by Leah Mercer
‘For our first night out in bloody forever?’ Zoe shakes her head. ‘No. No way. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be right back.’
I chat with Zoe’s parents for a bit, filling them in on Milo, his latest accomplishments, and what to do if he wakes up.
‘Okay, ready!’ Zoe appears in a cloud of her favourite perfume. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her wearing make-up and ‘normal’ clothes that my mouth drops open. God, she looks sexy. I can’t wait to get her back here tonight.
‘You look fantastic.’ I kiss her glossy lips.
‘Very nice, darling,’ her mum says. ‘Now, you two go off and have a good time. I’ve got the mobile right here and we’ll call if we need you. Go!’
Zoe laughs as she shoos us out the door. ‘You don’t need to tell me twice. Come on, Edward!’ She grabs my hand and tugs me down the stairs. ‘God, it feels so weird not to be carrying Milo or any of his stuff! So, where are we going, anyway?’
I wag my finger in the air. ‘No questions. Just wait and see.’
‘Okay . . .’ She takes my arm, and we walk down the busy pavement towards where I’ve parked the car. Now that the plan is underway, doubts start to creep in. Maybe I should give her a heads-up; tell her where I’m taking her. She thinks we’re going to dinner, or the theatre, or any of our old haunts. Where we’re going is new territory for us both.
‘Ooh, the car! So it’s somewhere outside the neighbourhood. Hmm.’ She climbs in, and I close the door and start the engine, navigating the packed roads as we cross the city.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Zoe asks several minutes later, when we’ve left London behind us. ‘Is it one of those country pubs? Or a country home with a fab restaurant? Come on, Edward, give me a hint.’ She pokes my side.
I squint at the satnav. ‘Almost there. I think. Just around this roundabout . . . ah, here we are.’ I smile as I navigate the narrow country road into the village of Cherishton in deepest, darkest Surrey. The village has great transport links, with a fast train into Waterloo. That’s one of the reasons houses are so pricey around here, I reckon, but I’ve found one I’m sure Zoe’ll fall for. I certainly have. Putting in an offer without talking to her first was risky, but it’s not binding and I didn’t want to lose the house to anyone else. This place is perfect for us.
‘It’s pretty here, isn’t it?’ I glance sidelong at Zoe as we enter the chocolate-box village, complete with thatched cottages lining the road, a village green flanked by a pub, a church and a post office, and even an organic shop and café. Making their way down the pavement are two mums laughing and chatting, each pushing a buggy. The trees glow yellow as the sun sets, and I can see by Zoe’s expression that she’s impressed too.
‘It’s like something from a postcard,’ she says. ‘But why are we here?’
‘Just wait.’ I turn onto a small side street past the church, and right at the end is my dream home. Our dream home, I hope. In estate-agent speak, it’s an old stone farmhouse, built in the mid-1800s and recently renovated to a high standard. There’s a huge kitchen with an island and breakfast stools, a separate dining room, and a homey lounge with a massive fireplace. Upstairs, our master bedroom with en suite is at the front of the house, and at the back are two bedrooms, another bathroom and a box room that Zoe can use as her office.
But best of all is the garden, accessible through French doors from the kitchen. It’s at least an acre, completely enclosed by mature trees and bushes, so Milo can run around safely with no chance of escape. Already I can picture a slide, some swings and maybe even a trampoline for him to work off that excess energy. Milo tearing across a dappled garden, chasing a ball. A kitchen where more than one person can enter without having to perform a manic version of Twister.
Bloody amazing.
I pull in to the driveway, the gravel crunching under the car wheels.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ Zoe asks, slicking on more lip gloss. A woman inside waves through the bay window, and I wave back. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Well,’ I take a breath. ‘You know how we’ve talked about getting a bigger place, but we can’t afford to buy in the city?’
‘Yes . . .’ Zoe tilts her head, her eyes darting from me to the house and back to me.
‘I signed up to an estate agent’s website a while back. They’ve been sending me alerts whenever new properties come up. I just wanted to get a sense of the market – not seriously look or anything – but then I saw an email about this one. I managed to get a viewing yesterday after work, and, well . . . it’s incredible.’
Zoe’s mouth is opening and closing. ‘You want to live here?’ The way she says the word, it’s as if I’ve asked her to pack up and move to the Sahara. ‘I know we talked about moving further out, but this is the freaking countryside!’
I swallow. ‘Okay, so it’s not right in London, but it’s not far, either. We can still come in whenever we want. And wouldn’t you like to have your own office? And a garden for Milo to run around in? Just . . . room to spread out?’
Zoe’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the wheels spinning in her head. It is a lot to absorb, but once she sees the inside of the house, I know she’ll be won over.
‘Extra space would be nice,’ she says finally. ‘But—’
‘Come on.’ I lean over to kiss her and undo her seat belt. ‘Don’t say anything more until you see the rest of it.’
‘The outside is pretty,’ she says, somewhat grudgingly. Stones line the walkway, and trees arch overhead. The glossy red door looks like it’s beckoning us in.
I take her hand and together we walk up the pathway. Then I bang the heavy knocker against the solid door, waiting for the estate agent to open up. The door swings open, and I try to keep the excitement off my face when I take in, once again, the wide corridor with solid oak floors, the skylight letting in the last rays of sun, and the lovely cream walls. If possible, I like it even more than I did when I saw it yesterday.
‘Come on in,’ the agent says, ushering us into the warm interior and out of the crisp autumn evening.
Half an hour later, we’ve poked into almost every nook and cranny, and the agent is looking at her watch.
‘I hate to rush you, but I have a viewing across the village in just a few minutes,’ she says. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as the vendor tells me anything about your offer. They’re overseas so it’s always hard getting in contact.’
I nod, wincing as I catch a look of surprise on Zoe’s face. I wanted to be the one to tell her about the offer I put in, and perhaps – perhaps I should have talked to her before making it. But I was so confident she’d like this place . . . I can’t tell a thing from the carefully neutral expression on her face right now. I’ve tried to catch her eye all through the tour, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze. I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t been wrong.
‘So what do you think?’ I say to Zoe when we’re back in the car.
She clicks her seat belt closed and shifts in her seat. ‘What did the agent mean about your offer? You already made one without talking to me first? Shit, we haven’t even looked at other places yet!’
‘I know, I know, but this house . . . well, isn’t it ideal? There’s been a lot of interest, and I didn’t want to lose out. Anyway, we can always pull the offer if you don’t like it. Of course we’ll make the decision together.’
It’s so quiet in the car that I can hear the muffled song of birds outside.
‘Look, I know this is a huge change for us,’ I continue, ‘but think of how brilliant it’ll be for Milo. The roads are safer, we’ll actually get to know our neighbours, and the estate agent says the primary school is outstanding.’
Zoe sighs. ‘It’s a wonderful house,’ she says finally. ‘Great space, lots of original features, and I love the garden. Obviously you’ve already made up your mind.’ She pauses. ‘It’s just so far away from what we know, from our life now. We love the city, popping out with Milo to the café around the corner, or hopping on the Tube t
o central London.’
‘And that’s fine at the moment,’ I say, ‘but what about when Milo can walk? He’ll want space to run and play, not cafés and museums. This move isn’t about us, it’s about him – our family.’ A family I really, really want to grow. What’s that saying: new house, new baby?
‘You know what? You’re right.’ Zoe smiles, but I’m not sure it reaches her eyes.
‘Really?’ I’m almost afraid to ask in case she changes her mind, but I want to be sure. The last thing I want is for her to be unhappy because she thinks she’s making me happy. I want this to be our dream together.
She nods. ‘Yes. It is a beautiful house, and it’ll be great for Milo. The garden is amazing, and really, if we do want a night out, there’s that fast train, right? Anyway, it’s not like we go out a lot now. It’ll be an adjustment for sure, but I’ll get used to it. We’ll get used to it.’
‘I love you, Zoe. This is going to be perfect.’ I put my arms around her, pulling my wife as close as the seat belt allows. I’ve loved living in Zoe’s flat – there’s so many memories there – but a place we own outright, a space we can make our own?
I’ll finally feel like I’m home.
45
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 10.45 P.M.
Through my alcoholic haze, I’m vaguely aware of my mobile ringing. I glance down, noting it’s Zoe’s parents, then see that an unknown French number has rung me at some point, too.
Ah, whatever. I slide the phone into my pocket again and stand, the night swinging around me. Now I remember why I don’t drink much: beer gives me the spins, and I know I’ll spend half the night with one foot on the floor praying to get off the self-induced merry-go-round. Zoe used to call me a lightweight, and compared to how she used to be, she was right. Before she had Milo, she could down tequila shots like water, then carry on as if nothing had happened. I’d have one shot and stagger around for the rest of the night. Talk about role reversal.
That wasn’t the only role reversal in our marriage, I think, lurching towards the pavement. I was the one pushing for our dream house, I was the one wanting another child. And with Milo, I was the one seeing danger at every turn, the one who’d get up when he cried while she slept through. I reckon if men could breastfeed, I would have done that too.
I’m not complaining. I loved that time with my son, the early mornings when the house was still and the sky outside was just beginning to lighten. I’d wipe his tears and scoop his warm limbs from bed, cuddling the limp, barely conscious body on my lap, rocking him back and forth until he felt ready to face the world with a huge yawn and a wiggle.
A shot of anger darts through the layers of alcohol I’ve wrapped around me. Why couldn’t Zoe have watched him more closely? Why couldn’t she have held his hand with just that much more strength? Is it really so hard to keep a child – our child – safe? I know I said I don’t blame her, and I don’t . . . for the most part. But even though I told her it could have happened with me, it wouldn’t have. Not a chance.
I forgave her . . . or did I? Every so often, like right now, when I’m not expecting it, rage ambushes me, swarming over me like an army of biting ants, making every bit of me prickle and sting. She lost our child. She let him go. Sometimes I can’t bear to be near her. Most times, lately. I can’t wait to sell that house and get back to the city, back to the river where I used to walk for hours.
Back to the life I had before.
I lurch towards the hotel and my bed, the anger I felt at Zoe propelling me forwards. Suddenly, my rage is focused on her, like she’s the lightning rod for the horror and pain of the past few years. I want to track her down, to shout and let loose all my fury, to vent in the face of her indifference. My life is shit, and it’s all her fault.
I’m about to pull open the hotel door when I change my mind. The last thing I want is to lie on the bed and watch the room spin for hours. I’m solidly drunk, and I need to wait for that to wear off. Besides, my anger has given me a spurt of energy so intense I swear I could run a marathon without stopping.
A group of blokes about university age swarm past me, laughing and shouting in American accents about some all-night club that’s supposed to be nearby. I’ve never been one for clubs, but right now, I’ll take anything that’ll give me a chance to work off this buzz. I’m drunk enough not to care how ridiculous I look when I dance.
‘Hey!’ I raise a hand, and their heads swing back towards me. ‘Can you tell me where this club is?’
A few of them lift their eyebrows quizzically at the sight of me, and I’m suddenly aware I’m old enough to be their father. Well, maybe not, but I probably look that way to them.
‘Sure thing.’ One of them beckons me forward. ‘Come on, we’ll take you there.’
I fall into step with them, trying not to show how drunk I am. Their easy banter fills my ears, everything from picking up hot chicks to . . . more hot chicks. I smile and shake my head, feeling every minute of my forty-one years. It seems like aeons since I was single and out drinking with my mates. Being a husband, fatherhood and tragedy all create an ocean between me and them.
But these blokes don’t know any of that. All they can see is an old guy who wants to have a good time. And damn it, I’m going to if it kills me. I’m sure tomorrow that I’ll feel like it will, but I’ll deal with that later.
‘It’s right here.’ One of the blokes points to a nondescript door down some stairs. I can already hear the bass booming, and I follow them down the steps and hand over crumpled notes to the man at the door. Inside the club, the air is dank, and I blink against the strobe lights flashing at a blinding pace. The music is so loud I can feel it vibrating my insides, and I’m constantly jostled as people push around me. It’s everything I would have hated a few short years ago, but now I welcome the assault on my senses.
I fight my way to the bar, then order two tequila shots. I down them both and head out into the crowd again, onto what I think must be the dance floor. As the alcohol slowly burns its way down my throat and into my gut, I feel my body start to move as the beat takes hold, like something primitive inside me is responding to a tribal call. I shake my head back and forth, and everything blurs in front of me.
46
ZOE, SUNDAY, 12 A.M.
The small clock on the bedside table says it’s midnight, and after the long day in the sun and all the walking I’ve done, I’m struggling to stay awake. Freshly showered, smelling of soap and not sweat, and with neatly curled hair, I’m perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for Edward. I’m afraid to lie down in case I drift off, and anyway, this nightgown thing he bought me itches like mad if it presses on my skin. It looks rather hideous on me, but I’m touched by his effort . . . an effort I haven’t made for years. No wonder we’re in such a state.
I glance at the clock again, wincing when I notice only a minute has passed since I last checked. Where the hell is he? I’ve used the room phone to call his mobile several times, but each time it goes straight to voicemail without even ringing first. I tap my fingers on the duvet. I hope he’s okay. How ironic that I’m now worrying about him after being lost myself.
A loud growl from my stomach surprises me. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry. Usually, I force myself to eat some cereal, or a slice of bread, or just anything to keep me going. The time when fantasising about dinner was the highlight of my day is long gone.
Edward and I used to go out for lunch every Sunday, a tradition we continued even after Milo’s birth, even after moving from the city. It was impossible to confine our son to a high chair once he started walking, but the village pub had a huge garden he could run in. We took it in turns to play with him, shoving steaming food in our mouths when we could. It may not have been the most relaxing lunch – and it couldn’t have been further from the trendy glass-and-chrome places we used to frequent – but somehow it felt right. My memory fills with laughter, spilled wine on wooden tables and the way Edward would pat my belly once I’d cleared my pl
ate, even though he knew I hated it.
There’s hardly any belly to pat now. Where I used to have curves is now stiff and bony – what I would have died for, about ten years ago. My boobs have deflated, thanks to a combination of breastfeeding for over a year plus the weight loss. My body is one of the many reasons I don’t make love to Edward any more. I see the way he looks at me now. Where once his gazes were hungry – as if I was a delicious dessert he couldn’t wait to devour – now he seems repulsed.
I remember how sex used to be, back in the early days. I remember the way Edward’s tongue felt against me, how his lips moved on my neck, the way he slid into me. A charge goes through me, forcing my lids open in surprise. I can’t recall the last time I felt turned on by anything. My body aches with longing and a kind of restless urge to . . . I’m not exactly sure. Have sex? Eat? I don’t know what could satisfy the stirring inside of me right now.
I stand and yawn, desperate to stay alert, trying to envisage what’ll happen when he walks through that door. He’ll be surprised I’m here, that’s for sure – surprised in a good way, I hope. When he sees me wearing what he picked out, that should send the right message: that I’m here, I’m present. It feels weird to be receptive to my husband after tucking myself away for so long. But I’m ready now – maybe not for sex, not just yet – but ready to talk, ready to touch.
Waiting for Edward to walk through the door reminds me of when we first moved into the new house, leaving our old life behind but not yet adapting to our present. I’d cut down my workload to make the transition easier, and without the banter of my clients, the familiar hum of traffic outside my window and the comforting wail of sirens, the place felt . . . oppressive, as if Milo and I were alone in the world, with no one around. The lovely back garden eliminated our need to hit the cramped play areas with rusted equipment like we used to, joining countless other city mums desperate to escape their tiny confines. The one café in the village opened only from eleven until two, and the buggy wouldn’t fit through the door. There was no library to decamp to on rainy days, no raucous soft-play centre, and no ridiculous music class during which I could trade eye-rolls with other mums while Milo mouthed the maracas. The dads magically disappeared to their city jobs, and while there were plenty of mums around, I’d yet to really connect with them.