouragement and advice over the years. I couldn’t ask for three better people to cheer me on! Thank you to everyone at Amazon Publishing, especially Emilie Marneur for her support and enthusiasm for this book. Thanks, also, to my editor, Sophie Wilson, for her thoughtful suggestions and input. And, of course, a big thank you to my wonderful agent, Madeleine Milburn.

Finally, thank you to my husband and son for letting me wan
der around the house in a daze, figuring out plot lines while burning
dinner. I love you both.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leah Mercer was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on the east coast of Canada. By the age of thirteen, she’d finished her first novel and received very encouraging rejections from publishers. Leah put writing on hold to focus on athletics, achieving provincial records and becoming a Canadian university champion in
the 4 × 400-metre relay. After getting her BA,
she turned to writing again, earning a masters in journalism.
A few years later she left Canada and settled in London, where she now lives with her husband and their young son. Leah also writes under the name Talli Roland, and her books have been shortlisted at the UK’s Festival of Romance.