Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I press down on the curls spiralling up from my head, then swipe a hand across my face. He could have told me he was coming so I could try to transform myself from swamp creature to human!

  Edward sits down beside me, and the familiar scent of mint and vanilla wafts over. ‘Kate told me you’re pregnant.’

  My mouth drops open. What? Oh my God, I’m going to strangle her. My mind whirls and I try to come up with something to say, but I can’t.

  ‘Is it . . .’ He takes a shuddery breath. ‘Is it mine?’ His eyes laser through me, and time stops. I can feel the heat from his leg and I move away. If I touch him, I’ll dissolve. I want him so much; every cell in me is dying to reach over and stroke his face, poke my little finger through that hole in his T-shirt like I used to. It would be so easy to say yes – to have someone else make this decision with me, to not feel so alone, so responsible. To have him back in my life again, even if just for the next few days, even if it’s not as my boyfriend.

  But I can’t. What’s the point? I’ve made my decision not to have his baby. I’m not going to complicate things – or even hurt him – by telling him about something that, by this time tomorrow, won’t even exist. Our lives will continue on their separate tracks. That’s the path we’ve started down, and the one we need to stay on.

  ‘No.’ The word emerges as a whisper, and I clear my throat. ‘No, it’s not yours.’ I manage to get out the sentence without my voice breaking, but not my heart. Pieces jab at my ribs, my gut, like sharp glass.

  He flinches like I’ve slapped him, then gets to his feet, his movements jerky. ‘Oh. All the best, then,’ he says stiffly, then shuts the door behind him.

  Silence falls and I double over on the sofa, sobs shaking my body. A headache pounds at my skull, and bile inside starts rising.

  What the hell am I doing?

  31

  EDWARD, SATURDAY, 7.30 P.M.

  I touch this shirt and that as I wander through the men’s department, not really sure what I’m looking for. I want something new, something untainted by my previous life. By the grief, the heaviness that wraps itself around your neck like a leaden tie, by the memories like hand grenades, chucked at you when you least expect it.

  That’s why I shop so much lately. The old me would have snorted incredulously at the time I’ve spent in trendy stores, buying clothes I normally wouldn’t have been caught dead in: jeans I can barely get my foot through and paisley-printed shirts. With my hair slicked up with product foisted on me by my stylist (I even defected from my regular barber) sometimes I barely recognise myself in the mirror. And that’s exactly what I want.

  Fiona seems to like my makeover. When I first turned up at work with my new jeans and crisp shirt, she told me she’d been dying to get me into some decent threads for years – after I caught her ogling my arse. It was nice to have someone actually notice me after feeling invisible at home for so long. I know that sounds egotistical, but there it is.

  A wave of fatigue sweeps over me, and I look for somewhere to sit down – just for a second. As I scan the space in front of me, I spot a small kiosk with a sink and a chair, offering shaves and trims. I run a hand over my chin, feeling the scrape of tiny bristles and the wiry brush of my goatee. It’s been a long day, and in the rush of hustling to the train this morning, I didn’t shave. I could really do with one if I don’t want to scratch Fiona’s face to hell. Plus, a good sit-down for ten minutes or so will revive me for the night ahead.

  I push between the rails and inside the small glass area, somehow managing to explain to the man what I want. I’ve just finished my pathetic attempt at speaking French when an idea hits: why not shave off my whole goatee? I started growing a beard just after Milo was born – not intentionally, but life was hectic, I was tired, and it was too much effort to shave. And when he got older, he loved rubbing his head on my chin and laughing at how it felt against his skin. His bubbling giggle echoes in my head and that hand grenade of pain explodes inside.

  ‘Take it off,’ I say to the man, making hand gestures so he fully understands. ‘I want it off.’

  The man nods and points to the chair. I lower myself into it, cursing the skinny jeans that make crossing your legs very uncomfortable, if not impossible. I close my eyes and try to clear my brain of everything except for the rasp of the razor as it traverses my face and the spicy scent of the shaving foam.

  I wonder if Zoe will notice? The thought sneaks into my head, and I snort with impatience. It doesn’t matter if she notices or not any more. She’s made it quite clear she’s through with me. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if she ever really wanted me in the first place. The old anger – anger I’d managed to bury under layer upon layer – bubbles up again as I remember her looking me straight in the eye, saying Milo wasn’t my baby. I still don’t understand what changed her mind: what made her decide to have Milo and marry me, but I was so happy she finally agreed to marry me that I didn’t question it.

  I let out a small snort now, and the barber shoots me a quizzical look. Finally agreed to marry me, shit. How pathetic that my wife needed convincing, needed to be pregnant, before succumbing to marriage. I want to shake the old me for being so naive, so eager.

  Slowly, without looking down or opening my eyes, I jimmy the wedding ring off my finger and slide it into my pocket. My hand and my heart feel lighter, and I flex my fingers as the barber scrapes the past two years from my face.

  32

  ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010

  My eyes are gritty, my mouth is dry. An invisible hand grabs my guts and twists, trying to force my meagre breakfast up and out of my throat. I’m in the waiting room of the clinic – a nondescript space stuffed with women of all ages. As I sit here, I try not to think about what’s going to happen in the next few hours. I try to focus on the end result: that everything will be fixed and back to normal. But everything won’t be fixed, will it? I won’t have Edward.

  The nausea rises again as I remember the look on his face when I said the baby wasn’t his. I spent all night with my hand on the mobile, bringing up his contact, staring at the phone, and desperately wanting to ring yet desperately not wanting to. For the millionth time, I tell myself this is for the best – for us both. And for the millionth time, I wonder if it really is.

  Is Edward with that woman? Is there a chance . . . a chance he still loves me? At the very least, I should have talked to him, to see why he came by. That must have meant something, right? The pain and confusion and emotion all swamped my mind, driving me to put an end to it all. What if there’s another path to take besides this one – a path we could take together?

  I grab my knitting needles and force myself to move them, back and forth, back and forth. The girl beside me raises an eyebrow at my frantic movements, but I don’t care. I want to lose myself in the motion, to forget everything. But even as the needles click, the feeling that I’m making a mistake grows and grows.

  And it’s not just about Edward. It’s about this thing inside my body, this baby. It’s a part of me; it’s depending on me, in a way no one else ever has. Although the thought scares the hell out of me, I also feel incredibly protective – as if I’d never, not in a million years, let anyone harm it . . . ironic, given where I’m sitting at the moment. I feel, I guess, like a mother. All the future angst, the frustration and the dirty nappies in the world can’t compete with that. I always wondered how Kate could complain for hours on end about having a child, then finish off by saying, ‘It’s all worth it.’ Now, I can kind of understand.

  Okay, so I’m not sure. About a baby, about the future, about anything, really. But like Kate said, no one is ever sure – not one hundred per cent. Relationships are a leap of faith. Life is a leap of faith. My hand slides down to my belly, and I let out a puff of air. If nothing else, this is a reminder that you can’t control things. Stuff happens, and the best you can do is try to get through it – with the people you love. Pushing them away because you’re scar
ed of losing them doesn’t solve anything. I know that now.

  Will Edward still want me, though? Will he forgive my terrible lie that the baby’s not his? And will he believe me now when I tell him it is his, after all?

  ‘Zoe, we’re ready for you now.’ A nurse appears in the doorway, beckoning me forward.

  I get to my feet and walk towards her, my heart pounding. But instead of following her through to the examining room, I push past, up the stairs, and out the door into the crisp, sunny morning.

  I take a deep breath, and get ready to jump.

  33

  EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010

  I’ve dragged myself into work today, but even though we have a project deadline looming and I should be frantically coding, I can’t focus on the screen. Not surprising, given I hardly slept last night. After seeing Zoe, I stayed up for hours with my flatmate, Gus, drinking beer, talking cricket (slightly challenging, given my lack of knowledge), and trying to forget what happened.

  But I can’t block out the look on Zoe’s face when she said the baby wasn’t mine – the way she just tossed the word ‘no’ out there, like it didn’t – wouldn’t – mean anything to me. Like she couldn’t see then that I would have gladly given up the legal ties of marriage, just for the chance of being with her – and our baby.

  A snort escapes and I want to punch myself for being so stupid. I’d like to give Kate a piece of my mind, too, but I’m way too tired to even form a coherent sentence right now.

  Somehow the day passes, and I lurch back to the flat after dodging several phone calls from Eva. Part of me wants to go to her, to bury myself in her and forget everything else. But despite my attempts, there’s too much Zoe in my mind to even think of being with another woman right now. All I know is that I haven’t got Zoe pregnant. I haven’t got Zoe, either, but then, I should be used to that. After what Kate told me about her former engagement, I’m starting to wonder if I ever did.

  As I climb the dusty stairs to our door, I can hear the low rumble of Gus’s voice along with the higher tones of a woman’s. My heart drops. The last thing I feel like doing right now is playing Gus’s wingman like I normally would, lobbing him jokes and making him seem a thousand times more charming than he is in reality. I’ll grab a beer, say a quick hello, and head out again. I really need to find a place of my own and soon.

  I fit my key in the door and swing it open, my jaw clenching when I see who’s inside. It’s not some random woman Gus picked up.

  It’s Zoe.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My voice sounds like a stranger’s, cold and husky.

  ‘Er, I’ll just give you guys some space.’ Gus holds up his hands and backs slowly out of the room, looking only too happy to get out of there.

  His door slams shut and it’s silent for a minute except for the hum of the ancient fridge. I lean against the wall, not wanting to even sit down. ‘Well?’

  Zoe leans forward, pushing her curls behind her ears. Even they look like they’re low in energy, hanging limply instead of their usual crazy spiral. ‘Please, can you sit down? You’re making me nervous twitching like that.’ Her voice is unnatural, too, high and shaky.

  I take a seat in the broken armchair across from her, the springs squeaking as I sit. She’s even paler than last night, if that’s possible, and sweat coats her face.

  ‘Edward . . .’ Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. ‘I lied. Last night.’

  I shake my head. I really can’t take much more of this. ‘You lied? What, you’re not pregnant?’

  ‘No, I am.’ Her hand slides down to her belly and I can’t help following its path. She looks just the same as ever – perhaps even a bit skinnier. She takes a breath and her belly rises too. ‘I’m pregnant. I didn’t lie about that. But . . . it’s yours.’

  The words fly at me, gripping my throat. I lean back as disbelief rolls over me, quickly followed by a shot of anger so powerful my chest tightens.

  ‘So why the fuck did you say it wasn’t mine?’ My leg starts jiggling and I stand and pace across the room, trying to work off the emotion flooding through me. How could she even think of doing that to me? She knows I thought I couldn’t have children. Was she really going to let me carry on believing that? And if she did decide to have the baby, was she going to deny me access to my own child?

  Christ! Does she hate me that much?

  She leaps up and grabs my hand. I let her tug me down onto the sofa, drained now, feeling numb.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was confused, and I didn’t know what to do.’ She pauses. ‘I thought I wasn’t ready to have a baby, so there was no point telling you.’

  ‘No point?’ For a split second, I want to shake her. ‘You mean besides the fact that I thought I couldn’t have kids?’

  Her cheeks flare red and she bites her lip. ‘I would have told you eventually. After . . . everything.’

  ‘Oh, gee, thanks.’ My tone is so sarcastic and bitter, I hardly recognise it. I’ve never spoken this way, not to anyone. But Zoe, well, she just brings out all these emotions the way no one else does.

  ‘So why are you telling me now?’ I can’t help looking at her stomach again, see-sawing back and forth between incredulity and relief. Curled up inside her is my baby, the child I never thought I’d have – the child I realise now I desperately want. I’m not infertile after all. After everything, I’m almost afraid to let myself believe it.

  ‘I know you’re angry with me and I don’t blame you.’ She takes my other hand, and my fingers automatically thread through hers, despite myself. ‘But I do want to have this baby.’

  I nod slowly, trying to absorb everything, my heart pounding. Just last night, I was ready to take on the role of father and partner. Then I had everything yanked away. Now Zoe’s here, telling me I’m going to be a dad after all. An intense longing sweeps over me to be there for this child. To cradle it in my arms, to be its whole world.

  ‘And I want to have it with you.’ She draws in another deep breath and squeezes my fingers. ‘I want to marry you, and make us a family. I’ll never lie again, I promise.’

  My eyes lock with hers and I sit here, stunned. She wants to be with me. She wants to get married? A million questions float around my mind, like whatever happened to her allergy to forever? Why didn’t she tell me she was engaged before? And I can’t just dismiss her cruelty at lying about the pregnancy, like it was nothing. It’s huge, and she was playing with my life, my future happiness.

  But . . . I love her. I do, for better or worse, and she’s just removed the very reason we broke up in the first place. She’s willing to commit to forever, and I know that’s a big step. And even if she wasn’t, there’s something else: something that trumps all other factors.

  We’re going to have a baby.

  I want to do this with her. I want to do this together. My simmering anger at her lie, the unanswered questions – none of that is important. Not now. An image of Giles and Kate staring beatifically down at their newborn comes to mind, and happiness flickers inside. I can have that after all. We can have that. A family.

  ‘Edward?’ Zoe’s staring at me, and I realise I’ve been sitting in silence for a while.

  ‘Just a second.’ I peel my hands away from hers and head to my room, where most of my things are still in boxes. I rifle through a jumble of clothes, tossing aside trousers and pants. I know it’s here somewhere, if I can just find it. I should have returned it, but for some reason, I couldn’t. My fingers touch the black velvet box and I pull it out, then head back out to the lounge. Zoe’s exactly as I left her, frozen in place.

  When she sees what’s in my hand, her face breaks into a huge smile. God, I’ve missed the way her eyes crinkle like that. Before I can say a word, she kneels down.

  ‘It’s my turn,’ she says. ‘Edward, I love you. I want to be with you . . . forever.’ Her voice shakes on the word, but at least she’s managed to get it out. ‘Will you marry me?’

  I tug her up and take the box, ope
ning it up and grabbing the ring. As I slide it on her finger, I can’t help thinking I’m a lucky man.

  In this one moment, and for the rest of my life, I have everything.

  34

  ZOE, SATURDAY, 8 P.M.

  As the sky darkens and night-time falls on the streets of Paris, I ponder how I can find my husband before it gets much later. Wandering around in the day might have been all right, but it’s probably not the best option at night. It’s funny; now that I want to reach Edward, suddenly my senses feel heightened, like the world has come into focus. I notice the groups of men pushing by me, the empty alleys looming darkly and the shards of broken bottles, and my desire to reach my husband heightens. I’m not exactly sure he’s a safe place either, and I don’t know what I’ll say to him. I just want to reach out, to connect to him and our son in a way I haven’t for years.

  I run my tongue around my lips, tasting the salt from the long day in the sun. I used to adore lounging outside for hours, ignoring all health warnings. My skin would go brown – unlike Edward’s, which turns lobster-red at the hint of light – and I’d soak up the warmth, feeling it reach my very core. Now, though, my face feels tender and sore, as if this exposure is its first in years. In a way, it’s exactly how I feel inside too.

  I turn the corner onto yet another unknown street, eyes scanning the pavement for someone I can ask for the way to the Marais. I still won’t know which hotel Edward’s at, but at least it’s a start in the right direction . . . and maybe I’ll spot a phone box on the way. I’ll call collect and tell him what’s happened. Despite the distance between us, he must be worried. I know that much for sure.