by Leah Mercer
‘It’s my pleasure.’ Fiona’s voice sounds sleepy, and in an instant, my brain flashes to an image of her wrapped up in crumpled bedclothes, stretching out one long, white-as-snow leg. My groin tightens again at the thought of being there with her, and I push away the image before I really give this queue something to stare at. Forty-one years old, and I’ve become an erection machine.
We chat for a bit about her weekend plans, the workweek ahead and a thousand other inconsequential things that make me catch my breath, feel back in control of my thoughts. Finally, I look at my watch, noticing we’ve been talking for almost twenty minutes.
‘I’d better go find Zoe.’ Not that she’ll care I’ve been gone for so long. I’d wager she’s staring off into space, just where I left her. Tension filters through me again as Fiona says goodbye, and I hang up. I dial Zoe’s number to see where she’s got to, listening absentmindedly as the phone clicks through to voicemail. I let out an impatient puff – has she forgotten to turn the bloody thing on again? My wife has never been the best at answering her mobile. Before we had Milo, she’d even forget to bring the phone with her half the time, defeating the meaning of the word ‘mobile’. Lately, I’m lucky if she answers maybe ten per cent of the calls I make. Not that I call her much any more.
I ring again, but once more I only get voicemail. Now my impatience is turning to red-hot irritation, the kind that’s like heartburn, spreading through your chest and gripping your throat.
Pushing off the wall, I hurry through the crowd and over to where she was standing, but she’s not there. I ring again – still no answer. God! She knew I’d be calling. How hard can it be to make sure your phone is on? I stride up and down the station, craning my neck for a glimpse of her dark ringlets threaded with grey (I didn’t even know she had grey hair until she stopped dying it after Milo. Actually, I didn’t even know she dyed it). I peek into the few shops and cafés, stride back to the cashpoint in case she went to find me, ring her phone another ten times . . . nothing.
I head to the exit and look out, scanning the taxi queue in case she decided to grab us a cab, but there’s no sign of her. I glance at my watch. It’s almost an hour since I went to get cash, and if she were still here, surely we’d have found each other? It’s a busy station but not huge – not like St Pancras – and there aren’t many places to go. I walk up and down the concourse a dozen more times, annoyance growing with each step. Perhaps she’s gone off to the hotel? If she didn’t feel like waiting, the least she could do was call.
I suppose I would be more anxious, but Zoe’s pulled a few disappearing acts before. For some time after Milo’s death, I’d leave work early and head home to take her out for supper, but she was never there. I’d ring her mobile for hours, waiting as the house got darker, worry swirling inside when she didn’t answer. When the front door finally opened, she’d just say she’d been with Kate, didn’t hear the phone ring, and now she was going to bed.
And then there was that one night, a few months after the accident, she didn’t come home at all. I didn’t sleep, ringing up her friends, her parents, even the police – who made me feel like an idiot, calling with a wife ‘probably out on the razz, mate’. Zoe crept through the door around ten the next morning, her face pale and closed. As usual, she blanked all my questions, steadfastly ignoring me as she padded up to bed, disappearing under the covers. I still don’t know where she was.
Well, I’m not hanging around. I’ve wasted enough time in the past two years worrying about her, and right now, I’m done. I ring again, this time leaving a voicemail that I’m going to the hotel so I guess I’ll see her there. I don’t even try to hide the frustration in my voice.
‘Hotel Le Marais,’ I say to the taxi driver, ignoring his smirk at my mangled pronunciation. I lean back on the seat and close my eyes as the driver pulls away, counting down the hours until this trip is finished.
3
ZOE, SATURDAY, 1 P.M.
I should be worried. I’m alone in a foreign city, with no money, no mobile and no idea where I’m going. But as I set out through the door of the Gare du Nord and stare at the cars whizzing by, I don’t feel scared. Instead, I feel free, as if by shedding all identification and ties to my former life, I can be an empty shell – empty in a good way, a skeleton wandering around with just skin and bones and no emotion.
I guess that’s what I try to do back home. I lie in bed each morning, pretending I’m asleep as Edward bangs around downstairs, the scent of his morning espresso tainting the air. My eyes still pop open right at six, the exact moment Milo would wake up and waddle into our bedroom, legs still encased in his sleep sack. It’s as if my internal clock is set permanently to ‘mother’, even if I’m not one any more.
I take a deep breath as grief slices through my heart, my eyes scanning the streets for a café. I could really do with a drink right now, a small glass of wine or three. I’m hardly an alcoholic, but I do have more than the paltry recommended intake. Just enough to blur the world for a while, to let my pain slide out of focus.
I know drinking that much isn’t great – isn’t me – but I don’t want to be me. I can’t stand our house, can’t stand the village with its cloyingly cute cobbled streets clogged with mothers and babies, can’t stand the way people’s eyes slide away from me, as if tragedy is catching. Or, even worse, those who are attracted to it, ghouls titillated by calamity.
So every day, as soon as the door thuds shut, I watch from the window as Edward disappears down the lane. Then I hop in the shower and pad back to the bedroom where I throw on my daily uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, ignoring all the crazily coloured clothes I’ve shoved in the back of my closet. The pinks, the neon greens, the strawberry reds . . . They hurt my eyes now, as if I’m staring into the sun. I bypass my favourite perfume, too, unable to bear the blast of memories that come with the scent. I jam my feet into an old pair of flats, throw on my light spring coat, and I’m off. I don’t glance in the mirror, because it’s like looking into glass at a funfair: my face is the same, but somehow all different, like a Picasso painting with jagged edges and pointy noses.
Then I hurry by the closed door of Milo’s empty room – the door where morning sun used to stream through, making the hallway gleam with gold – and past the detritus of Edward’s breakfast. Once upon a time, my nagging to tidy up was a part of our morning routine. He’d roll his eyes, but he’d always rinse his plate and glass then place them neatly in the dishwasher, saying he wouldn’t want to mess up my ‘pristine office environment’ – a real joke, given the kitchen table was always half-covered with invoices, project pitches and mock-ups. Fed up with the corporate nine-to-five, I started freelancing as a web designer just before Milo was born, and it’s safe to say I’m not the world’s most organised businesswoman. Not that there’s much to organise any more. I can’t concentrate on trivial details like shades of magenta or finding the right stock photo for an estate agent’s website. My clients have drifted away, and that’s fine.
It’s funny. Before Milo came along, I worried how I’d keep my business ticking over while tending a newborn. Turns out it wasn’t that difficult – or maybe I just stopped caring so much about work; web design was never my creative calling. And when you stare into the slumbering face of a tiny creature so new to the world, it’s amazing how everything else fades. Either way, my life was the perfect balance. I could stay home with my baby, with just enough work to keep my tired brain ticking and feel like something other than a human milk machine. Everyone said how lucky I was.
Lately, Edward’s started urging me to take on work again. Something to keep me busy, he says, but what he really means is something to get me back on track, to distract me from what happened. But I can’t go back to a job that once balanced my perfect life, because there’s nothing left to balance. Just the memory of sitting at the table with my computer while Milo cooed in his basket makes my throat close up, my body thrum with guilt. I wasted precious minutes on a job I didn’t even
love . . . minutes I could have spent with my child.
Anyway, after ignoring Edward’s breakfast mess, I slam the front door. I keep my head low as I hurry down the lane towards the train station, then push through the barrier and onto the platform. Sometimes, I stand here for ages as the fast trains whoosh by, the diesel air slapping my face as the windows flash past like blinking eyes. Then my legs propel me forward and onto a waiting train, into an empty seat where I stare out as villages, rivers and trees fill my eyes. When the train pulls in to London, I follow the trail of other commuters out, out, out through the bowels of the station and onto the busy concourse. This is my favourite place, where people push and twist around me; where no one knows who I am. I’m just a slightly dazed (very dazed, if you listen to Edward) woman in her mid-thirties, rushing off somewhere, like thousands of others.
Out on the street, I turn this way and that, my feet inevitably leading me to a pub. It’s not that I’m desperate to drink, but where else can you sit for hours whatever the weather without someone moving you on? Inside, they’re almost the same: the musty smell of old beer and dust, padded benches and wooden chairs, light slanting in through dirty panes. I take a seat in the corner, wait until noon (because you can’t start drinking before noon; that would really make you an alcoholic), then order my first glass. No one cares who I am. No one knows where I live. And no one knows what’s happened to me.
Just like here in Paris, I think, pivoting once more before realising that, café or not, I have no money. My mouth is dry and I feel a little faint, and although I should try to find a way out of this predicament, my legs start moving, carrying me down a street. The mist has cleared and the sky above is bright, light glaring off the white buildings. People push past me speaking quickly in French, and the chaos of the traffic washes over me in a wave of numbing, comforting white noise.
I want to stay lost forever.
4
ZOE, JUNE 2008
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll need to make those a few sizes larger.’
A male voice cuts across the click click click of my knitting needles, and I shield my eyes against the bright sun as my gaze travels upwards. Baggy jeans with a hole in one knee, a boring checked shirt, dark hair and insanely long lashes I’d kill for. At least he doesn’t look crazy, homeless or drunk, which is usually what you get when strangers speak to you in London. Plus, he’s cute.
I lower my needles. ‘A few sizes larger? Why?’
He plops down on the bench beside me, and I notice he smells damn good, too – a mix of vanilla and spice, just right.
‘Well, I have rather large feet.’
He stretches out a leg, and even though it’s such a rubbish pick-up line, I can’t help smiling. His cheeks are tinged with pink, as if he’s embarrassed himself, but he meets my eyes with a grin.
‘You mean you’d actually wear these?’ I shove my half-finished creation his way. Bright-pink yarn edged with green probably wouldn’t be his first choice of socks. I wrinkle my nose. Truthfully, it wouldn’t be mine, either. I’m not the world’s best knitter by far – my repertoire extends to socks and scarves – but the repetitive motion is so soothing, and I love looking at a pile of yarn and transforming it into something else, even if that something is full of dropped stitches and unravelling seams.
‘If I agree to wear those,’ the bloke says, tilting his head to the side, ‘will you let me take you out to dinner?’ His cheeks are even redder now, but his gaze is steady.
I laugh, trying to imagine him in bright-pink socks. ‘It’ll take me a bit to finish them.’
‘How long?’
I shrug. ‘A week, maybe.’
‘Okay, then.’ He nods with a determined expression. ‘I’ll meet you here next week, same time, same place. Bring the socks, and I’ll buy you dinner.’
I stare up at him, trying to decide if he’s worth the risk of a potentially painful blind date. Either way, it might be worth the dinner just to see him wear these socks. I like the forthright way he strolled up and asked me out – I even like the way he blushed. Confidence without arrogance, and a willingness to push his boundaries: so far, so good. Anyway, it’s not like I have hundreds of viable men to choose from. I keep waiting for men to improve with age, but thirty-something blokes my age are just as bad. Okay, so he’s an absolute stranger and we’ve only just met, but we’ll be right here in broad daylight on the South Bank, and he’s hardly going to jump me over dinner.
‘Why not?’ I say, trying to sound casual, but feeling nervous excitement at the thought of an evening together.
‘Brilliant.’ His face lights up, and I can’t help smiling, too. ‘My name’s Edward, by the way.’
‘Zoe.’ I extend my hand, praying he doesn’t have a limp, sweaty grip that’s an instant turn-off. But his fingers curl warmly around mine with just the right amount of pressure, and now my cheeks colour as a tingly feeling starts up in my tummy.
‘See you here next week, then. And don’t forget the socks!’ And with that, he strides off before I can even ask for his phone number.
5
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 1.30 P.M.
The taxi turns onto a narrow, dead-end street, and through an arch at the end, I can see a grassy square – the Place des Vosges, I reckon. I wonder if Zoe is there now, stretched out on the grass, arms flung out as she soaks up the sun. A true sun worshipper, she used to drive me crazy with her insistence to lie outside and bask, the way cats constantly flop on sunny patches. I picture the way her skin would turn the colour of almonds, and my mind flips to a memory of tracing my finger down the inside of one leg . . .
I shift, forcing my mind away from that image. These days, I’d be lucky to even get near a bare leg. Frigid doesn’t come close to describing my wife. It’s more like— shit, I don’t know. What’s colder than frigid? About a year ago, I casually mentioned we could start trying again for another baby, something to revive our home, to fill it with laughter . . . and, just maybe, bring us back together. But apart from going off sex, Zoe’s also gone off the notion of family. She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility with me, even if – despite all our attempts – it is just that: a possibility. Guilt sweeps through me once more that I couldn’t give her another child, back in the days when we longed to add to our family, when we were on the same page. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this place right now.
I pay the driver and tug our small case out of the back seat, then duck inside the narrow entrance to the hotel. The reception is small and dark, dust hanging in the air and the ceiling pressing down as if the building is enforcing on you just how old it is. I should have been expecting something like this: Zoe’s parents pride themselves on finding ‘authentic’ hotels, steering clear from bland chain hotels in favour of quirky, the kind of thing The Guardian would describe as a ‘hidden gem’. Fingers crossed our room at least has an en suite.
‘Edward Morgan, checking in,’ I say to the woman behind the desk. ‘My wife might be here already?’ I slide the mobile from my back pocket – still no messages, apart from a smiley face from Fiona and a reminder to have a drink for her. I can’t help grinning in return.
The woman rifles through an antiquated filing system. Clearly they’ve never heard of computers here, along with dusting. ‘Ah yes, monsieur. No, your wife has not been here.’
‘Oh.’ I raise my eyebrows. If she hasn’t come here, where else would she go? And why hasn’t she rung? I look at my watch. It’s only been a couple of hours since we parted ways at the station. She has her mobile, she has her wallet, and she’s a big girl. I’m sure she’ll turn up, just like she did those other times. I’ll enjoy this time away from her while I can. Perhaps she’s trying to do us both a favour, reducing the unbearable time we spend together.
I take the key card from the receptionist and climb the twisting stairs, shaking my head. Sometimes, I can’t get my head around the fact that we’ve become this couple: two people who can hardly stand to be in the same room – so much that
one half has actually disappeared.
I fling the suitcase on the bed, then close the door again and head back outside. Zoe can do whatever the hell she wants.
I’m going to have that drink for Fiona.
6
ZOE, JUNE 2008
I’m meeting Edward on the South Bank tonight, and of course it’s raining. Not the soft, gentle rain that hangs in the air, making halos in the streetlamps and adding a softness to London, as if you’re seeing the city through a filter. No, this is a driving rain out to get you, paired with a biting wind that flips umbrellas inside out with such ferocity the spokes break. The kind of rain that makes you want to crawl under your duvet and knit another pair of socks, not drag your work-weary self to a windy, waterlogged bench on the river.
As I log off my computer at work after yet another crazy day designing websites for clients who haven’t a clue, I contemplate blowing off my meeting with Edward. For all I know, he could be the world’s biggest twat, a borderline alcoholic who’ll get blind drunk, or one of those blokes who take you for dinner and think you owe them a shag.
As if on cue, my mobile bleeps.
All set for tonight?
I think my best friend Kate has more invested in this date than I do. Ever since she got engaged to her ‘one and only’ (as if that exists), she’s been desperate to pair me up, too. I think she feels guilty about moving from our two-bedroom flat to live with Giles (Giles!), even though she’s agreed to keep paying rent until she finds someone to take her place. So far she hasn’t, and that’s fine by me. I loved living with her, but I’m also happy with my own space at the end of the day.
Not sure I’ll go, I text, leaning back in my chair as my mouth stretches into a yawn. Already I’m fantasising about that turquoise yarn, and after the day I’ve had – the day I have every day – I’m craving making something just for me. When I first went into web design, I had grand visions of creating artistic masterpieces my clients would truly appreciate. In reality, though, it’s all about budgets, ease of use and trying to explain that no, you can’t use your son’s photo on the product page just ‘because he’s cute’. Still, it’s better than lots of jobs out there, and the one time you do get a client who gives you free rein makes it all worthwhile. Plus, I work with a great group of people who can usually be counted on to join me after work for a drink, or hit a random gig if I have a spare ticket.
