Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  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?

  24

  EDWARD, SATURDAY, 7 P.M.

  I push through the Saturday night shoppers, feeling like my head has a big neon sign floating above it, pointing to the carrier bag and telling everyone I’ve bought lingerie for someone besides my wife. I shove the bag behind me, feeling idiotic but unable to stop myself. In an odd way, this reminds me of the time Zoe rejected my proposal and I started dating . . . what was her name? Eva. She was beautiful and smart, the same age as me, and according to my friend who’d fixed us up, ‘gagging to get married’. I wanted to move on so much that I rushed into dating someone else, even though I was nowhere near ready.

  I sigh, remembering that month away from Zoe and how betrayed I felt, how broken. I’d truly believed she’d marry me – that she’d be my wife, and we’d spend our future together. I walked miles those few weeks, trying to accept that it wasn’t going to happen. That if Zoe didn’t want to get married, then she wasn’t the one for me. All those steps, and I still couldn’t come to terms with it. Watching her grope a random bloke was the last straw.

  But this is completely different, I tell myself, spritzing on cologne at the perfume counter. For a start, I’m several years older, and my naive notion of forever has been broken into a million jagged pieces that’ll never fit together again. Spend forever with Zoe? The thought makes me shudder. I’d rather spend forever in an igloo – at least it’d be warmer.

  My mobile rings, and I slide it from my pocket. It’s Fiona. God, I can’t wait for her to come.

  ‘Hi, there,’ I say when I answer. ‘What’s the latest?’

  She sighs. ‘It’s looks like we’ll be stuck here for a few hours yet. They’re saying now we can expect to arrive after midnight. So you’d better be awake!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be awake, don’t you worry.’ My flirtatious tone surprises me – it’s been a while since I’ve used it. I rarely sleep more than a few hours at night anyway. I twist and turn, flipping and thumping the pillow, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get comfortable. It didn’t take long before Zoe suggested I sleep in the guest room, and I was more than happy to oblige. Lying so close beside my silent wife each night made the distance between us seem even further.

  Fiona hangs up, and I gaze at the clothes arranged like ornaments on glistening hangers. Might as well get kitted out while I’m here. There are still a few hours to kill, and if I keep busy, keep moving, I won’t have time to look back.

  25

  ZOE, SEPTEM
BER 2010

  Ever since that night at the restaurant, I’ve avoided the South Bank like the plague. I don’t want to see Edward again – it’s too much, especially if he’s with another woman. My heart constricts painfully at the memory of him chatting so easily with his date, of that smile he used to give me. When I managed to unpeel myself from the man on the dance floor, Edward was gone. I staggered back to the table, barely able to breathe. What the hell just happened?

  I sank into my chair, and Kate reached across to grip my hand. She didn’t say anything – she’d said it all anyway; what else was there to say? – but poured me more wine, then handed me a tissue as the tears streaked down my cheeks.

  That night was a definite low, and for the past few weeks, I’ve either been holed up at work or sitting at home, knitting like a crazy thing to keep my hands and mind busy. There’s a huge pile of socks sitting on the side table, socks I know I’ll never wear but just have to keep making. I guess I’ll donate them to charity or something. Kate’s been trying to get me out to a pub, over for supper, anything, but I always turn her down.

  The fact that I feel like absolute shit makes it easy to reject anything to do with the outside world, too. People sometimes say if your heart is hurting, your health suffers too. Well, that’s definitely the case here. My stomach churns at just the thought of food, I wake up with blinding headaches, and all I want to do is sleep. I’d see a doctor if I wasn’t so obviously depressed.

  I’m about to stitch together yet another pair of socks when the buzzer sounds. My heart jumps that it’s Edward – in my mind, I’ve replayed the scenario where he comes to say forever doesn’t matter and he just wants to be with me so much, it’s practically worn out. But when I hear Kate’s voice, I let out a laugh and shake my head. Of course Edward won’t come round. Why would he, after my little display at the restaurant?

  I buzz her up, wondering why she’s here. I certainly haven’t invited her.

  ‘Christ, you look like shit.’ She hugs me when I open the door, then pushes her way into the flat. ‘Has a yarn bomb exploded in here?’ she asks, surveying the room. ‘Is this what you’ve been doing every night – sitting here in front of the telly making socks? What are you, seventy years old?’

  ‘Hello to you too, dear friend.’ My tone is snarky, but I can’t help smiling. She’s right: it does look like a yarn bomb exploded.

  ‘Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea or something.’ She pushes me gently onto the sofa. ‘You’re practically skin and bones! Haven’t you been eating?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not much. My stomach’s been acting up a bit. I’m just not hungry.’

  ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that!’ Kate laughs, then leans in to study me. ‘You do look kind of pale.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m just tired all the time, and I keep getting these awful headaches . . .’ Yesterday’s delightful migraine felt like someone jabbing my temples with a pointy instrument of pain.

  ‘How long has this been going on for?’ Kate calls from the kitchen, where I can hear the kettle whistling as it boils. It’s a comforting noise, and I can’t help closing my eyes and letting myself drift off a bit. God, I am so tired.

  ‘Zoe!’

  I jerk upright at Kate’s voice. Did I actually just fall asleep? I yawn and rub my eyes. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Kate hands me a cup of tea, then moves a ball of yarn off the sofa to sink down beside me. ‘I said, how long has this been going on for?’

  ‘Um . . .’ I cast my mind back over the past few weeks. It all feels like a blur, but I don’t think I’ve eaten properly since seeing Edward that night. ‘I guess about a month. It’s just depression, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, it could be, but usually you eat when you’re upset, not the reverse.’

  ‘True.’ I struggle to sit upright so I don’t fall asleep again, remembering the countless times I’d gorge on chocolate cakes from Iceland or shovel in crisp after crisp, emptying the whole bag in one sitting.

  ‘Nausea, headaches, fatigue . . .’ Kate pauses. ‘Do you think it could be something else?’

  ‘The flu?’ I shake my head. ‘Not for this long.’

  She stretches out her legs. ‘When’s the last time you had a period?’

  I shrug, my mind working. Being with Edward meant I never had to contemplate an accidental pregnancy, to constantly monitor my periods and my body the same way I had with other boyfriends. Worry jangles inside as I realise I haven’t had a period for . . . two months, maybe?

  Shit!

  ‘You don’t think I’m pregnant, do you?’ Even saying the words out loud makes me want to gag. ‘It’s not possible! You know I haven’t shagged anyone since Edward, and it’s not like he knocked me up.’

  ‘Is there any possibility – even the slightest – his tackle could be functional after all?’

  ‘His tackle?’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so, no. I’m sure he would have told me if there was the slightest chance. I know he really wants kids, and he was afraid I’d take off when he told me he couldn’t have them. Surely if there was a possibility he’d have let me know.’

  ‘Well, maybe he doesn’t know himself. I mean, stranger things have happened. There was a couple in our antenatal group who were told they’d never have children. And then – hey presto! – she was preggers.’

  Horror courses through me. ‘Oh my God.’ Any remaining colour drains from my face.

  Kate lays a hand on my arm. ‘I don’t want to scare you, but I do think you should take a test, just to be sure. If you’re not pregnant, then you can put it out of your mind . . . and see a doctor, because something’s not right.’

  I feel sick just at the thought of taking a test. Like I said to Edward way back when, I’m not against the idea of children, but I’m nowhere near ready. And certainly not now, without a man even in the picture!

  Kate’s shoving on her shoes. ‘I’ll run out and grab one. You sit tight here.’ The door slams, and I hear her feet thumping down the stairs to street level.

  I grab my needles and start casting like crazy, as if the faster I knit, the faster I can run away from the situation. The needles move frantically back and forth, back and forth, as my brain whirs. I can’t be a mother – a single mother. I can’t! I can barely take care of myself, let alone a helpless newborn. What would I do about work? Would I have to move back to my parents, do the walk of shame as an unwed mother? I know I’m thirty-one years old, an independent woman, and all that, but where my parents live they might as well be stuck in the nineteen-fifties.

  And . . . what about my life? My future?

  The needles whir faster. Calm down, calm down. I take deep breaths. I might not even be pregnant. You can miss a period for any reason, and I’ve certainly been stressed and off-kilter lately. Headaches, tiredness . . . that could be anything.

  ‘I got the test.’ Kate slams back in with a Boots carrier bag and lobs the box at me. I’m tempted to move aside and let it fall on the floor instead of catching it. ‘Here. Do it now, so you can get it over with.’

  My friend knows me well. Left to my own devices, I’d probably stare at it for hours, convincing myself I don’t need to do the test, that everything is all right, and pregnancy is a laughable concept when it comes to my body. But I know I need to bite the bullet.

  I haul myself up, clutching the box in one hand, and head for the loo. The pressure on my bladder means I need to pee again anyway, and my heart starts beating fast as I realise I’ve had to pee a lot lately.

  Just do this and get it over with, I tell myself, opening up the box, then the foil, then sliding off the cap. I lower myself onto the toilet and try my best to pee onto the stick, almost hoping I’m missing my target and putting off the result.

  I replace the cap, set the test on the window ledge, then wash my hands. Seconds tick by and I can’t bear to look. As if in a trance, my feet carry me back out to where Kate is sitting on the sofa.

  ‘And?’ she a
sks, her head snapping up as soon as she hears me enter.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. It’s in there.’ I jerk a thumb towards the loo door as if it’s contaminated.

  ‘Do you want me to go see?’

  I nod. ‘Please.’ I don’t know why, but if the news comes from Kate, it will almost feel cushioned . . . filtered through another reality. If the result is positive, of course. While my brain knows it could be negative, my body is telling me a different story.

  Kate nods, then strides purposefully into the bathroom. There’s nothing but silence – no sharp intake of breath, no ‘hurrah!’ of relief – and my fingers furiously work a sock as I hear her footsteps come back into the lounge.

  She sits down on the sofa beside me, and I tilt my head slowly to meet hers. I can’t make out her expression.

  ‘Well?’ I ask finally, when I can’t bear it any longer.

  She takes my hand, and I know, even before she tells me, what the answer is.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I say, and she squeezes my fingers. ‘I’m going to kill Edward.’

  26

  ZOE, SATURDAY, 7.15 P.M.

  My feet burn from walking so much. Liquid seeps from broken blisters, where my shoes have rubbed them raw. I’ve only been in Paris a few hours, but it seems like days. I feel . . . I pause, trying to get a grasp on my emotions, and a muttered French curse drifts over my head as the person behind me steps past. I don’t know how I feel, exactly, other than I don’t feel like me. At least, not the ‘me’ who got off the train this morning.

  Although the evenings are lengthening with summer approaching, I know it’s only an hour or so until darkness falls. I should be panicking at the possibility of spending the night on the Paris streets alone, but I’m not. Not yet, anyway. I’m suspended between the past and present, not caught in either, and still unable to envision the future.