by Leah Mercer
‘Oh.’ Zoe’s mum sounds disappointed, and I realise how much she must have been counting on this trip to jump-start her daughter. If only it were that simple. ‘Hold on, then. I’ll get Jack to run down and check.’
I hang up, picturing Zoe’s spritely, white-bearded father pulling on his wellies, heading out into the fresh spring air, and hurrying the short distance between our house and theirs. In the first few days after Milo died, that short distance was a blessing. The two of them were constantly there, filling the house with food and sound, unlike my parents who wanted ‘to give us some space’. Now that Milo’s gone, the presence of my in-laws so nearby seems superfluous, a reminder of what’s missing. I guess that’s why we both avoid them.
My phone rings, and I pick up. ‘Is she there?’
‘Well, Jack didn’t actually see her,’ Helen says. ‘But he did hear music, and the lights upstairs were on, too. Zoe didn’t answer the doorbell, but then, that’s hardly unusual.’ Her voice is tight.
I let out my breath. ‘Okay, thanks.’ So Zoe did do a runner, I think as I click off. Well, at least I know she’s safe. My jaw clenches, and I get to my feet. Shit, could she not even tell me she was leaving? What kind of person gets on an intercontinental train, then takes off back home without even a phone call?
My wife, I guess. My wife.
Before the familiar cocktail of anger and despair hit, I pick up my phone again and dial a number.
‘Fiona?’ I say quickly, trying to hold the feelings at bay. ‘Want to come to Paris?’
10
ZOE, SATURDAY, 3 P.M.
The sun slants from the sky as I wander down streets, turning this way and that. I don’t even know what time it is, since I always use my mobile. Without anything tying me to my life, I feel like I’m about to float up and away, into the dazzling blue heavens. If only.
People push past me on the pavement, muttering under their breath as they nip my dragging heels. As I catch sight of myself in a shop window, I can only imagine what they’re thinking. My salt-and-pepper curls are tangled, my cheeks are hollowed out, and my grey T-shirt hangs like a tent. Clients always exclaimed how young I looked, and whenever we went out, I was sure to get ID’d – much to Edward’s embarrassment, since at five years my senior, he always joked he was robbing the cradle. I peer closer, noting the perma-bags under my eyes and the wrinkles etched on my forehead. Now, I suspect people would be surprised how young I actually am.
If I look older than my years, Edward’s gone the opposite direction – or he’s trying to, anyway. He’s never been a hipster, keeping Gap in business with his regular supply of basic shirts and baggy jeans. Lately, though, he’s started using gel to get a quiff, his baggy jeans are skinny, and even his normally crinkled work shirts are slim-fitting and crisp. It’s like he’s trying to shed his old self, to evolve into something new, while I’ve been rooted to the spot, barely able to brush my hair.
I wonder what he’s doing now? I start walking again, turning down a narrow street. That one time I went off the radar, he moved heaven and earth to find me – calling the police, scouring the station, driving our car through the streets . . . At least that’s what he told me. A car whooshes by and my head snaps up, almost as if I expect to see him driving by now. Has he informed the hotel staff I’m missing, maybe made some inquiries what to do next? Or have I disappeared too many times for him to really worry?
Paris is different than I expected – at least this part is. I don’t spot many tourists, the Eiffel Tower’s nowhere to be seen, and I reckon I must be miles from the river. Quirky galleries and shops line the street, the kind I’d have rushed into in a heartbeat way back when. Now, I let myself drift by, their wares passing in a blur.
Up ahead, I spot a gendarme, hand on hips, surveying the street. I stop for a second, my mind whirling. I could talk to him, tell him what happened, and ask for help. He’d lend me a phone, help me find my way back to my husband. But that’s not what I want – I want to stay here, in this unknown landscape, where nothing makes sense and I don’t need to try: try to block out the past, try to shut my eyes to the dreadful familiar, try to force myself to breathe. If I stop taking in air, well . . . I’m already a skeleton, anyway.
And maybe it’s better I stay in this state, that I don’t find my way back to Edward. He’s doing fine; he’s moving on, if his new wardrobe is any indication. That, and the fact he’s rid the house of anything to do with Milo, cleansing it of any trace of our son.
Pain flares when I remember that morning, barely even two months after the accident, when I hauled myself from bed amidst the noise of ripping packing tape. I stumbled through the door of Milo’s room – what used to be his room, anyway – recoiling like I’d had a punch to the gut. The once-cluttered space, packed with toys, books, nappies and baby clothes I hadn’t the heart to pass on, was stripped to its bones, a carcass of what it used to be. The mattress stared at me like an accusing eye, the bookshelves screamed their barrenness, and guilt streamed down the bare walls like a waterfall. In the middle of the space knelt my husband, emptying the toy chest into one last cardboard box.
Packing up my son. My soul.
I wanted to scream, to kick the box and let the contents fly out. Instead, I stood there, frozen with hurt and disbelief. How could he do this? How could he consign our child to the past, when he’d only just gone? And how the hell could Edward not ask me first? That one action put us firmly in two separate spheres, and we’ve remained there ever since.
I walk even faster now, moving past the gendarme and away from my husband.
11
EDWARD, JULY 2009
I don’t think I can stand the rest of this date, even on the off-chance of the night ending back at mine. Nod nod nod; sip sip sip; nod nod nod. Who knew so many breeds of horses existed? The way this woman’s on about them, I’m sure human males are a disappointment.
Julia – or is it Julie? – pauses to shovel in some lettuce, and I take the opportunity to signal for the bill. It’s only gone seven and the sun’s still high in the sky, but I have to get out of here now. That’s the peril of online dating: the girl might look nice on a computer screen, but there’s no mute in real life. The more dates I go on, the more I can’t forget Zoe, ‘South Bank Girl’, as my friends have taken to calling her with a roll of the eyes. She’s the one I really want, but it’s been over a year now since that day we met, and despite my frequent trawls along the river, I’ve yet to see her again.
I need to forget her, I know. If Zoe really was interested, she would have turned up that rainy evening. I probably scared her off with my pathetic pick-up line. What the hell was I thinking? I usually need a good three or four drinks before approaching women like that. It’s definitely not something I should do sober.
I shake my head as Julia drones on, recalling how I sat on the bench in the rain, cold moisture trickling down the back of my neck and wind whipping my face. I was already soaked through to the skin, but that didn’t matter. For the first time in ages, I was excited about meeting a woman, even if we’d barely spoken. Zoe’s laughing eyes – okay, and bloody fantastic legs – had looped through my mind 24/7, making my routine workweek suddenly seem full of possibility. I’m normally a local pub kind of bloke, but I’d spent hours researching and planning our date: a walk along the river, a drink at the Founder’s Arms, then all the way down to Borough Market where we’d have dinner at a new restaurant that just opened. I was even prepared to wear those hideous socks – and given my usual colour palette of black and grey, that’s saying something. That’s how much I liked what I saw.
After about forty minutes, my fingers turned numb with cold, I was drenched, and I had to accept she just wasn’t coming. That’s what you get for taking a punt. I dragged my waterlogged self back home, then drowned my sorrows in Heineken.
‘Shall we make a move?’ I ask now, scraping back my chair as Julia finishes her salad. I’m not even sure why she suggested this place on the South Bank, s
eeing as how she’s only eaten a handful of rabbit food. I usually meet internet dates at the café around the corner from my North London flat, so I can make a quick getaway if they turn out to be like Julia.
At least it’s not pouring with rain tonight, I think, holding open the door as we walk out to the terrace. The golden sun flares in my eyes and I slip on my glasses, trying hard to suppress a yawn.
‘Which Tube do you need to catch?’ I ask to make it clear I won’t be accompanying her anywhere else, and vice versa. Her long face gets even longer, and a pang of guilt goes through me. Apart from the horse fixation, she’s a nice girl with a good body . . . but she’s definitely not for me. Zoe’s face flashes into my mind for the countless time, and I sigh, pushing it away.
‘I can go from Waterloo,’ Julia says, then launches into a long story about her favourite horse growing up. Her voice washes over me and I stare out at the river, gleaming now in the evening light instead of its usual sludgy brown.
No more internet dates, I decide. I’ve met loads of nice women, but none of them appeal. Maybe it’s not the women. Maybe I’m not ready to settle down. Thirties are the new twenties, right? So I still have plenty of time. Look at what happens to all my mates once they’re in a relationship: they disappear, emerging with new haircuts, pastel jumpers and a dazed grin. I should enjoy my freedom while I can.
Even as the thoughts run through my mind, though, I know that I do want to settle down. I’m thirty-five now, and I want to find my future wife and start building a life together. If Zoe had turned up a year ago – and if she turned out to be who I thought she might be – I’d happily be wearing a pastel jumper right now. Christ, I was going to wear pink socks!
I wave Julia off just outside the station, then wander back to the river, wondering what to do. It’s still early, the weather is perfect, and I don’t feel like heading home to my stuffy flat. Ever since I moved into London proper, the walkway by the Thames has become my spiritual home, as lame as that may sound. I can wander on my own for hours there, just watching the water.
I’ll have a drink at the Founder’s Arms and combine my two favourite pleasures: the river and beer. I pick up pace, already anticipating the frothy bubbles slipping down my throat. As I near Zoe’s bench, I can’t help casting my eyes towards it, the same way I have countless other times this past year. It’s normally occupied, but that person is never Zoe. There’s no reason to think that this time, it’ll be any different. And even if it was her, she’s probably long forgotten me.
Still, I have to check. As usual, someone is sitting there, and it does look like a woman – hardly something to shout about, since the chance is 50:50. I squint, only just making out the back and forth movement of what looks like knitting needles, and my heart jumps. How many people knit? And on that particular bench?
The same dark hair, lovely curvy legs and pixie-like face come into view, and before I get any closer, I duck behind a tree. I’ve no idea what to say to her! Shit, I hope she hasn’t seen me. First the lame pick-up line, and now she’s going to think I’m stalking her. You’d think after all this time, I’d have come up with an opening gambit, but my brain is blank.
She makes a move as if to gather her things, and I jerk out from behind the thick trunk. Even if she does reject me, I’m not going to miss out on talking to her again. Striding towards her, I can hear my pulse whooshing in my ears. I wish I’d had more of that wine at dinner.
‘Still have those socks?’ The words fly from my mouth and I mutter a curse under my breath as my cheeks heat up. I stop in front of the bench, jamming my hands in my pockets in a way that I hope looks casual, and not as if I have a misshapen dick.
Her head flies up and her coffee-brown eyes meet mine, the eyes that have been haunting me since I first met her. They widen in what I hope is recognition, then crinkle at the corners as she smiles. ‘You!’ The word bursts from her in a laugh. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.’
‘Did you want to?’ I make the question sound like a joke, but I’m serious. After all, she never did come that night.
She nods. ‘Yeah, of course I did. And I’m so sorry I never made it to see you, like we arranged. There was a problem with the Tube, and I guess by the time I got here, you were gone. I didn’t have your mobile to let you know.’
Relief rushes through me and I lower myself down beside her on the bench, trying to keep my eyes from the rise of her breasts underneath the tight white shirt. So she did come, I think, breathing in the soft scent of her perfume. I knew I should have waited longer. If I hadn’t been approaching hypothermia, I would have.
A warm glow builds in my stomach, like I’ve downed a shot of whisky, and I turn to face her. ‘So, do you?’
‘Do I what?’ she asks, her brow furrowing in a cute way.
‘Do you still have those socks?’ I grin as she rummages around in her handbag, thinking that there’s no way she still has them in there, but hoping, too, that she does. That means she’s been thinking about me as much as I have about her.
She holds them up triumphantly, and my smile gets bigger. God, those things are hideous. ‘I knew something good would come from never cleaning out this bag. I do still have them.’ She tilts her head. ‘And are you going to make good on your promise?’
‘Well, that depends.’ I pause, my gut churning. ‘Are you going to go out with me tonight?’
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ve been waiting a year.’
I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, but I can’t help it. I take the socks from her, jimmy off my shoes and black socks, then pull on the pink knitted ones. They barely come to the back of my heel, they’re itchy as hell, and I look ridiculous, but I don’t care.
If I could, I’d stay here in this spot, with her, forever.
12
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 3.30 P.M.
As 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 gr
ass. 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
‘So 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.