by Leah Mercer
‘Monsieur? Can I help you?’ A woman with her hair pulled back tightly and wearing bright red lipstick approaches, and I take a step back.
‘Er, yes, please.’ I can feel my face turning red already. ‘I’m looking for some nightwear . . . something sexy,’ I finish lamely.
‘For yourself?’
Oh, Christ. ‘No, no,’ I say, my cheeks heating up even more. ‘For my . . .’ I stop myself from automatically saying ‘wife’, hastily adding ‘girlfriend’. It’s bizarre to be using that label again, and I’m not even sure that’s what Fiona is. I sigh, remembering how proud I was to call Zoe my wife, how I used it every chance I got. I force my thoughts away from that and try to focus on the countless options the saleswoman is shoving under my nose. I’m not cut out for this, I think, longing momentarily for the easy familiarity of my life with Zoe.
But that’s gone, I remind myself, and it’s been gone for a while. There’s nothing familiar or even remotely likable about our life together now.
‘I’ll take that one,’ I say, pointing at a dark-blue . . . is it a top or a nightie? I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. It’s sexy as hell, and Fiona will look incredible in it.
‘Size?’
‘Um, medium, I guess.’ She’s not as slender as Zoe is now, thank goodness, and a little bit taller. God, I have to stop thinking about my wife. I force my thoughts back to Fiona’s phenomenal arse, and Zoe’s face disappears from my mind.
I pay an ungodly amount for such a small scrap of fabric, then head back down the escalator, losing myself once again in the cacophony of the massive mall.
21
ZOE, JULY 2010
It’s the first anniversary of the day we met – or met again, I should say – and I’m rushing to get to the South Bank on time. My client meeting overran, my computer played up, and I had to dash back to my desk to get my gift. I hope Edward likes it. It’s a watch I know he’s been craving; I see him pause and look at it every time we walk past the shop. Buying it almost wiped out my meagre savings, but it will be worth it to see his expression when I give it to him. Of course, as tradition dictates, I’ve also knitted him a hideous pair of socks, in neon green. This time, though, I won’t demand that he wear them. He’s done more than enough to prove his love, just by being him.
As I hurry down the walkway towards our bench, I can’t believe it’s been a year already, and that we’ve been living together almost half that time. The days have gone by, from one to the next, with no arguments or angst. It’s an easy, natural flow that makes me think that, at this moment, we truly belong together. Okay, so he could tidy up those bloody toast crumbs each morning, and possibly be more adventurous in bed (I’m working on that!).
But on the big stuff, we’re in sync, both happy taking things as they come. You can’t really do much else, can you? Not if you want to live an emotionally honest life. Edward hasn’t brought up marriage since that moment at Kate’s wedding, and to be honest, he was so drunk, I don’t think he remembers. I’m sure he’d have mentioned it if it was really important – he’s not the type to keep things to himself.
I start smiling as I catch sight of Edward on our bench, his long limbs stretched out in front of him, and I force my legs faster. Even though I just saw him this morning before I left for work, I can’t wait to throw my arms around him and give him a huge kiss. I never want us to be one of those couples who stop touching.
‘Hey!’ I throw myself onto his lap, loving how I fit against his body. We shouldn’t, really – he’s tall and lean while I’m the definition of short and curvy – but somehow, it works.
‘Happy anniversary,’ he says, leaning down to kiss me on the lips.
‘So what are we doing tonight?’ I begged him to let me organise the date, but he insisted, saying he had a special plan. Since I’m usually the one spearheading our outings, it’s kind of nice to let him take the wheel. Although he never says anything, I know he sometimes finds the shows I drag him to a little baffling. I smother a tiny giggle as I remember his expression last week, when the all-male cast of a gay musical dropped their trousers in sync.
‘Well.’ His chest expands as he takes a deep breath. He swings me off his lap in one motion and gets to his feet. Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee, and my mouth drops open. Oh, no. No! He’s not going to propose, is he? I thought . . . I thought . . . I gulp, forcing back the bile building in my throat.
Whatever I thought, I was wrong.
Fear grabs my gut as he draws out a small velvet box. I want to yell, want to shout at him not to do this, not to ruin what we have, but my mouth is dry. All I can hear is my pulse in my ears as he cracks open the top, revealing a diamond nestled in between two entwined bands. It’s an absolutely gorgeous ring, one I’d love to wear, but I don’t want to wear the sentiment attached to it. I can’t.
My stomach churns and for a second, I think I’m going to be sick.
‘This past year has been the best in my life,’ Edward says, his voice shaking. I’m dying to reach out and steady him, to tell him it’s okay, but it’s not okay. I don’t know where we can go from here, but I have a feeling it won’t be good.
‘And, well, I don’t want it to end.’ He clears his throat, and I know I have to do something. I have to stop him before he actually asks me to marry him. I don’t want those words to get out, and for me to reject them. Because it’s not him I’m rejecting, but I’m not entirely sure he’ll see it that way. ‘I know we haven’t talked about this, but—’
‘Edward.’ My voice emerges as a croak. ‘Come sit beside me.’ I grab his hand and try to tug him up, but he resists.
‘Just wait a second,’ he says, trying to free his hand.
‘No, really, sit here.’ I give another pull, but still he doesn’t budge. God, this will descend into farce soon. ‘Please.’
My voice must sound desperate, because he gets to his feet then sinks down beside me, defeat written all over his face. I turn towards him, my heart pounding. ‘I love you, you know that. Right?’
He nods, his eyes fixed on mine.
‘And we’re happy together. Amazingly happy. This year has been one of the best of my life, too.’
Edward nods again slowly. ‘Exactly. So don’t you want that to continue? Forever?’ He pushes a curl behind my ear. ‘I want to promise you I’ll always be there, through thick and thin. I want to do that, Zoe.’ He moves the ring towards me again. ‘Don’t you?’
His gaze holds mine, and silence stretches between us for what feels like ages. I want to be with him, of course I do. But how can you promise forever? You can’t; I learned that the hard way, and I can’t bear to think of the two of us being strangled, eventually, by impossible vows. Better to stay as we are, in this perfect place, without expectations or ties that bind. We’re together because we choose to be, and nothing else. My mouth opens and shuts as I struggle to find a way to convince him, but he turns away.
‘I love you, Zoe.’ He gazes at the ground, his voice breaking, and my heart nearly breaks along with it. ‘But I want that commitment: commitment to the future, to us. I want to call you my wife, and to be your husband. I thought you wanted that too.’
I reach out and touch his cheek, moving his head towards me again. ‘I’ll commit to us and to where we are now with all of my heart. But as for marriage . . . I’m sorry, but . . . I can’t.’ My voice drops to a whisper as sadness presses down. Why? Why did he have to do this?
‘Do you think . . .’ Edward clears his throat. ‘Do you think you’ll ever want to get married?’
For the first time, I wish I could read the future. I wish I could tell him that yes, eventually, I’ll come around. That one day, I will believe in happy endings, soulmates, and all of that. Maybe someday I will – although it doesn’t seem too likely. All I know is that right now, I just can’t do it. I can’t blithely promise forever when I’m blind about the years ahead. I won’t do that to Edward. Or myself.
‘I don’t know.’ I wrench t
he words from my throat.
‘Right.’ Edward’s face is pale and pinched, and he leans forward to put his head in his hands. I hold my breath, my heart galloping. Is he going to walk away from me? Am I going to let him? Can I change my mind? Can he?
‘I . . . I need to go,’ he says finally, meeting my eyes. ‘I love you, but I need to go.’ He levers himself off the bench and walks slowly away, as if working against an invisible force. Every bit of me longs to call out, to say come back . . . but for what? We’ve reached an impasse, a barrier neither one of us can lift for the other to crawl through.
I gaze down at the brightly wrapped box, still containing his watch. Then I get to my feet and walk in the other direction as tears stream from my eyes.
22
ZOE, SATURDAY, 6.45 P.M.
The sun is low in the sky when I leave the darkness of the church and make my way down the stone steps. Despite attempting to turn off my brain, the memory reel inside me spins even faster. If I needed a drink an hour ago, now I’m absolutely gagging for one. I can see by the way the cafés are slowly filling up that it must be dinner time, and I know I should somehow find my way to the hotel – or, at least, to reach Edward.
But I don’t want to – not to the Edward I know now. Thinking back to that first night and the early days of our marriage has made the gap between where we were and where we are even wider, and a wave of sadness roils through me. I miss the way we used to be: how we laughed without caring how loud we were; how Edward held my hand, his fingers rubbing my wedding band. Is that couple gone for good, or can we somehow find ourselves again? After all, despite our coldness, we are both here in Paris, albeit not together. Not yet.
I sink down in a wicker chair at a café, deliberately looking away in case a waiter tries to catch my eye. I’ll just rest my legs for a bit before moving on . . . God, that sun feels nice. I close my eyes and drink in its warmth, laughter from the two women chatting at the next table sliding across my consciousness. Their friendly Liverpool accent stands out from the smooth French surrounding them, and from the way they’re giggling and the easy flow of conversation, I can tell they’ve been mates for years.
One of the women catches my eye and smiles. ‘Sorry we’re so loud,’ she says, as if expecting me to speak English. ‘My friend just told me some excellent news!’
‘Congratulations,’ I respond automatically, envying their huge smiles and the happiness radiating from them. ‘Enjoy your celebrations.’
‘If you’re alone, why don’t you join us? The more the merrier, right?’
I pause for a second, unsure whether I’m really up for a conversation with two strangers. But that’s the thing: they’re strangers. They know nothing about my past, and I don’t need to carry the heavy weight of guilt and sorrow on me as a shield. I used to be a real chatterbox, talking to everyone. I might be way out of practice, but right now I miss just talking to people.
‘Sure, that would be nice. Thanks.’ I stand and squeeze between the tables towards theirs, then hold out my hand. ‘I’m Zoe.’
‘I’m Lucy,’ says the woman, pushing back a heavy black fringe, ‘and that’s Rachel.’
Rachel, a teensy tiny thing with long blonde hair, shakes my hand.
‘So what’s the big news?’ I ask, eyeing the water on the table with envy. God, I’d kill for a glass right now.
‘I’m pregnant!’ Rachel squeaks out, her hand sliding down to her tummy.
‘Which explains the water.’ Lucy rolls her eyes towards the dewy carafe on the table. ‘I mean, who drags their best friend to Paris for the weekend, then forces them to drink water?’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ I say automatically, wondering why – of all the tourists in Paris – I have to find the two celebrating pregnancy. And I can tell just by looking at Rachel she’s going to be one of those annoyingly glowing, fresh-faced pregnant women that make it all seem so easy. I was one of the lucky ones whose morning sickness lasted day and night – for practically nine months.
‘It really is.’ Rachel nods earnestly. ‘We’ve been trying for a while . . . and been through two rounds of IVF. This was our last shot, and it worked! Thank God. I can’t imagine our life without children.’ She pauses to sip her water, and for the millionth time, I think how ironic it is that perfectly healthy people who should have no trouble getting pregnant can’t, while Edward and I somehow managed. ‘Do you have kids?’
A sharp pang goes through me. ‘No,’ I mumble, staring down at the metal table. ‘No, I don’t have kids.’ Words claw at my throat, words that would let loose everything about Milo. For the first time, instead of keeping everything wrapped in layers of gauze, I want to let him out. I want people to know he existed, that he lived. But as I look up to meet the expectant eyes of Rachel, I can’t force out the words. Because talking about his life also means talking about his death, and I just can’t do that.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Lucy says, obviously picking up on my discomfort. ‘She’s obsessed with all things baby at the moment and wants to convert everyone. She’s going to have a tough go with me.’
I can’t help smiling, thinking how much Lucy and Rachel are like Kate and me – or how we were, anyway. Kate sang hymns about the wonder of babies, but her words were slightly contradicted by the spit-up on her clothes, the bags under her eyes and the vacant expression on her face . . . at least for the first few months. I watched in horror as her innocent babe transformed into a red-faced, screaming demon for hours on end each night, wondering who in their right mind would willing try for a baby.
I miss Kate and her no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is (or how she thinks it is) attitude. From marriage to children to moving to the suburbs, she’s always been right beside me. But she can’t follow me to where I am now, despite her attempts. A memory floats into my head of one of the few conversations we had, about six months after Milo’s death. I’d managed to drag myself from the depths of my bed and over to her house, hoping that would convince her to stop calling every God-given hour – not that I answered. I sat carefully on the sofa, avoiding the menagerie of soft toys as if they were ticking bombs, and drifted away as she told me it would all be okay, that I’d come to terms with a ‘new normal’.
I don’t need a ‘new normal’! I wanted to shriek. I need my son back! Instead, I nodded mutely, burrowing even deeper inside myself as I watched Kate’s daughter streak across the room and into her mother’s arms.
And that was the last time we spoke – or rather Kate spoke. She tried and tried to reach me, continuing to knock on my door and ring day after day. But how could I bear to be with someone who still had a family, who could breathe in the sweet scent of their child every second? Watching would be pure torture.
Maybe I could have told her that, tried to make her understand, instead of shutting her out. Maybe if I really had talked to her, we’d still be friends. Guilt niggles now that I never once returned her many messages. Maybe there were times she needed my support. Once upon a time, I knew everything about her life – and vice versa. But once upon a time, we had no idea life could be so cruel.
‘You don’t want children?’ I ask Lucy, realising the silence has stretched a bit too long and they’re waiting for me to say something.
Lucy shakes her head so hard her fringe flies back and forth. ‘Oh, God, no. I don’t want to be responsible for anything other than myself. And I like my freedom way too much. I don’t want to be tied down, you know?’
I nod. I do know, because I felt exactly the same way, before I realised that being tied down – having someone to depend on, and who depends on you – isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Scary, yes, but strangely comforting. ‘You know, you get used to it. It’s a huge lifestyle change, but you have this new little person in your life, and even though it’s hard, it makes the trade-off seem . . . not easy, but worthwhile.’ I smile, remembering what a big adjustment it was. I can’t even remember the last time Edward and I had a big night out. I strain my mind, sieving through
the last several years. Maybe . . . maybe before Milo was born?
After he came, we always talked about getting a babysitter, but we never did. I might have followed through, but Edward wasn’t keen to entrust him with anyone for long, even my mum. If you’d have said to me, back before I got pregnant, that I wouldn’t go out with my husband for almost two years, I’d have deemed you crazy – that there was no way a baby would change my life that much. But it does. It changes everything.
Suddenly I realise the two women are staring at me in confusion.
‘Wait, I thought you said you didn’t have kids?’
Oh God. I jerk to my feet so quickly the table wobbles, the water sloshing dangerously in the glasses. I can’t do this. I can’t go there. Without even saying goodbye, I rush off the crowded terrace and back onto the street, feeling the baffled gaze of the two women following me as I go.
I sink down on a bench, trying to avoid the dots of pigeon poo as I catch my breath. That conversation with those two strangers was the first time I’ve spoken about Milo since his death, even in such general terms. I know that’s hard to believe, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. It was as if just opening my mouth and bringing out the words would let the pain in – the pain I’ve been trying so hard, so unsuccessfully, to avoid.
But I haven’t self-combusted. I’m here. I’ve opened up a tiny little piece of me and I’m still breathing.
Barely.
23
ZOE, AUGUST 2010
Edward’s been gone a month now, and I still can’t believe we’re not together. One second we’re celebrating our anniversary, the next . . . we’ve split. Just goes to show I was right about forever: you never know what might happen the next week, the next day, the next second. Being right is providing little comfort, though.
