Who We Were Before (8 page)

22

ZOE, SATURDAY, 6.45 P.M.

T
he sun is low in the sky when I leave the darkness of the church and make my way down the stone steps. Despite attempting to turn off my brain, the memory reel inside me spins even faster. If I needed a drink an hour ago, now I’m absolutely gagging for one. I can see by the way the cafés are slowly filling up that it must be dinner time, and I know I should somehow find my way to the hotel – or, at least, to reach Edward.

But I don’t want to – not to the Edward I know now. Thinking back to that first night and the early days of our marriage has made the gap between where we were and where we are even wider, and a wave of sadness roils through me. I miss the way we used to be: how we laughed without caring how loud we were; how Edward held my hand, his fingers rubbing my wedding band. Is that couple gone for good, or can we somehow find ourselves again? After all, despite our coldness, we are both here in Paris, albeit not together. Not yet.

I sink down in a wicker chair at a café, deliberately looking away in case a waiter tries to catch my eye. I’ll just rest my legs for a bit before moving on . . . God, that sun feels nice. I close my eyes and drink in its warmth, laughter from the two women chatting at the next table sliding across my consciousness. Their friendly Liverpool accent stands out from the smooth French surrounding them, and from the way they’re giggling and the easy flow of conversation, I can tell they’ve been mates for years.

One of the women catches my eye and smiles. ‘Sorry we’re so loud,’ she says, as if expecting me to speak English. ‘My friend just told me some excellent news!’

‘Congratulations,’ I respond automatically, envying their huge
smiles and the happiness radiating from them. ‘Enjoy your celebrations.’

‘If you’re alone, why don’t you join us? The more the merrier, right?’

I pause for a second, unsure whether I’m really up for a conversation with two strangers. But that’s the thing: they’re strangers. They know nothing about my past, and I don’t need to carry the heavy weight of guilt and sorrow on me as a shield. I used to be a real chatterbox, talking to everyone. I might be way out of practice, but right now I miss just
talking
to people.

‘Sure, that would be nice. Thanks.’ I stand and squeeze between the tables towards theirs, then hold out my hand. ‘I’m Zoe.’

‘I’m Lucy,’ says the woman, pushing back a heavy black fringe, ‘and that’s Rachel.’

Rachel, a teensy tiny thing with long blonde hair, shakes my hand.

‘So what’s the big news?’ I ask, eyeing the water on the table with envy. God, I’d kill for a glass right now.

‘I’m pregnant!’ Rachel squeaks out, her hand sliding down to her tummy.

‘Which explains the water.’ Lucy rolls her eyes towards the dewy carafe on the table. ‘I mean, who drags their best friend to Paris for the weekend, then forces them to drink
water
?’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ I say automatically, wondering why – of all the tourists in Paris – I have to find the two celebrating pregnancy. And I can tell just by looking at Rachel she’s going to be one of those annoyingly glowing, fresh-faced pregnant women that make it all seem so easy. I was one of the lucky ones whose morning sickness lasted day and night – for practically nine months.

‘It really is.’ Rachel nods earnestly. ‘We’ve been trying for a while . . . and been through two rounds of IVF. This was our last shot, and it worked! Thank God. I can’t imagine our life without children.’ She pauses to sip her water, and for the millionth time, I think how ironic it is that perfectly healthy people who should have no trouble getting pregnant can’t, while Edward and I somehow managed. ‘Do you have kids?’

A sharp pang goes through me. ‘No,’ I mumble, staring down at the metal table. ‘No, I don’t have kids.’ Words claw at my throat, words that would let loose everything about Milo. For the first time, instead of keeping everything wrapped in layers of gauze, I want to let him out. I want people to know he existed, that he
lived
. But as I look up to meet the expectant eyes of Rachel, I can’t force out the words. Because talking about his life also means talking about his death, and I just can’t do that.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Lucy says, obviously picking up on my discomfort. ‘She’s obsessed with all things baby at the moment and wants to convert everyone. She’s going to have a tough go with me.’

I can’t help smiling, thinking how much Lucy and Rachel are like Kate and me – or how we were, anyway. Kate sang hymns about the wonder of babies, but her words were slightly contradicted by the spit-up on her clothes, the bags under her eyes and the vacant expression on her face . . . at least for the first few months. I watched in horror as her innocent babe transformed into a red-faced, screaming demon for hours on end each night, wondering who in their right mind would willing
try
for a baby.

I miss Kate and her no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is (or how
she
thinks it is) attitude. From marriage to children to moving to the suburbs, she’s always been right beside me. But she can’t follow me to where I am now, despite her attempts. A memory floats into my head of one of the few conversations we had, about six months after Milo’s death. I’d managed to drag myself from the depths of my bed and over to her house, hoping that would convince her to stop calling every God-given hour – not that I answered. I sat carefully on the sofa, avoiding the menagerie of soft toys as if they were ticking bombs, and drifted away as she told me it would all be okay, that I’d come to terms with a ‘new normal’.

I don’t need a ‘new normal’!
I wanted to shriek.
I need my son back!
Instead, I nodded mutely, burrowing even deeper inside myself as I watched Kate’s daughter streak across the room and into her mother’s arms.

And that was the last time we spoke – or rather
Kate
spoke. She tried and tried to reach me, continuing to knock on my door and ring day after day. But how could I bear to be with someone who still had a family, who could breathe in the sweet scent of their child every second? Watching would be pure torture.

Maybe I could have told her that, tried to make her understand, instead of shutting her out. Maybe if I really had talked to her, we’d still be friends. Guilt niggles now that I never once returned her many messages. Maybe there were times she needed
my
support. Once upon a time, I knew everything about her life – and vice versa. But once upon a time, we had no idea life could be so cruel.

‘You don’t want children?’ I ask Lucy, realising the silence has stretched a bit too long and they’re waiting for me to say something.

Lucy shakes her head so hard her fringe flies back and forth. ‘Oh, God, no. I don’t want to be responsible for anything other than myself. And I like my freedom way too much. I don’t want to be tied down, you know?’

I nod. I do know, because I felt exactly the same way, before I realised that being tied down – having someone to depend on, and who depends on you – isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Scary, yes, but strangely comforting. ‘You know, you get used to it. It’s a huge lifestyle change, but you have this new little person in your life, and even though it’s hard, it makes the trade-off seem . . . not easy, but worthwhile.’ I smile, remembering what a big adjustment it was. I can’t even remember the last time Edward and I had a big night out. I strain my mind, sieving through the last several years. Maybe . . . maybe before Milo was born?

After he came, we always talked about getting a babysitter, but we never did. I might have followed through, but Edward wasn’t keen to entrust him with anyone for long, even my mum. If you’d have said to me, back before I got pregnant, that I wouldn’t go out with my husband for almost two years, I’d have deemed you crazy – that there was no way a baby would change my life that much. But it does. It changes everything.

Suddenly I realise the two women are staring at me in confusion.

‘Wait, I thought you said you didn’t have kids?’

Oh God.
I jerk to my feet so quickly the table wobbles, the water sloshing dangerously in the glasses. I can’t do this. I can’t go there. Without even saying goodbye, I rush off the crowded terrace and back onto the street, feeling the baffled gaze of the two women following me as I go.

I sink down on a bench, trying to avoid the dots of pigeon poo as I catch my breath. That conversation with those two strangers was the first time I’ve spoken about Milo since his death, even in such general terms. I know that’s hard to believe, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t
. It was as if just opening my mouth and bringing out the words would let the pain in – the pain I’ve been trying so hard, so unsuccessfully, to avoid.

But I haven’t self-combusted. I’m here. I’ve opened up a tiny little piece of me and I’m still breathing.

Barely.

23

ZOE, AUGUST 2010

E
dward’s been gone a month now, and I still can’t believe we’re not together. One second we’re celebrating our anniversary, the next . . . we’ve split. Just goes to show I was right about forever: you never know what might happen the next week, the next day, the next second. Being right is providing little comfort, though.

What really kills me is that our break-up isn’t because we don’t
love each other, because someone cheated, or something that went wrong between us. If possible, things had been getting even better with time. No, our split is all down to the fact that I won’t swear to something that’s impossible to fulfil, and Edward can’t do without it.

So, that’s it. He moved his things out one day when I was at work. Pain rushes at me as I remember turning my key and opening the door, revealing empty spaces on the wall where his posters had hung, and empty drawers in the bedroom that had cradled his clothing. No matter that I’d hated his IKEA-style posters – black and white trees pretending to be arty – or that his super-neat way of rolling socks was a constant source of bemusement. The flat felt hollowed out, and for that first evening, all I could do was sit on the sofa and stare at the space. I used to love my own place, but now, I’d give anything to hear the whine of Radio Four in the background or the laughter from
The Big Bang Theory
.

So many times I picked up my mobile to ring him, but so many times, I put it down again. What could I say?

Kate thinks I’m crazy, of course. Over a bottle of wine (for me – she’s still breastfeeding) in a corner of a noisy Tex-Mex restaurant on the South Bank, she asks me how the hell I could let someone like him go – and lose a year of my life in prime conceiving years – just because I won’t commit.

‘But I
will
commit,’ I say, swilling the wine around my mouth. ‘That’s the thing. I’ll commit with everything I have right now. I just . . .’ I set the glass on the table. ‘How did you know for sure that you could be with Giles for the rest of your life?’

‘I didn’t.’ She shakes her head. ‘Hell, right now, I’d happily divorce him.’

My head snaps up at Kate’s answer. That definitely wasn’t what I expected from my uber-romantic friend. ‘What? Is everything okay?’

She shrugs. ‘Yeah, I guess. Having Olivia . . . well, it’s been hard. A screaming baby doesn’t exactly do wonders for a relationship, and then the constant
tiredness
. . . Add to that the bickering over who did what and who got less sleep, and the last thing you want to do is even see each other’s faces at the end of the day. Forget date night. I just want to be
alone
.’

Wow. I can’t imagine feeling that way about Edward, although right now, I wish I did. It’d certainly make things easier.

‘Anyway.’ Kate gulps her water, eyeing my wine like she’s been in the Sahara for years. ‘I’m exaggerating, of course. But the thing is, no relationship is always going to be one hundred per cent happy all of the time. Things will change and develop. But you have to believe in the other person, and that your love is strong enough to get you through all of that. It’s kind of like taking a leap of faith.’

Hmm.
A leap of faith.
That’s exactly what it’s like, and after crash-landing with Ollie, I couldn’t get out on the diving board again. But now that Edward’s gone, I wonder . . . I wonder if I made a mistake. After all, I’m not the same person who said yes to Ollie. I’m different, and Edward’s different. Maybe it is time to put myself out there again. To have a little faith, like Kate said.

‘Oh my God.’ Kate lowers her head.

‘What? Have your boobs sprung a leak again?’ She’s always going on about needing to pump before they erupt in a milk waterfall. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

‘Edward’s over there.’ She nods in the direction, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Oh Lord.
A mix of nerves, angst and excitement go through me, and my insides feel all shivery. I knew there was a reason we had to come to the South Bank tonight. Of all places . . . I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but I know I can’t leave this place without talking.

‘Zoe—’ Kate lays a hand on my arm, but I’m already on my feet and pushing back my chair.

Fuck.
My feet freeze and my blood turns leaden. He’s not alone. He’s with a slender redhead, a delicate little thing whose model-like proportions make me seem like an Oompa Loompa. It’s obvious by the way they’re talking that they’re on a date. He’s grinning in a cheeky way that’s so familiar, resting his hand on top of hers.

Blood starts moving, racing around my veins so fast I can almost feel it, see it in the white of my eyes. Didn’t take him much time to move on, did it? So much for forever. If I was really the one he wanted to spend his life with, surely it’d take him longer? God, I haven’t even been able to
think
about dating anyone else.

Well, screw him.

‘Zoe? You okay?’ Kate’s looking up at me with a concerned expression.

‘Fine.’ I spit out the word through gritted teeth. I will be fine, anyway. Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I head to the raucous section of the restaurant that’s part bar, part salsa dance floor. I push my way through the gyrating bodies and over to a muscly man in a tight black T-shirt.

‘Hi,’ I say, forcing a smile and swivelling my hips in time to the music. The loud beat and trumpets fill my ears, and I try to let it replace the hurt and anger in my heart.

‘Hey, baby.’ The man puts an arm around my waist and pulls me against him, and I breathe in the scent of spice and sweat, so unlike Edward’s fresh, clean smell. Our bodies move together in time to the music, and when the man lowers his lips to kiss me, I lean into him even more. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edward’s stricken face as he leads his date past the dance floor and out the door, and I feel something inside me break. That’s it. That’s the end of us.

Well, it was anyway, right?