Who We Were Before (5 page)

12

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3.30 P.M.

A
s soon as I hang up from my call to Fiona, guilt prickles. Yes, my wife has abandoned me here without so much as a word, but I
am
married . . . if that still means something. I glance down at my ring, remembering just how much it used to mean, back when I believed that bond could carry us through anything.

Am I ready to sleep with Fiona? Because I’m sure that’s what she’s expecting. You don’t invite a woman to Paris without sex on the agenda, and if we’re sharing a room, then it’s a given. There’s so much I like about her: the way she focuses in on me whenever we’re together, as if I’m the only thing in her world. The easy way we talk and laugh, with no hidden meanings or added layers. How she’s a blank slate, reflecting only the
good
things in me . . . the way I want to see myself once again. Not to mention her fantastic body; the woman has an arse Beyoncé would die for. I shift in my chair, getting horny just thinking of it.

Although we’ve never crossed the line from friends to something more, I know we’ve both thought about it. Last night, when we went for a drink after work (or, more accurately, several drinks), I leaned in to kiss her goodbye on the cheek. She turned her head, and my lips brushed hers – just briefly, but enough to feel the air spark between us. Having sex with Fiona is just what I need right now, but sleeping with someone else really does put the final stake in my marriage: the point of no return. Is that what I want?

Aw, fuck it!
My fist slams down on the dingy duvet cover. I’m tired of sitting here, tired of thinking of my wife. The silence of the hotel room presses on me, and I get to my feet again. I have a few hours to kill before Fiona arrives, and now that the alcohol is wearing off, that familiar restless feeling is making my legs twitch. My body throbs with fatigue from the long workweek and the late nights, but my feet carry me back to the lift and out to the street again.

I shield my eyes from the late-afternoon sun and pivot, not sure where to go. Down the street past the rows of cafés, or under the arch and into the square? It’s the first time in ages I haven’t had something to do, work to go to or people to meet. The glint of a fountain draws me towards the square, and I walk under the archway and sink onto the grass. Closing my eyes, I let the sound of the fountain fill my ears. The
ssssshhhh
of water against concrete reminds me of the Thames lapping the walkway, and that same blissful calm washes over me. It feels so good to sit, to be still for once, and to let the water numb my thoughts.

I missed the river when we moved from London. It brought me and Zoe together, a benevolent matchmaker: our watery Cupid. Our new village was beautiful – stuffed full of ‘olde worlde’ charm, yummy mummies and their equally adorable offspring, complete with doting dads, but there was no river or lake . . . not even a fish pond. But by then, we didn’t need the river. We had Milo to hold us together.

My jaw tightens and I get to my feet again, striding across the square. It was a mistake to stop. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to keep moving.

13

ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2009

‘S
o are you in
loooovvvve
?’ Kate grins at me then swigs her ice water. ‘I knew it had to happen sometime. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes . . .’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s great that he’s a bit older than you, too. He won’t waste your time.’

I shake my head. ‘We’ve only been together for two months, Kate. Give it a rest.’

I have to say, though, this summer
has
been magical, like a montage of those fairy-tale romances you see in Hollywood films – not that I believe in fairy-tale romance, not any more. Relationships are a risk, and not every ending is happy. I learned that the hard way.

Still, the setting is perfect for falling in love, and the stunning weather’s helped: day after day of scorching sun as London bakes in a rare heatwave. Come five o’clock, the whole city floods into cafés and pubs, making the place seem like a carnival. Edward meets me at my work and we head down to the South Bank, wandering among the other couples before claiming our bench. I knit while he relaxes, staring out at the river or sometimes reading.

From the very first night – when I took him to a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in the bowels of Elephant & Castle, then forced him to swing dance to the jazz band on the corner – things have been so easy, so natural. Our worlds have overlapped just enough to make me feel warm and fuzzy without being submerged. As clichéd as it sounds, I feel even more ‘me’ with Edward than without him, and I think he feels the same. I hope so, anyway.

But love? Well, I’m not sure – not yet, anyway. And marriage?
Kids
? The thought makes me feel like I’m about to jump off a bridge into the unknown, and I want to curl up in a corner, screw my eyes shut and cover myself with a blanket.

‘When it’s right, it’s right.’ Kate leans back in her chair, crossing her slender legs. ‘No point hanging around. You’re on the wrong side of thirty now, and your biological clock is ticking, my friend.’

Jesus.
‘The wrong side of thirty’? I’ve only just hit the big 3-0, for God’s sake. I manage to keep my face neutral as I swig some cheap red wine. With her Christmas wedding looming, Kate’s become obsessed with THE FUTURE (the way she says it, it should be in capital letters) and benevolently bestowing words of advice on all the poor singletons around her.

I just laugh. My biological clock might be ticking, but I’m miles from one of those women chomping at the bit to get married and procreate. And besides – although I don’t say this to Kate – I’m pretty sure now that I don’t believe in marriage. How can you trust yourself and that person enough to pledge for eternity? How can you promise to be with someone
forever
? People change, and what suits you now may not in fifty years’ time. Anyway, if you’re confident enough in your relationship, why do you need a piece of paper to legalise it, to tie you together?

‘Look, Edward isn’t that wanker Ollie,’ Kate says, and I cringe at the mention of the name. Four years on, he still has that effect.

‘Thank God,’ I mutter. Actually, Edward couldn’t be further from my ex-fiancé, which just goes to show that people want different things at different points in their lives – or that they get smarter. Ollie and I met one alcohol-fuelled night in a bar, and straight away I wanted to be with him. We liked the same music, loved trying new things, couldn’t wait to travel to India. I’d just moved into London to start a new job, and he introduced me to Camden Market, vintage shops, indie music: everything that was funky and unique, just like him. For God’s sake, he had a better wardrobe than I did, and I often borrowed his clothes. Even now, I can smell the heady mix of incense and ash.

When he casually mentioned – in the very romantic setting of a sticky-floored post-gig pub – we could get married, I said yes in an instant. I didn’t need to think about it: my heart knew what was right, or at least it thought it did. He didn’t give me a ring, but that
was fine. I was certain he loved me, and that was enough. He was going to be my
husban
d
! The word made me shiver with excitement.
I couldn’t wait.

Then Ollie’s music promotion business took off, and he started travelling. A lot. I told myself to be patient, that this was just a phase, and soon he’d be back to discuss the finer details of our wedding . . . like setting the date. Then, when he was on a trip to Ibiza, he sent me a text saying he’d decided to stay in Spain – so
hasta la vista
, Zoe (or something to that effect). A text! After almost three years together, he dumped me, his future wife, by
text
.

I felt as if the carpet had been pulled out from under me. The flat, these streets . . . I’d envisioned him, our life, here. I loved him. I
trusted
him. How could I not know this was coming? Had I been that blind, or had Ollie’s feelings magically morphed away during one Spanish siesta? I didn’t sleep for days, the questions running through my mind like caffeinated hamsters on a wheel. I never found any answers, but after many pep talks from Kate, along with strict instructions to not even
think
about contacting him, I finally moved on. I still sometimes think of Ollie, though, and wonder what he’s doing.

That experience changed me. I vowed that the next time I was in a serious relationship, I’d take things day to day, because that’s all you can do. You can’t control the other person, you can’t control emotions, and you can’t control the future. Edward and I are happy now, and that’s enough for me – and for him, I think, given that our discussion rarely veers beyond what to have for dinner. Anyway, like I said, it
has
only been two months.

Kate and I spend the rest of the meal discussing wedding logistics, important things like champagne or cava, when a wave of fatigue washes over me. I’m just about to ask for the bill when she clears her throat.

‘So, I’ve got something to tell you,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘I can’t wait any longer!’

‘What is it? Did you manage to get The Barons to play at the reception, after all?’ Trust Kate to wait until now to tell me. I’ve been trying to track down the up-and-coming band for months, but to no avail.

‘I’m pregnant.’

My mouth falls open, and Kate grins at me. ‘What? Really?’

She nods. ‘Yup. Only about six weeks, so it’s still very early.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to be a mum!’

‘Oh my God.’ I reach over and take her hand. A wife . . .
a
mum . . . all in the space of a year. Talk about future! ‘Congratulations!’
I force a smile, trying to get over the shock of
it. I’ve only just got my head around her getting married, and now this.

‘It happened much faster than we thought,’ Kate says. ‘I mean, we only decided to start trying this summer.’

‘What, so it’s planned?’ I sit back, feeling a little miffed she didn’t tell me they were even thinking of having a child. I suppose I should have guessed, given her eagerness to get started on the whole love-marriage-baby conveyor belt, but I can’t imagine why you
would
start trying before you’re married. I can’t think of a worse way to start a new marriage than a screaming infant in the matrimonial bed.

Kate swats my arm. ‘Of course it is! We both want a family and we figured, why wait? Anyway, the older you get, the greater the risk of birth defects, and you never know how long it will take.’ She gives me a pointed look and I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.

‘How are you feeling?’ I gaze down at her belly, still flat as a pancake.

‘I’m fine – so far, anyway. Giles and I have been reading up on it,
and some people get through without morning sickness or anything. Hopefully that’ll be me. I’ve accepted I’ll be huge for the wedding,
but I don’t want to walk down the aisle being sick into a bucket.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be one of those glowing women with thick, glossy hair and perfect skin,’ I say.

‘Fingers crossed.’ She sips her water. ‘Can you knit the baby something? Maybe a little hat? I need something to make this feel real, you know? God, I can’t wait to start shopping for outfits.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘More than a hat! I’m really good now with cardigans. I’ll do a few for your baby. And some booties, too.’ God, that sounds weird.
Kate’s baby
.

She babbles on about the first trimester, and I nod along, a strange feeling sweeping over me. We’re exactly the same age, but we couldn’t be in two more different places. Kate’s got everything all nailed down: a husband, a baby, a new life as a mother. I’m in a relationship, yes, but we haven’t even got to the ‘L’ word yet.

But that’s okay, I tell myself. I like the fact my future’s an unwritten book; it means that anything could happen. And if you don’t expect anything – don’t
want
anything in particular – then you can’t be let down.

Perfect.

14

ZOE, SATURDAY, 4 P.M.

I
squint against the sun in the sky, my blistered feet stinging with each step. It must be about supper time, and I’ve been on the street
since noon. Back at home, I’d be peeling myself off the pub’s sticky banquette, dragging my feet on the way to the train station, mind fuzzy and vision blurred.

Now, even though I haven’t had one drink, I feel much the same. My mouth is dry, my body’s sticky with dried sweat, and every inch of me longs to sit down. I peer into the darkness of a shop, eyes adjusting just enough to make out comfy chairs in the corners and a long, low sofa I’d love to throw myself on and stretch out. The floor creaks as I step inside and the whoosh of the air conditioner makes goosebumps spring up on my arms.

‘Bonjour!’ A woman with a steel-grey bob and neat blue cardigan peers at me over the top of her chunky specs.

‘Hi,’ I mumble, eyes half-closed, not wanting to be jolted from my daze. The cool air is so refreshing, I just want to stand here for a few seconds and let it flow over my hot body.

‘Can I help you find something?’

I shake my head. ‘No, thanks.’ I don’t even know what the shop is selling, and I don’t care. It’s deliciously quiet and dark, a refuge from the cacophony of the street. The floor creaks again as the woman moves away.

Finally I lift my lids, stepping backwards at the sight before me. Trust me to find a store selling knitting supplies; Edward always joked I had a special sonar seeking them out. Despite everything, I guess that’s unchanged. Vibrant yarns in every colour are piled high on shelves lining the walls, and before I can stop myself, I’ve reached out and picked up a royal-blue bundle. I draw it to my nose, breathing in the mix of wool and dye.

Instantly, I’m transported to the past. I’m sitting in a chair, in our old flat. It’s the paisley armchair in front of the bay window, the one Edward jokes looks like a cat threw up on it. Sun streams in, bathing my bump in light and warmth. The baby spins and somersaults, and my needles move rhythmically, the blue ball of yarn slowly unravelling as I knit yet another pair of baby booties. That last week before Milo arrived, I was a little obsessed. Edward joked my nesting instinct should have been called knitting instinct. Morning, noon and night, I made pair after pair of booties, as if by keeping busy I could keep my unborn baby safe inside me.

And that was just the start. For Milo’s first and second birthdays, I fashioned jumpers so unintentionally hideous, Edward laughed that social services would remove our child for fashion abuse. Milo was wearing his second-birthday jumper the day—

I jerk my mind away. That jumper was the last thing I knitted
 – I couldn’t bear to pick up the needles again once Milo had gone. It was like doing something so familiar, something so
normal
; it meant my life now was real. I don’t even know where my needles are. Packed away with the rest of me, I guess.

Now, though, the weight and softness of wool make my fingers itch for that familiar motion. The rhythm of the needles was so comforting and cosy, and I adored creating something so personal for the people I loved. The yarn was connected to my heart, entwining emotions into every row.

An image flashes through my head of those terrible pink socks I made Edward wear (or did he offer?), and a smile twists my lips. He kept them on the whole night, and they must have been so itchy.
I’d knitted them from wool, and that July evening was a scorcher. I
remember how impressed I was that he didn’t care how ridiculous they looked. All he cared about was me.

After the impromptu swing dance, I invited him back to my flat. We drank more wine, and finally he took my hand, tugged me to my feet and tipped up my chin so his eyes could meet mine. I remember leaning in to him, our mouths meeting without any awkward chin-bumping or teeth-scraping. Sex with Edward was so
easy
. I didn’t even have to fake an orgasm like I sometimes did the first time, just to get it over with.

The next morning, after he’d left, I found those pink socks balled up under the bed. I wonder where they are now? A shot of sadness goes through me that the laughing couple, so full of happiness and excitement in each other, is gone . . . knocked flat by life.

Or death, in our case.

‘Madame? Are you all right?’

I jump as I realise I’m standing stock-still in the middle of the shop, and my cheeks are wet with tears. I lift my head in surprise as I wipe away the liquid with my hand. I’ve felt so dead, so numb, inside that I couldn’t cry, even if I wanted to. I don’t know where those tears came from.

I shake my head, placing the yarn back on the shelf. I’m not all right. I’ll never be all right again.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, not wanting to explain. How could I, anyway?

I wipe my face again, then step out on the street and quicken my pace. I need to put some distance between that shop and me – those memories and me. I can’t let them catch me like that again.