Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  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 commuters 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.

  Now 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 k
ids 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.

  8

  ZOE, JANUARY 2009

  ‘Happy New Year!’

  Kate’s voice is shrill in my ear, and I pull away from her sweaty embrace, planting a big fat kiss on her cheek. ‘Happy New Year to you, too.’

  ‘This is the year I’m getting married!’ She raises her hands in the air in victory, then leans drunkenly against Giles’ side. ‘Can you believe that this time next year, I’ll be a wife? Now we have to get you hooked up, Zoe!’

  I roll my eyes at her familiar refrain as one of my favourite songs starts pounding through the air.

  ‘Come on!’ I grab Kate’s hand. ‘Let’s dance!’

  I tug her away from Giles and through the crowd, elbowing my way onto the dance floor. Kate’s so smashed she can barely stand upright, so I grab her hands and move her back and forth in a crazed version of swing dancing, grinning as people around us give us funny looks.

  I spin her around and we crash into bodies, but we’ve both drunk so much, we don’t feel any impact. Kate tries to spin me, too, but her arm somehow winds around my neck, tilting me to one side. She sways back and forth . . . then topples over in what feels like slow motion. I shriek as she pulls me down with her, feeling the damp of spilled drinks and I don’t even want to know whatever else seep through my tights. We lay there for a minute, both breaking out in huge guffaws as feet stomp around us and the bright lights from above hurt our eyes.

  ‘Can I help you get up?’

  A deep male voice filters down, and my heart stops. For a second – for just a second – I think it might be Edward. I’ve often thought, or more accurately wished, for this since I met him. Then, a hairy arm reaches down and hauls me upwards, and I’m staring into the face of a bloke my height, a man without Edward’s long legs or, presumably, big feet.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, trying to ignore the disappointment crashing through me as I pull Kate to her feet.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Kate reaches out to steady herself. ‘Ooh, nice arms.’ She leans into me. ‘This is Zoe. She’s single and looking for love!’ It sounds bad enough normally, but with Kate’s drunken slur, it’s even worse.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ The man’s eyes bore into mine, and I shake my head.

  ‘No, sorry, we have to get going. Thanks.’ I hustle Kate off the dance floor and back through the crowd, depositing her into Giles’ arms.

  ‘Kate! For God’s sake!’

  ‘What? If you’re not going to try to find this Edward bloke, then . . .’

  I shake my head. Ever since our failed rendezvous, Kate has been constantly at me to go to the South Bank, sit on that bench, and keep doing it until I find my man. And if I’m being truthful, I can’t say I haven’t done just that . . . every once in a while, when the weather’s nice, or when I have time, of course. I’ve even kept those silly socks in my handbag, just in case.

  If only he’d given me his bloody phone number! If only the Tube had been working . . . if only. I’ll tell you one thing: if I do manage to find that bloke again, I’m going to get all his contact details, from phone number to Twitter handle. There’ll be no place to hide.

  I sip my cocktail, trying not to vomit as I watch Giles slobber all over my friend. It’s funny that Edward’s in my thoughts so much, given we only spoke for five minutes. It sounds so cheesy, but something about us just worked – in a way I haven’t experienced since my last relationship crashed and burned a few years ago. I’ve learned not to believe in a one-and-only, but out of all the dates I’ve had in the past year or so, I have to say that men like Edward – men I’d want to spend more than five minutes with – are thin on the ground.

  We might end up hating each other after those five minutes, or he could reveal some hideous deformity. But one thing’s for sure: this year, somehow, I’m going to find out.

  9

  EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.

  I stare at the mobile, then roll my neck and shoulders in a futile bid to ease the tension inside. I still can’t believe Zoe’s lied to me for so long, but in an odd way, it makes me feel better. Better about the past, and better about the present. Zoe’s not lost; she’s been doing what she wants, going where she needs to. Wherever she is, wherever she has been, she definitely doesn’t want me to know. And you know what? That’s fine by me. I just need to check that she’s all right before I can hit the streets and see what Paris has to offer. I’m not going to waste the trip here.

  Right, last attempt. If she has gone home – and I can’t think w
hat else she’d be doing in a city she doesn’t even like – I can ask her parents to see if she’s there. If she turned around and went straight back, she could be home right about now. I don’t want to worry them, but they know as well as I do how difficult it’s become to track Zoe’s movements.

  Sighing, I hit ‘call’ again, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage of it’s-been-way-too-longs. There was a time Zoe’s mother practically lived in our house. Her parents moved into the village a month after we bought our place there, wanting to be closer to their grandson. I know they drove Zoe crazy when she was growing up, always after her to study harder, dress more sensibly and stop wasting time in drama and art clubs. But once Milo appeared, she and her mum seemed to click, as if he was the missing piece of the puzzle. Zoe would actually call for advice: unheard of in her pre-Milo days.

  I don’t even know if they still talk.

  ‘Hi, Helen, it’s Edward. Listen, can you pop round to the house and see if Zoe’s there?’

  I hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘Zoe? Isn’t she with you? Jack and I were so pleased when she agreed to go along with you. We thought she might take a bit more convincing.’

  I nod, wondering for the first time why she did decide to come. Why did I, for that matter? ‘Well, she was with me, but we got separated at the station when we arrived. Her mobile’s going straight to voicemail, and I just thought, well, if maybe all this was too much for her she may have headed home.’ Or something like that.