by Leah Mercer
ALSO BY LEAH MERCER
Who We Were Before
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2017 Leah Mercer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503943223
ISBN-10: 1503943224
Cover design by Lisa Horton
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Anna
The last thing I remember before my husband left me was the quiet satisfaction of caramelising onions to perfection. Even now, gazing back through the hazy filter of time, I can see myself leaning against the oven, the sharp scent of frying onions stinging my nose. I stare down at the translucent golden slivers in the pan as heat glazes my cheeks, with one ear cocked towards the door as I await my husband’s return. I’d no idea of the coming blow, which would be like a sucker punch to the heart. The blow that would shatter what I thought was my flawlessly formed world.
Ten wonderful years together, and our life was like one Pinterest-perfect photo of coupledom after another: dining in flickering candlelight or cuddling up in cosy blankets, devouring books at opposite ends of the sofa with our feet entwined. I believed we could stay that way forever. Perfection can’t last, though . . . and maybe it’s only an illusion, anyway. It’s what happens in the real world that counts. I know that now.
But on that day, the day my husband went away, I focus only on keeping the onions soft, without any black singeing their tawny edges. I stir them quickly, hurry to the bedroom to shed my work clothes, then rush back to the kitchen for more dinner prep. The familiar routine is comforting, like a book you read over and over despite already knowing the ending: home, work, home, dinner prep . . . then the creak of the door as Mark returns. The feel of his arms around me, the scrape of his stubble on my cheek and a quick pat on my bottom before darting away with a piece of whatever food I’ve left prepared on the counter, ready to cook. Every day is the same.
Every day but that one.
That one, Mark doesn’t put his arms around me. His tie is loose and his face is pale, and his suit hangs off him like folds of sagging flesh. It strikes me that he’s lost some weight – or has he? He’s always been slim, and I did see him naked just a few nights ago. My cheeks go red as images scroll through my mind: his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck at the perfect spot . . . We’ve always had a great sex life. That’s never changed, not from the moment we married. My sister, Sophie, says she hasn’t touched her husband, Asher, in almost a year! Granted, she does have a child to contend with, whereas so far, it’s just Mark and me. For the moment, anyway.
‘I need to talk to you.’ Mark’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I reach up and pinch his cheek – a gesture guaranteed to make him grin. But this time he flinches and moves away, and I wonder if I’ve hurt him.
‘Oh, sorry.’ I smile, trying to make his long face lift. It’s rare he comes home moody. Usually he’s only too happy to escape the corporate world. Mark works as the branch manager of a high-street bank, a job he doesn’t particularly love, but has been doing for years, despite me telling him he’s way too clever to stay put. Mine is the fun job, lecturing in the English Department at University College London. I love the students, their energy and their enthusiasm. I love their fervour when they discuss books and their total absorption in the material.
I’m really going to miss that job when I go on maternity leave – hopefully in the next year or so. We’ve been trying for a while now, with no result. We’re not exactly ancient, and I know it will happen, but sometimes I wish we’d started sooner. We’ve been talking about a family since we first got married, but Mark wanted to ensure we had enough savings in the bank ‘just in case’, as well as a healthy sum in our house fund. And although I was itching to have a baby, I had to agree with his caution.
It’s one of the things I love about my husband: he always puts our little family first. I suspect that’s the reason he stayed at the bank for so long, despite me pressuring him to go part-time and get a degree. He loves reading, and I pretty much give my lectures twice, once at work and once at home.
‘Let’s go into the lounge.’ Mark leaves the kitchen and sinks into the armchair, leaving me no choice but to follow. His movements are stiff and jerky, like his muscles have forgotten how to bend. I’ll give him a good back rub after we finish dinner, then stick him in bed with a hot-water bottle. He could do with some relaxation after working late all last week.
I spread out on the sofa, plucking a piece of fluff from my leg. It feels so good to sit after being on my feet lecturing all afternoon, although I really do need to stir those onions before ‘caramelised’ becomes ‘charred’ . . .
‘What’s up?’ I ask, flexing my toes to stretch my calf muscles. Ah, that feels divine.
Mark clears his throat and shifts on the armchair, his chest rising as he takes a deep breath. ‘I need to leave, Anna.’
My head snaps up. ‘Leave? What do you mean?’ Mark doesn’t go anywhere. Neither do I, for that matter. Our life is together, here, and that’s all we need. I reach into the recesses of my mind, and a memory filters in of Mark saying something about a corporate away day for branch managers. That must be what he’s talking about.
‘Is it the away day?’ An idea strikes me, and my mind starts whirling. ‘You know, if it’s in a nice hotel, maybe I can get tomorrow off work and come with you. We could spend the weekend there.’ I’ve never taken so much as a sick day and I should spend more time reviewing my notes for the next week’s lectures, but I don’t teach on Fridays, and I’m sure I could manage to escape my research and marking for a day. A smile builds as I picture the two of us, hand in hand, strolling throug
h a country garden.
And maybe . . . maybe we might get lucky there; maybe we might finally get pregnant. It will be the right time of the month for me, and the more we can try, the better. More than ‘better’, actually, I think as I picture me and Mark tangled up in perfectly crisp white linen, the windows wide open to the rolling green lawns . . .
My smile fades when I notice Mark’s head shaking back and forth, back and forth, like he’s trying to stop my waterfall of words from pouring over him. ‘No, no. You don’t understand. I’m leaving you, Anna.’ He goes still, and his eyes lock on to mine.
‘What?’ My jaw slackens, my breath coming quickly as his words try their best to burrow into me, pushing and prickling at my skin. I want to move away from them, but I’m frozen in place.
Mark gets to his feet, pacing back and forth across our creaky floorboards. Every step is punctuated by a sharp squeak, and I wince. I keep meaning to get those fixed, maybe I’ll look into it tomorrow – I jerk my head. What the hell am I doing? My husband’s just told me he’s leaving, and I’m worrying about the floorboards. But I still can’t believe it’s true. It’s like he’s speaking another language that I’ll never understand.
Finally, Mark stops and sits on the armchair again. His cheeks are flushed now, two circles of red standing out against his chalky complexion, like a toddler who’s got into his mum’s blusher. Before I know what I’m doing, I squeeze into the chair with him until my body aches – that’s how close I am to him. I need to touch him, to feel that he’s solid and real. That we’re solid and real, despite the words he’s just uttered.
I reach out to take his hand. His palm is sweaty, but his fingers are cold, and I rub them between mine like I have countless times in our life together. But instead of drawing me close and burying his head in my neck, breathing me in as if I’m a power source for his draining battery, he jemmies himself out of the chair and crosses the room to the sofa, away from me.
I watch mutely as Mark runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair – the hair that’s morphed from a sandy brown into this sexy version – and swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and I think how I know every inch of him so well, both inside and out. That’s how I’m sure that whatever he’s saying right now, it can’t be how he really feels. How could it? We’ve done practically everything together these past ten years, from morning to night – building a life. Our world is each other. I meant it when I pledged my heart and soul, and I know he did, too: he’s proved it in every single one of his actions, from the moment we met. I didn’t wait years for someone like him to come along in vain.
I get to my feet, my legs trembling beneath me. ‘Mark, you’re being silly!’ My laugh is less of a warble and more a distress cry. ‘Right, I’d better go stir those onions before they stick to the pan.’ I take a step towards the kitchen, but before I can escape, Mark grasps my shoulders.
‘Anna, stop.’ He looks me straight in the eyes. My gaze is glued to his, as if we’re engaged in a staring contest and whoever blinks first loses.
I try to slip from his grip, but he won’t let me. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t be here any more,’ he says finally. He glances around the room, at the cocoon we’ve spun together, and my heart starts beating fast as fear courses through me.
‘What do you mean?’ I can barely get my tongue to form the words. My mouth feels like the Sahara. ‘But . . . why?’
Suddenly Mark is the one twisting away from me. ‘Please.’ His voice is like a plea, and it goes straight through my heart. ‘Let me go. I have to go.’ The words drift over the top of him, hanging in the air like a poisonous cloud. I try not to breathe them in, but they settle, cold and clammy, tainting every surface they touch. I step towards him, knowing there’s no way – not in a million years – I’ll let him go. We’re too together, too happy, to fall apart.
‘No.’ I take his shoulders now, trying to make him face me. His muscles are like cement beneath my fingers, refusing to yield. ‘I won’t. I won’t let you go.’ I shake my head so hard that pain shoots through my neck. ‘Sit down, okay? Just . . . sit, and we can talk.’ If I can get him to tell me what’s wrong, I’m sure we can fix it. Together, like we always have. I try to tug Mark on to the sofa. For a second he tilts towards me, like he’s going to give in. And then he pulls away and ducks his head, his chest heaving like he’s fighting with something inside of him.
‘I need to go now,’ he says. He turns towards me again, and I draw in a breath at his expression. It’s something I’ve never seen before: a kind of defeat, maybe, mixed with pain and longing. ‘Please don’t try to contact me. It’ll be easier if you don’t. I’ve transferred some money into your personal account. There’s plenty of money in our joint account for bills, and—’
‘Mark, stop!’ I put up a hand. ‘I don’t care about any of that. I don’t need to know any of that. Come on, just sit down for a second.’
But he continues as if he hasn’t even heard me. ‘If there are any problems with the boiler, Asher can sort it out. He knows where the manual is. Anything else, look in the drawer by the kitchen sink. All the numbers you’ll need are there.’
I shake my head, his words flying around me. Boiler? Kitchen sink? I can barely decipher what he’s saying.
And then, because I don’t know what else to do – I can’t do anything else right now, anyway; it’s all I can do to keep breathing – I watch as Mark puts on his coat – the coat he took off just minutes past, though that already feels like a lifetime ago – picks up his keys, yanks open the door, then closes it behind him.
Just like that, my husband is gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Anna
I don’t know how long I sit on the sofa after Mark leaves. I barely move, waiting for the creak of the door as it opens again. Waiting for my husband to come home, to throw his arms around me and to say he didn’t know what he was thinking – that of course he’s not leaving. How could he?
The acrid odour of burnt onions taints the air, and I shuffle to the kitchen to remove them from the hob. The late-October sky is pitch black now, the streetlights bathing our lounge in an orange glow I used to think was so romantic. Now it seems alien, like something that’s invaded my space and changed the world around me.
Just like Mark’s words.
Let me go. I have to go. Let me go. I have to go. The horrific phrases bounce through my head like a twisted nursery rhyme whose upbeat tune belies its sinister meaning. I can’t believe Mark has left me, I really can’t. For goodness’ sake, we’ve been trying like crazy to make a family, something I know he’s keen on. Very keen, if the last few months are anything to go by. You can’t morph from ardent family man to deserter in a matter of seconds, and the thought of Mark skipping out on me is laughable, anyway.
Whatever’s happened, whatever the reason he thinks he wants to leave me, we can get through it. Everyone always says they’ve never seen two people so into each other (Sophie accompanies this with a roll of her eyes), and although that sounds a little cringeworthy, it’s true. Being married – and staying married – has always been our top priority. Thanks to our parents, we’ve both seen first-hand how relationships can collapse. We’ve always been careful to ensure our marriage is first on the list of everything we do, from dinner together each night to chatting for hours about everything under the sun.
I catch my breath as I realise Mark hasn’t taken anything – no suitcase, just the clothes he was wearing and his keys. My legs unfurl as if they have a mind of their own and move me to the bedroom, where I pull out drawer after drawer, each still filled with Mark’s neatly folded clothes. His coats are hanging on the back of the door, his umbrella and his backup one on the hook beside them. This means he’s coming back – of course it does. My husband won’t even walk the short distance to his car without carrying an umbrella . . . Wait, is his car here? He rarely uses it, but he refuses to sell it in case we need it in an emergency.
I race to the window and look down at
the street, my heart rate slowing when I see its metallic hulk gleaming under the street lamp. I head back to the lounge and sink on to the sofa, relieved my certainty has been vindicated. Whatever happened obviously shook him, but he’ll be home soon and we can talk then. I look at my watch: he’ll be back in an hour if he wants to catch that movie on Film4 we’ve been looking forward to. I can’t wait to curl up with him, to rest my head on his chest like I always do and hear his heart beating beneath me as everything else fades away . . . the same as we have done practically every night of the year.
As we’ve got older, we’ve been happy to stay in rather than face the battle of the Tube after work, fighting the city to meet people we haven’t seen for months. It might have been fun to hit the cinema or head to the theatre, but as Mark always says, why go out when we have everything we need right here? When he first said that, the sentiment made me smile, and I couldn’t help thinking how lucky I was with him: I never had to compete for his affections with loads of mates and boys’ nights out, which I’d heard other women complain about.
Right from the moment we first met, he’s been there for me whenever I needed him. In all the years we’ve been together, he’s never given me any reason to doubt his love. And I’m not going to start now.
My mobile buzzes in my hand, and I catch my breath again. Any small hope it might be Mark fades when Sophie’s name pops up, and before I can send her call to voicemail, my fingers have already swiped ‘Answer’. My muscles tighten and I take a breath, telling myself to keep it together. There’s no reason to make a fuss when Mark will be back soon. But Sophie can read me like an open book; she was the first to witness my excitement when I met Mark after all those duds.
I was worried at the time she might scare him off – she may be only eighteen months older than me, but she acts like a mother hen, clucking around me and making sure I’m okay. She’s always been that way, at least since that terrible time when our father left us for almost a year. Mum went to pieces, retreating into herself and blocking off the world – blocking off us. Sophie was the one who made sure I was ready for school on time, that I had a packed lunch (I’ll never forget her version: a piece of stale bread and a broken biscuit) and that I did my homework. Even though Dad came back – and Mum did, too – the role was ingrained in her, and she carried on.