by Leah Mercer
The sultry sound of a saxophone floats through the night air, volume rising as my legs plod down the street. I stop outside a heavy wooden door, making out the accompanying sounds of laughter, the clink of glasses, and the low hum of countless conversations inside. I lean against the glossy wood, breathing in the scent of paint and polished brass.
The door is cold on my sunburned back, and I’m just about to push off it and continue on my way when my weight clicks it open, revealing a quiet courtyard. Golden light spills out onto cobblestones, and before I know what I’m doing, I step through the door and into the light. Through another door, I can see into a grand townhouse and out to the garden, where a party is in full swing. Guests mill about on a manicured lawn, and elegantly dressed waiters circulate with plates of food and drink. My mouth waters at the thought of consuming something – anything – and I realise that I’ve hardly eaten since . . . I can’t even remember when.
The band switches to an upbeat number, and couples swirl and twirl to the music on a dance floor in the corner of the garden. Even though I’m dead tired, I can’t help swaying back and forth to the beat. God, it’s been so long since I even listened to music. The last time was—
The memory hits me and I catch my breath. The last time was at Milo’s funeral. I can barely remember those first few days after the accident. It’s the disbelief, the strangeness of it all, as if you’re living in a dream and someone, sometime will wake you up and tell you it’s all just a nightmare. I still feel that way most of the time.
Anyway, since I couldn’t do anything but sleep, Edward organised all the details. I couldn’t bear to. Dealing with practical things meant the nightmare was real. It was a wonderful funeral – everyone said so, as if funerals were things that could be graded on a scale of one to ten. As if a boy’s life after two years could be celebrated. For God’s sake, he’d hardly even lived.
But Edward was thorough. He dug out all our photos and put together a slide show, he chose Milo’s clothes, and the song . . . My eyes ache with the pressure of waiting tears as the notes of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ float into my head, tender and slow like a lullaby. In those first few months, when Milo would morph from a happy baby to a screaming demon between the hours of four and seven, Edward would endlessly croon that tune to him, over and over, until his cries finally subsided in one big, long, shuddery sigh and he drifted off to sleep. We’d gaze down at Milo’s angelic face, saying how lucky we were. And now I know how much that’s true. We were lucky, but our luck ran out. The best thing that happened to us was taken away, leaving only us: a broken version.
I cringe, thinking how hard that must have been for Edward. To do it all himself, all alone. To pack up his son’s belongings while his wife slept on, and on and on. He did reach out to me, I realise now. I remember the bed sagging as he sat down beside me, clasped my hand, and tried to break into my haze. He tried to talk, but I just . . . couldn’t. I couldn’t even deal with my own emotions, let alone his.
The band stops and a smattering of applause echoes around the garden. I rub my eyes, the urge to speak with Edward growing bigger and bigger, until it’s almost a compulsion. I push blindly into the house and out to the garden. Surely someone there has a phone they’ll let me use, if I explain the situation? My foot catches on the raised edge of a cobblestone and I tumble forwards, only just stopping myself from falling over. I straighten up, running a hand through my curls and hoping I don’t get chucked out before I can borrow someone’s mobile. Among these elegantly dressed guests, I stick out like a sore thumb in my jeans and T-shirt.
I catch a bit of English floating across the perfumed air, and I edge my way towards it. My cheeks colour as I hover beside a middle-aged, posh couple discussing this year’s opera season.
‘Um, excuse me?’
Their heads swivel towards me with identically raised eyebrows, and my blush deepens. This really is a ridiculous request – they’re hardly going to hand over their mobile to a complete stranger – but I might as well ask. What do I have to lose?
‘I’ve been mugged and I lost my phone and wallet. I wonder if I might use your mobile to ring my husband?’ I try to make my voice as posh as possible.
‘Oh, my.’ The woman puts a hand to her chest. ‘Are you all right? Have you reported it to the police?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, ‘and no, not yet. I just need to reach my husband and everything will be all right.’ I know it won’t be – it will never be all right – but for the first time since Milo left, I have a feeling it might help.
‘John, give her the mobile,’ the woman says.
John casts his eyes over me. ‘Wait a second. Do you know Florence and Guillaume? Have they invited you here?’
Oh, shit. Trust me to find the suspicious Englishman. ‘Well . . . I don’t know them personally, no,’ I say. ‘But—’
The wife rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, John. Just let the poor woman call her husband. You can see she’s been through an ordeal!’
I gaze down self-consciously. Yes, you can certainly see that.
‘Oh, all right.’ The husband removes a gold-plated mobile from his pocket. ‘How about you tell me the number, and I’ll dial it for you.’
Thank God. I reel off Edward’s number, the digits flowing automatically from my tongue.
‘It’s ringing.’ John hands me the phone.
My heart beats as I wait for Edward to answer. In a way, this feels like the first time I’ve spoken to him for years – the first time I’ve really wanted to, anyway. Come on, I say inside my head, my foot tapping on the soft grass. Surely he’ll pick up soon. He must have his phone on hand, knowing I’m missing. Right?
‘Hello, you’ve reached Edward . . .’
My heart drops as the phone clicks through to voicemail. Why on earth isn’t he answering his phone? What else could he be doing than looking for his wife? I clear my throat and get ready to leave a message.
‘Hi, Edward.’ Just saying his name feels different. ‘It’s me. I got mugged at the train station and my mobile and wallet are lost. I don’t know where we’re staying so I can’t find you.’ I swallow, wondering what else to say. I can hardly tell him to ring John’s phone and stick around here all night waiting, can I? Judging from the evil eye I’m getting right now, I’d better wrap things up. ‘Anyway, I’m borrowing someone’s phone to make this call. I’ll try to find another way to contact you.’
I hang up and hand the phone back to John, disappointment swirling inside. I know we’ve been distant lately, and that Edward’s pretty much been living his own life – as have I. But I guess I still believed if I ever really needed him, really wanted to talk, he’d be there . . . like he always was. Fear pricks my gut. Has that changed? Has he bowed out?
‘Dear?’ The woman is looking at me with concern, and I shake my head again.
‘I’m okay.’ I force a smile to show them I’m not a lunatic. ‘Can you just . . . tell me the way to the Marais?’
John nods. ‘Go out the door and turn left, then walk for about ten minutes. You’ll come across Rue des Quatre-Fils. Turn left on that one, too. That should take you to the centre.’
‘Okay.’ I try to imprint his instructions on my brain. ‘Thanks for the phone. Have a good evening.’
John nods again and takes his wife’s arm, and the two of them disappear back into the night. I retrace my steps out through the townhouse and across the courtyard, pushing open the heavy door. The street is emptier now and the music fades as I leave the party behind me. Even though every muscle in my body aches, I quicken my pace.
I don’t know where you are, Edward, I say inside my head, as if I’m sending a telepathic message. But I’m coming to find you.
Finally.
35
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8 P.M.
‘Okay, monsieur. All done.’
My eyes drift open as the barber’s voice cuts into my very pleasant fantasy – soon to be reality? – of me and Fiona in bed. I lift
a hand to my chin and feel nothing but smooth skin.
I sit up and take the mirror the man’s handed me, eyebrows rising in surprise at the reflection. It’s me all right, but I don’t look the same as I did before I grew the goatee. My image stares back, and I flinch at what I see: not the wide, youthful gaze of the young man I once was, but a man with slightly saggy jowls to match the bags beneath my eyes. I might have removed the hair, but I can’t remove the years. Still, it’s something different, and that’s what I want.
I pass the mirror back to the barber. ‘Thank you,’ I say, giving him a few euros.
He nods and picks up a towel to tidy up, and I head back out to the shop floor where assistants are starting to usher shoppers towards the exits. The huge clock on the wall reads almost eight: four hours to kill until Fiona’s train arrives. I have to say, this day seems endless. Usually, with work and meeting friends – and Fiona – the hours fly by in a comfortable blur. One day to the next, moving me further and further away from the events of the past. But now, without my regular schedule, it feels like time is suspended.
Outside on the street, the cafés and restaurants are packed with Saturday night punters. I pass a couple gorging on a huge plate of oysters, and my stomach growls, remembering when Zoe introduced me to them. I was dubious at first – they looked more like something you’d chuck in the rubbish than ingest. But once I tried one, I couldn’t get enough. God, it’s been ages since I had some.
Does Fiona like oysters, I wonder, tearing my thoughts from Zoe and back to the woman at hand. She’ll probably be starving when she finally arrives; perhaps we can find a place that does them. I try to imagine Fiona sitting across from me as we down our oysters, but all I can see is Zoe once again.
Maybe I’ll grab some champagne for later, I think, nodding at the man behind the counter as I enter a shop. I choose a cold bottle from the fridge and peel off a few notes, then slowly make my way to the hotel, trying to take as much time as possible.
Back in the hotel, I place the tissue-wrapped lingerie on the bed and my phone bleeps. I dig it from my pocket, noting there’s a missed call and a voicemail. Strange that I didn’t hear it ring, but then, Parisian streets aren’t known for their silence. The call is from a number I don’t recognise, but the country code is for the UK. I dial into my voicemail, fingers tapping on the duvet as I wait to see who it’s from.
‘Hi, Edward, it’s me.’
My fingers disconnect the call, like they have a mind of their own. I stare at the mobile, almost as if Zoe’s going to leap from it and into this room . . . the last thing I want right now. I don’t know why she’s calling from a different number – is she with someone else, back in the UK, like I’m about to be here? Given how little I know about her life now and, as I’ve just discovered, how she spends her days, it’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility. I’ve no idea why she’s ringing, but I really don’t care. I want this weekend for me, without the complications and sadness of the past few years.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, vowing to answer only if Fiona calls.
36
ZOE, OCTOBER 2010
As soon as I open my eyes, the knowledge hits me: today I’m getting married. Today, I will promise to love, cherish and honour Edward, until death do us part. The words roll around in my head and I haul myself upright, nausea making me groan. But I know it’s not nerves for the impending ceremony; it’s the baby inside. Now that I’ve accepted that my future is written, all my anxiety about forever has stopped barking in my brain, like a small yappy dog you’ve finally made friends with.
I shake my head, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. If I’d have known vanquishing my marriage phobia was that easy, Edward and I never would have broken up in the first place. But in a strange kind of way, I’m glad we did. It only confirmed how much we want to be together, even if it did take a baby to get me to push the final button.
My hand moves to my stomach. It’s still early days – I’m about three months along – but I’ll always be grateful to this little one for bringing me and Edward together again. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t got pregnant? I’d like to think we’d have found each once more, but the outcome might have been different.
Funny how I thought a newborn was the ultimate death knell for a new marriage, back when Kate told me she was pregnant. Now, it’s been our saviour. And although I’m still terrified, I’m so excited to meet this baby, this perfect mix of Edward and me. Kate will be there every step of the way too – I’ve already warned her to expect frantic phone calls morning, noon and night. Thank goodness she had her baby first so she knows what to do. Watching her with Olivia, I know it will be hard . . . but I also can’t wait to feel my child’s chubby arms clutch me tight, or to rock it gently off to sleep.
‘You’re getting married today!’ Kate jumps on my bed, and I groan again as it bounces up and down. I swear, she’s more excited than I am, even though it’s not the ceremony she would have wanted. In fact, it’s the opposite of her elaborate affair. With just a month of planning – call me vain, but I still wanted to be able to fit into a size twelve – we’ve decided on a small ceremony room at Islington Town Hall, with only Kate and Giles, along with our parents, as guests.
I smile, thinking of when we first told our parents we were getting married – and having a baby. Of course I’d met Edward’s mum and dad before: lovely, but a little distant and cold, as if they don’t want to get too close to you (Edward’s mother even does air kisses). I’d hoped the news of a grandchild might melt them a bit, but they kept their composure as always as I babbled on about due dates and morning sickness. My own mum and dad couldn’t have been more different. Mum couldn’t wait to touch my belly, advising me on everything from stretch marks to heartburn. She used to drive me crazy with unwanted advice, but now I was drinking it up.
‘Right, let’s get you ready!’ Kate’s chipper voice is a little too chipper for this time of morning, and I cover my ears.
‘We still have hours,’ I complain, tempted to flop down again.
‘Yeah, and have you seen the state of you? It’s going to take that long to have you looking less Bride of Dracula and more, er . . . well, more like something Edward would want to marry.’
A few hours later, I’ve been primped, poked and made-up to within an inch of my life. My curls are lacquered with several layers of hairspray, my lashes coated with heavy mascara, and my lips can barely part, they’ve got so much sticky gloss on them. But when I gaze in the mirror . . . wow. I look like a proper bride, even if my gown is just a fitted, vintage-style dress I picked up at the local second-hand shop.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ Kate says, eying my reflection. ‘And I’m not just saying that because I’m afraid of the pregnancy hormones I know are racing around your body right now.’
I laugh, because it’s true: my emotions have been a little heightened lately. Edward keeps joking that he’ll buy me a flashing light to signal when he should stay away. I wonder what he’s doing right now. One thing’s for sure: it’s probably nowhere near this level of preparation. I’ll be lucky if he shaves and trades his baggy jeans for some hole-free trousers.
I turn sideways, examining my profile in the mirror. Thankfully, my stomach is still relatively flat – well, as flat as it ever was.
‘All right, little one,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s go get married.’
37
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8.45 P.M.
I’m out on the street again. I couldn’t stay in that coffin-sized hotel room more than ten minutes on my own. The second there’s silence, thoughts descend like stinging wasps: how Zoe shut me out; how she lied; how she’s been the one making all our decisions. I’ll sit at a café and have another pint, watch the street life filter by . . . anything’s better than staying inside alone.
I lower myself into a wicker chair at one of the many places lining the street, sipping my beer when the waiter brings it to me. I don’t usually drink th
is much, but there’s little else to pass the time here waiting for Fiona. Besides, I want to be relaxed and chilled out for her, not tightly wound from thoughts of my absent wife. I jiggle the change in my pocket, wondering if I need to get more euros from the cashpoint. As I slide the contents of my pocket into my hand and pick through them, I realise my wedding band isn’t there. I check the other pocket, but it’s not there either.
Shit.
I paw through the assortment of coins, keys and random Tic Tacs, but the ring is nowhere to be found. Have I really lost my wedding band? I stretch out my legs as the knowledge sinks in. I knew my marriage was over – removing the watch Zoe gave me signalled that decision – but this seems like a final judgment from above. A mix of nostalgia and sadness washes over me. However far we’ve drifted now, that ring was a reminder of what we had, of what we promised: love, forever. Now that reminder’s gone. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does.
My mind flips back to our wedding – the best day of my life right up until Milo was born. Part of me couldn’t believe it all: Zoe as my wife, and my very own child. I couldn’t get the wedding band on her finger fast enough. As she slipped on my ring, I gazed down and marvelled how, until the day I died and probably even after, that ring would still be on my finger.
Until death do us part.
Sounds about right – except it wasn’t my death, or Zoe’s.
My throat tightens and emotions push at my chest. I take a huge swig of the beer in front of me. I’ll talk to Zoe as soon as I get home, I decide, and tell her I’m moving out. I’m sure she won’t mind – she feels the distance as much as I do. Hell, she’s the one who created it. I’ll crash at my parents’ until I find somewhere to live. Maybe a flat, back in London again. I can’t wait to get out of that village, where the trees and flowers and quiet – things we moved there for in the first place – now feel like they’re suffocating me. Give me noise, give me shrieking sirens and late-night partiers.
