by Leah Mercer
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 9.45 P.M.
I’m officially drunk. My brain is foggy, my face is numb, and my vision is blurry. It feels weird but nice, as if I’ve been removed to another place where nothing can touch me; nothing can penetrate this haze around me. Is this how Zoe feels, I wonder, when she disappears into her own space? If so, I can kind of understand.
Not that it makes things any better, I think, my hand going down to my empty ring finger. I touch the skin where the ring once resided, noting how it feels soft and sensitive. There’s a slight white circle and the skin is a little indented, but that will fade with time.
Christ, it’s almost ten! Where the hell is Fiona? I pick up my mobile and dial her number, fingers tapping on the table as I wait for her to answer.
‘You’re not going to fucking believe this,’ she says when she picks up. Her tone is tight with anger and annoyance in a way I haven’t heard before.
‘What?’
‘They’ve just announced they’re going to take us off the train and bus us out to the middle of the arse-end of nowhere, and put us up in hotels for the night. They’re hoping to get whatever’s wrong sorted out in the next few hours, so we can be there early tomorrow.’
My heart drops as my plans for the night disintegrate before my eyes. Shit! She won’t be here until tomorrow morning? What the hell am I going to do knocking around Paris on my own? Going back to that tiny hotel room is like dying an early death. I cringe at the thought.
‘That’s awful, Fiona,’ I say, really feeling for her. What was supposed to be a fun, quick jaunt to meet me is turning into a nightmare. ‘I’m so sorry. Do you have everything you need?’
‘Well, apart from pyjamas.’ She laughs.
‘Listen, I can totally understand if you want to just turn around and head home tomorrow,’ I say, thinking maybe I can ditch this place now and go back too. But then . . . going home means facing Zoe and the impending conversation and . . . I need a little more time to get my thoughts and plans in order.
‘I’m not going home,’ Fiona says firmly. ‘I’m coming to Paris if it kills me! Anyway, if I do arrive early tomorrow morning, we’ll have all day together before we need to go home. Let’s make the best of it.’
I smile, loving her optimism and drive. ‘All right. Keep me posted on your arrival and I’ll meet you at the station. Have a good sleep.’
‘You, too. See you soon.’
She hangs up and I slide the phone back in my pocket, a sense of urgency building inside me. I have a whole night to kill, and I know I won’t be able to sleep – at least not easily. What I need is more alcohol to dull the senses.
I motion to the waiter to bring me another, then down the drink in one go.
43
ZOE, SATURDAY, 10 P.M.
I pull open the door and walk into the blazing light of the police station. I blink as my eyes adjust to it, making out a scruffy, marked counter, behind which sits a moustachioed man who couldn’t look more bored if he tried. It’s Saturday night, and Parisians must be very well behaved if this deserted station is anything to go by.
For just a second, I pause. Doing this, being found again, means facing the cold, tense place and the pain I’ve been hiding out from. Am I ready? I take a deep breath as the answer filters in: yes. The past few hours have shown me that I don’t need to take cover. That I can think of Milo without breaking into bits, and that it’s all right to feel. Blame will always sit on me, bags of sand pressing down on my chest. But maybe . . . maybe I can breathe a little deeper, let my lungs fill with air.
‘Excuse me,’ I say after marching over to the desk.
‘Yes?’ The man meets my eyes, and my heart lifts that he does indeed speak English.
‘I was pickpocketed in the Gare du Nord, and I lost my mobile and my wallet.’
The man sighs and takes out a piece of paper I can only assume is a police report. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Um, earlier today, about noon.’ How bizarre that it was, in fact, still today. It feels like it happened years ago.
The sergeant’s white eyebrows fly up. ‘And you waited until now to report it?’
I can feel my cheeks start to colour. How to explain that I didn’t want to be found, to seek help? Suddenly I realise that was part of my problem after Milo left us: I wouldn’t let anyone help – not Kate, not my parents, and not Edward. That felt like cheating, as if leaning on them would make my grief easier to bear. Why weren’t you watching him? Why didn’t you stop him? How could you let this happen? The refrain rang in my head, reminding me that I didn’t deserve easy, didn’t want easy. If anything, I wanted to make it harder.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, but the chances of finding your things are practically impossible.’
‘That’s all right,’ I say. It hadn’t even occurred to me they could find them, actually. ‘I just need to contact my husband. Could I please use your phone?’
The sergeant nods and asks me to write down the number. Then he dials it and passes me the grey receiver, which looks like it might have been white in a former life. I listen to the tinny ring as my brow furrows. I know Edward’s been annoyed with me lately, but surely he’s anxious to hear where I am? Even if he’s not out on the streets or trying to find me, he must at least be keeping his phone nearby. Why the hell isn’t he answering?
‘Has my husband been here?’ I ask, hope darting through me as I hang up. ‘Edward Morgan. We lost each other this morning when we first arrived, and had no way to get in touch. He may have reported me missing.’
The man flicks through a few papers, then shakes his head. ‘No, there’s no police report about you or your husband,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ Okay, then. But no matter how much I may have pissed him off, I can’t believe he’s not doing something to find me. You’d have to be pretty callous to not care if your travelling companion – let alone your wife – disappears in a foreign city, right?
Time for Plan B: my parents. I write down their number and hand it over, knowing I’m probably going to wake them up. As long as I can remember, they’ve gone to bed at 10 p.m. sharp, except for those terrible few nights just after Milo’s accident, when Mum sat by my bed for hours, dozing in the chair where I used to breastfeed, just to be there in case I woke up from my slumber.
Pain jars through me as I think about how I pushed them away these past few years, to the point where I can’t even remember the last time I called them. Bad daughter, bad mother . . . bad wife. God.
‘Hello?’ Dad’s voice is gruff with sleep.
‘Dad, it’s me. Everything’s okay,’ I say quickly, before he moves into emergency mode. ‘It’s just, Edward and I got separated, and he’s not answering his mobile. I just need the name of the hotel we’re booked into, if you can find it.’
There’s a pause on the line, and I can imagine Dad sitting up in bed and shaking his head as he tries to compute what I’ve said. ‘You’re in Paris?’ he asks, and I can hear Mum in the background asking him what’s wrong.
‘Yes.’ I tap a finger on the counter. ‘Where else would I be?’
‘Edward rang earlier today,’ Dad says slowly. ‘He said he thought you might have come back here and asked me to check. So I went down to the house, and all the lights were on, and music was blaring. You didn’t answer the door when I rang, but . . .’
I bite my lip as guilt filters through. He doesn’t need to finish that sentence; I know exactly what he’s going to say: I hardly ever answer the door. It’s easier to hide away than face people, even if those people are my parents.
‘That was probably the cleaner,’ I say. After Milo was born, Edward decided to hire a cleaner to ease the pressure on the two of us – and to make sure our house didn’t descend into a plague pit of germs that could infect our infant. Even though there’s no reason to have her any more, we never cancelled. I asked her to come today so I wouldn’t have to face her steady gaze, the inquisitive eyes wondering how I’m doing and w
hy the hell I can’t do this myself.
‘What do you need? What can we do?’ Dad’s voice rises, and I hear Mum pick up the other line.
‘Zoe, are you okay?’ Her voice vibrates with concern and love, and my eyes well up. For the first time, it really hits home how worried they must have been about me all this time – all these years. And I did nothing but repel every attempt to help. I swallow back the emotion, conscious of the sergeant’s eyes on me.
‘Hi, Mum. I’m all right. I just need the name of the hotel, and then I can go there and meet Edward.’
‘Sit tight and I’ll get it.’ Dad puts down the receiver and I hear his footsteps as he strides away.
‘Honey, you’ve been lost until now? What on earth have you been doing?’
I shake my head. How to explain? ‘Nothing, really.’ Although it feels like I’ve lived a year.
‘Okay, I’ve got the file right here.’ Thankfully Dad saves me from having to elaborate. ‘It’s . . . Hotel Le Marais.’
I ask the sergeant for a pen and scribble it down. ‘Thanks.’
‘Please call us when you’re safe and back with Edward, all right?’ Mum asks.
‘I will.’
‘Promise?’
I nod, wishing I could propel myself down the line and into their arms, squeezing them tightly like I did as a little girl. I can’t remember the last time I hugged either one. ‘I promise.’
‘Okay, then. Take care, and be careful. Talk soon.’
‘Bye.’ I give the phone to the sergeant, who glances at the hotel name on the notepad.
‘Let me get an officer to take you there,’ he says, motioning for someone from the bank of desks behind him.
‘Oh, no, that’s okay, I can walk,’ I respond, every though the soles of my feet feel like someone’s jabbing them with daggers every time I put weight on them.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s late and it’s dark, and I am not sending you out there on your own.’ A man joins him at the desk. ‘Come, Sergeant Pelletier will drive you.’
I’m too tired to argue, and the thought of the bed awaiting is way too tempting. ‘Okay.’
A short ride later, the police car turns onto a narrow street then slows in front of the hotel. At first glance, I can see it’s the kind of place Edward hates: small, tucked away, with genuine features and cramped corridors that make it feel like you’re staying in an old aunt’s house in the country rather than twenty-first-century Paris. I can’t help grinning just imagining his initial reaction.
I nod my thanks to the policeman, then climb from the car and heave open the door. Inside, the receptionist eyes me curiously, no doubt wondering why I’ve turned up with a police escort. But I’m not about to waste time explaining. I just want to get to the room and see someone familiar. See Edward.
Nerves curl through me at the thought of facing him. It’s been so long since we actually touched; since he tried to touch me. Will he push me away? Or will he wrap his arms around me and pull me close, the way he has countless times in the past – the past before Milo’s accident? Will he be happy to see me, or disappointed I’m not miles away, like he thought?
I take a deep breath and try to stay calm as the lift judders upwards. The doors slide open and I make my way down the dimly lit corridor, then swipe the key card in the door. I push open the door, wondering if I should knock, then tell myself not to be silly. We’ve lived together for ages – of course I don’t need to knock. But in a way, this feels like a first date again, or the first meeting after a very long time apart.
‘Edward?’ I call as I walk inside, listening for any noise or sign that he’s there. But the room is silent save for the muffled traffic noise filtering in through the window, and I sink down onto the bed, savouring the comfort of the soft – if lumpy – mattress beneath me. After everything that’s happened, it’s hard to believe I’m finally here. I found the hotel, even if my husband isn’t in it.
Where could he be? I shake my head as my mind runs through the endless possibilities. If he thought I wasn’t coming, he could be anywhere. He’s never been a big drinker, so it’s unlikely he’s out on the town. He’s probably taking a walk, stretching his legs and breathing in the night air before coming back to bed. I remember how he used to walk for hours – we used to walk for hours – by the river in London, and then around the village paths with Milo in his buggy.
I sink down onto the bed, memories of sun filtering through newly green leaves, the crunch of the pram’s wheels on gravel, and how Milo’s dark eyelashes grazed his pink cheeks as he slept, cocooned in blankets. I stretch out my arms, as if by extending them I can let the memory in further, and my hand touches a package wrapped in tissue paper. I sit up, wondering what’s inside. Edward’s never been much of a shopper – well, until recently, when he started appearing with those godawful skinny jeans and laddishly bright shirts. I wonder what he’s bought?
I tear open the tissue paper, eyebrows rising in surprise as my fingers touch delicate satin and lace. Wow, I think, as I remove the garment and shake it out. Did he bring this from London? Or buy it here, especially for me, before he thought I went home? And does that mean he wants to make things better again? This is the first thing he’s bought me since . . . well, since those first few months after Milo’s accident, when he’d bring home flowers, and my favourite perfume, and chocolates, as if appealing to my senses would bring me back. The flowers wilted, the perfume went unopened, and the chocolates grew mould. And then he stopped buying me things.
Hope rushes through me as I hold the nightgown up to my body. Okay, so he’s not got the size spot-on and this is a little too frumpy for my taste, but it’s the thought that counts – a thought that shows me he does still care, at least enough to buy me this. Perhaps . . . perhaps we do have a shot at figuring out how to be a couple again. It will be different than what we expected – the dream house filled with our children – but we’re different now too.
I spring from bed, remembering my lank hair, sweaty body and not-so-sweet odour. I don’t want to sully this garment with my grime. I race across the room and duck into the tiny bathroom, turn the shower dial as hot as it can go, then stand under the steam and scrub, watching as my skin turns red in the blissful heat and the dirt washes away.
44
EDWARD, OCTOBER 2011
One year. One year of husband and wife. A year ago today, we exchanged vows, exchanged forevers. I raise my flute of champagne in the air, marvelling at how quickly the year has gone. I know everyone says it, but time really does fly once you’ve had a child. It’s a visible reminder of how quickly things change and grow. I can’t believe Milo is six months old now, flailing and grunting as he tries to crawl. He’s a persistent little guy who doesn’t give up, which usually results in tears and screams until I manage to distract him. Zoe finds it hard, I know, but that trait will serve him well later in life. The persistence, I mean, not the tears.
I smile, meeting Zoe’s eyes across the sofa as she sips her drink. It’s been a wonderful year full of firsts, and nostalgia stirs in my stomach that this is the end of that year. Being jammed in a tiny flat in the heart of a noisy city doesn’t exactly make things easy, and having a baby has definitely put an end to us going out – but our little boy makes it all worthwhile. We’re a family, a solid unit of three, and I love how having Milo has connected us in a way nothing else could. I can’t wait for the next chapter in our lives.
‘Oh, that tastes so goooooood.’ Zoe takes another sip of her champagne, eyes rolling back in her head in bliss. After a difficult start, she’s still breastfeeding, so she doesn’t drink nearly as much as she used to. ‘You know, this is just as good as going out. I don’t think I have the energy to even comb my hair, let alone leave the flat.’ She yawns and drains her glass. Milo’s teething and was up half the night. We were too, taking shifts of endless rocking and walking until he managed to drift off. I feel like a zombie, but excitement darts through me when I think of what I’ve organised for
this evening.
A knock on the door makes me jump from the sofa. Right, time to put the plan into action.
‘Who’s that?’ Zoe’s brow furrows. ‘Did you order dinner already?’
I shake my head as I cross the room. ‘All will be revealed,’ I say in a mysterious tone.
‘Hello! Happy anniversary!’ Zoe’s parents cram into the tiny space, her father nearly tripping over Milo’s walker.
Zoe unfurls from the sofa. ‘What are you two doing here?’ she asks, giving them a hug.
‘Babysitting duties, and that’s all we’re allowed to say.’ A smile creases her mother’s face, and Zoe raises her eyebrows at me in surprise. Over the past year, we’ve thought about getting her parents to babysit so we can go out – just for a meal, after Milo’s down at night. But . . . I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him with others, even if it was his grandparents. What if he cried? What if he needed to be put back to sleep, in that jiggling/patting way with the song only we know? It didn’t take much to bring Zoe round, and so we’ve basically kept the takeaway companies in business this year.
I’m still uneasy about leaving Milo, but this . . . well, this is for all of us. This is for the next stage of our lives. It’s a bold move, but I think Zoe’s ready. I know I am. We’ve talked about it loads, and I think she’s come round to the idea.
‘Babysitting? Really? Well, in that case, come in!’ Zoe ushers her parents into the room, whisking toys and other baby paraphernalia out of the way. She turns to me with a grin. ‘I know I said I was too tired, but it would be nice to go out and do something. Thank you, honey.’ She puts a hand on my arm, and I bite my lip. Yes, we’re going out, but it’s probably not exactly what she thinks. ‘Just let me get changed and throw on something that hasn’t been peed or drooled on!’
‘You always look good,’ I say, meaning it. No matter how tired she is, or what she’s wearing, Zoe has a way of lighting up a room. ‘Anyway, you don’t need anything dressy. What you’re wearing is fine.’