Before You Go Read online

  Ed stares at me as my words press down on us, and I wait for him to process them. The air is heavy and I rub my head, feeling the effect of the wine.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Zo. I guess I’ve never really thought it mattered that much to you.’

  ‘Well, it does.’ I sound petulant, but I don’t care.

  ‘Clearly.’

  He sits up, wraps the duvet round his shoulders and looks me right in the eye. ‘OK, listen. I promise to give it some thought and I promise I won’t just dismiss it right out of hand. But you’ve got to give me some time, Zoe, OK?’

  I nod. It’s a step forward, at least. He reaches his hand out and grabs mine. ‘But if I do decide it’s not for me, for us, does that mean you’ll leave me? Because I couldn’t stand that.’

  The truth is, I have no idea. I couldn’t imagine not being with Ed forever, and if it meant not getting that piece of paper, did it really matter all that much? I wasn’t sure.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ It’s the best I can give him, for now. I can’t explain why it felt so important, but his dismissal just felt like a rejection of me, of us. Maybe it was my insecurities that were the problem, rather than his. ‘No, probably not,’ I add.

  ‘OK, good.’ A few seconds pass, then Ed pulls his hand away and says, ‘Right, let’s get some sleep.’ He lifts the duvet for me and I climb under it again gratefully, suddenly cold. Ed flicks the light out and I lie staring at the grey ceiling. Beside me I hear Ed’s breathing, uneven at first, then slowly deepening into a regular rhythm until it’s clear he’s asleep.

  I turn to face him and lie there for a while, watching him. His arm is slung above him, his head turned slightly to the side, and he looks so peaceful. I wish I could pause this moment forever, and never have to leave him.

  Finally, though, exhaustion takes over and I can put it off no longer. So, despite everything today has brought, I give in to the pull of sleep, and I let go . . .

  8

  5 October 2002

  My eyes snap open to the sight of Ed’s face hovering inches above mine, grinning, and my heart surges with happiness. Another day with him: I can hardly believe it. It hardly matters where or when it is.

  ‘Bonjour, ma chérie, tu as bien dormi?’

  ‘Wha – what?’ I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows. There’s still a blur round the edges of my vision, and I rub my eyes to clear them.

  ‘Bonjour, c’est le matin, il faut – er, get up-pay . . .’

  Ed’s French deserts him and I can’t help smiling. He wasn’t known for his language skills.

  ‘Bonjour, chéri, ça va? Pourquoi tu me parles en français?’

  ‘Er, what?’ He scratches his head.

  ‘Why are you talking to me in French?’

  ‘Oh, er, well, I thought I’d better give it a go, as we’re in Paris. Sorry for murdering the belle language.’ He shrugs nonchalantly, but I’m not really listening. We’re in Paris! I peer round the room, taking it in. The curtains are drawn so I climb out of bed and walk over to the window and poke my head out. I gasp.

  ‘Paris! We’re really here!’

  ‘Well, yes, we were last time I looked.’ Ed tugs the curtain from my hand and peeks through too. The view is nothing special, just more hotels and buildings across the street, but I know where we are and my heart contracts. Paris, the city of love and romance – this could be fabulous.

  Except that, last time, it wasn’t. Not at all. Last time, I’d spent the whole trip expecting Ed to ask me to marry him. Every time we went for dinner, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, on the Champs-Élysées, on the banks of the Seine – I saw a significant occasion, a moment to remember. It drove me mad and, by the end, it drove Ed mad too.

  ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ he snapped finally, on our last day there as we ate crêpes from a van on the pavement. ‘You’ve been a grumpy old cow all day. Actually, scrub that: for the last three days.’

  ‘I have not.’ A piece of crêpe fell from my mouth and landed by my foot. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ I kicked it away angrily.

  ‘See, you’re even angry at a piece of food.’

  Thunder roared in my ears.

  ‘I’m not angry at a piece of fucking food, I’m angry at you!’ I stamped my foot like a petulant child.

  ‘Me? What the hell have I done, apart from book a lovely holiday to Paris to cheer you up after a cancer scare? God, what a bloody terrible, selfish boyfriend I am.’

  I didn’t reply. I knew I was being an unreasonable bitch, but it didn’t mean I could stop it. I felt I wanted to punch something, someone, at the injustice of it all. The rage had to come out somewhere and it seemed that here, on this innocuous street in the middle of Paris, was where it was going to come out, like bile.

  ‘You are selfish. The whole time we’ve been here I’ve been convinced you were going to propose, to ask me to spend the rest of my life with you, but oh no. Edward Williams couldn’t possibly imagine that taking his girlfriend to Paris might make her think that he wanted to marry her, could he? You know how much I want to get married, you know how much it means to me, but you’re still refusing to even think about it. You’re a bloody selfish bastard, Ed, and I’m – fucking furious.’

  The tears were coming thick and fast by now but Ed just stood there, his crêpe in his hand, staring at me. I needed a hug, for him to tell me everything was going to be OK, but he wasn’t budging. He stood there, stock-still in the cold autumn air; then he turned, shoved his uneaten crêpe in a nearby bin and stalked off. I watched in horror and fury as he walked away from me, willing him to come back, to hug me and tell me everything was going to be OK. But he didn’t. He just went, leaving me standing there alone.

  Now, of course, I understand his hurt, confusion and anger. But then – well, then I was devastated. I walked around for hours as the sun went down and the air got chillier and chillier. I couldn’t face going back to the hotel and seeing the disgust on his face. I thought I’d ruined everything.

  And for a while, I had. We hardly spoke for the rest of the day and by the time we got home we agreed, after a stilted conversation, that we probably needed to spend some time apart. I was heartbroken. He’d gone to stay with his mum for a few weeks while I rattled round the flat by myself, empty, bereft.

  Eventually, of course, Ed and I had sorted things out. But I couldn’t go through that again. I wasn’t going to ruin it this time. This was my chance to make amends.

  I turn from the window and slip my arms round Ed’s waist. He buries his face in my hair. ‘You’re in a better mood today.’

  I flinch, remembering last time. ‘Yeah, sorry. Amazing what a good night’s sleep can do.’ I smile up at him apologetically.

  ‘So, where do you fancy going today?’

  I stare out of the window at the grey skies, the clouds sliding over the rooftops. We were in the most romantic city in the world and I didn’t care where we went. I would have been happy to stay in the hotel, just me and Ed. I shrug. ‘Dunno. The Louvre?’

  Ed’s face twists, his expression unreadable. ‘Er, we saw that yesterday.’

  ‘Oh. Oh yes, sorry.’ Oops, hopefully he put it down to tiredness. ‘I don’t really mind.’

  ‘Well, how about the Sacré-Cœur? You said you fancied going there.’ He peers out of the window, wrinkles his nose. ‘Although it looks like it might rain.’

  ‘We could always stay here, order breakfast in bed . . .’

  ‘Ooh, now you’re talking.’ Ed grabs the room service menu and we order a continental breakfast to be brought to our room.

  Half an hour later the breakfast arrives and we spread it out on the carpet like a picnic and sit cross-legged. I spread some jam on a croissant and watch Ed doing the same. ‘Thanks for this, Ed.’

  ‘What, breakfast?’

  ‘No, this. Paris.’

  He shrugs. ‘I just wanted to cheer you up, after the cancer scare and everything. I wanted you to know how much you mean to me. How much
I love you.’

  I smile happily. ‘I love you too.’ I take a bite of croissant but miss slightly, and end up with a huge lump of jam on my chin. I lean over to give Ed a kiss.

  ‘Get off me!’ he screeches, laughing and pushing me away. ‘You’re covered in jam!’

  ‘I know.’ I carry on moving towards him.

  Ed jumps up and runs across the room. He grabs a hairbrush from the dressing table and holds it in the air.

  ‘I have a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it,’ he yells, backing up against the chair.

  ‘Aha, you think you can defeat me, do you?’ I purr, smearing jam all over my mouth and chin and padding slowly towards him, licking my lips.

  ‘Get away from me, Jam Girl,’ he shouts. ‘You will be defeated!’

  He swipes the hairbrush round in circles like a sword. I carry on, dodging him, backing him slowly away from me and into the bathroom; then I grab the back of his neck and plant a huge smacker on his lips, covering his face in sticky red jam.

  ‘Oh, gross!’ he yells, wrapping his arms round me. I think he’s cuddling me and I sink into him, laughing. Then suddenly I feel water pouring down my face and realize he’s not finished yet. He’s holding a soaking wet facecloth above my head, the nearest thing he could find, and is just letting it drip, drip, drip all over me.

  ‘You little git!’ I yell, pulling away from him. ‘Right, this is war!’

  I grab the shower gel from the bath and squeeze it down his arm and across the front of his T-shirt. He grabs the shampoo and squirts the contents all over me. A huge lump lands on the top of my head and slides down over my eye and onto my cheek. Undeterred, I wipe it away and reach over to his face and smudge it on his eyebrows and nose.

  I walk back to the bedroom to find something else to throw at him but as I take my eyes from him for a second he follows me and scoops up a handful of butter and throws it at me. It’s soft and it slides down my chest and lands on the carpet. I gasp, then grab the bowl of strawberries and yogurt, charge up to him and dump the whole lot on his head. He looks shocked and for a few seconds we stand in silence, watching the strawberries that haven’t been squashed into his hair roll across the floor.

  And that seems to break the spell and as we stand there, sticky, wet and covered in food, we start to laugh hysterically. We’re laughing so hard we can hardly breathe, and finally we’re both sitting in the middle of the floor trying to catch our breath, covered in our breakfast.

  ‘You stupid bugger,’ he says, laughing. I look at him, covered in yogurt, jam and strawberries, and start to laugh again.

  ‘You look so ridiculous.’

  ‘Have you seen yourself?’

  I look down. My previously clean T-shirt is covered in smears of yogurt and is wet through. My pyjama bottoms are just as bad and I can’t begin to imagine how my hair looks. I can feel it plastered to my head.

  I look round the room. ‘I think we’d better get cleaned up.’

  I step across the mess to the bathroom and strip off and climb into the shower. The warm water pummels my head and I close my eyes. Then I hear the bathroom door open and Ed joins me in the tiny shower cubicle and wraps his arms round me from behind. I can feel his firm body pressed up against me and I reach round and cup his bum cheeks in my hands. He kisses my neck and I turn round so that our bodies are crushed against each other. My heart hammers in my chest. I’ve missed him so much; I’ve craved his touch, I’ve missed the feel of his strong body against mine. Now he’s here, it’s like an ache and I know I need him, I need to feel him inside me, to let myself go and really feel it. And so, in the confined space of the steamy shower cubicle, Ed and I make love. It’s not like in the movies: the cubicle is too small and we both keep banging our elbows on the glass, and then the water turns cold and we have to turn it off, and Ed has to change position several times because his legs are aching. But it doesn’t matter, because it still feels amazing.

  Afterwards, as we’re drying off, I feel shy. Even though it wasn’t the first time we’d been this intimate in the days I’m reliving, I’d thought I’d lost the chance to ever be with Ed again, to feel him on me, inside me, and now I don’t know how to behave. I get dressed quickly, and when he hugs me I smile with happiness.

  ‘Well, that was fun.’ Ed grins wickedly.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I think I like the less grumpy you.’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He peers out of the rain-spattered window. ‘It doesn’t look like it’s getting any better. Do you want to go out?’

  I shove an undamaged piece of croissant into my mouth and nod.

  ‘I guess we should.’

  And so we spend the rest of the day as you should in Paris; we stroll hand in hand up the Champs-Élysées, we do some shopping and we walk up the hill to the Sacré-Cœur. At the top of the steps we stand; the rain has stopped and the clouds scud across the sky as Paris and all its endless possibilities spread out before us. I squeeze Ed’s hand and he squeezes mine back and smiles at me.

  This time, I refuse to think about marriage. This time, I want to be happy.

  We wander back to the hotel, stopping for coffee and cake at the gorgeous Café de la Paix. It feels like such a treat. We stroll along the banks of the Seine, along walkways and through pretty gardens. At Pont Neuf we take a boat trip, Notre-Dame rising up before us, and the Eiffel Tower always in the background, reminding us where we are, in one of the most romantic cities in the world. I feel like the luckiest woman alive, being here with my Ed by my side.

  That night we enjoy a romantic candlelit dinner overlooking the river, and this time I don’t spend the whole meal a bundle of nerves, waiting for a ring to drop out of my glass or for Ed to drop down on one knee. This time, I just have fun.

  Later, as we snuggle up to go to sleep, I think back over the day and feel happy. This is so different from last time. I can only hope it’s enough to make a change. I can only hope I’ve done enough.

  9

  19 October 2002

  The room is totally unfamiliar and I feel breathless with panic as my eyes dart wildly around. The curtains are tightly drawn, making it hard to see details clearly, but in the murky grey light I can make out walls covered in generic paintings of landscapes, windmills, a lake; there’s dark wooden furniture, thick, flowery curtains, a standard lamp in the corner. I have no idea where I am.

  What does it mean, that I don’t recognize this room? Has something changed in the past, or am I back in the present in a whole new day? And if I am, what does that mean – that I’ve changed something? That Ed might not be dead? I feel light-headed just at the idea.

  But my thoughts refuse to settle, flailing around like a kite in the wind, and I frown as I struggle to pin them down into something coherent, tangible.

  I lie still a few more moments, trying to steady my heart, taking in deep gulps of air. This is crazy. Where – and when – the hell am I?

  Rolling over, I stand and walk to the window and pull open the curtains. The angry iron sky is dark, heavy, pressing; the clouds are low and still, reaching down to touch the sea, the line between the two dirty, smudged as though they can’t decide where one ends and the other begins. My eyes are drawn to the sea, the rolls of white surf like folds, the dull, bottomless water that stretches out forever. I flick my eyes to the left, and the right. In front of the house there’s a road, slick with rain, the light from the lamp post that’s still glowing reflected along the black tarmac. A car rolls slowly past, spray from its tyres splashing up, creating ripples long after it’s moved along. There’s a small fence with a gate, a path through a garden that in summer must be full of light and colour but today looks grey and lifeless. Leaning forward, I look to the left and see a pier, no lights flashing, nobody on it; to the right the road rises sharply, stretching between the sea and the row of houses. I can’t see the beach from here but I know it must be there, empty except for the odd dog walker, huddled against the chill. />
  I turn and find a jumper hanging on the back of a chair. I wrap myself tightly in it and open the door cautiously, peering out. Straining my ears for sounds of movement, I listen carefully but there’s nothing. It’s totally silent.

  I walk past two other doors – the bathroom and another bedroom, empty – and down the stairs to the kitchen, where I busy myself finding cups and teabags, boiling the kettle. Then I take my cup of tea and sit at the table, overlooking the sea and the view I’ve just seen from the bedroom window. There’s a hushed, early-morning feel to the cottage, as though everyone else in the world is still sleeping and it’s just me awake, watching the steam rise from my cup and dissipate in the cool air.

  A bag sits on the other chair, containing my laptop and some notes from work. I’m clearly planning to be here for a while if I’ve brought my work with me. My handbag is hanging from the back of the chair and I lean over and pick it up, looking for my phone. When I locate the old Nokia – definitely my old phone – I glance at the display. 7.14 a.m. Early still. There are no missed calls, no text messages. The date says 19 October 2002.

  I’m in the past, the day before Ed’s twenty-eighth birthday. But it’s not a past I’ve been in before.

  The room tilts at the realization and I grab the table for support. What on earth is going on? And how am I going to find out?

  I sit for a few more minutes, my mind calming, and try to bring some order to the thoughts racing round my brain. It’s only two weeks since we were in Paris and we were happy. Last time had been so bad we’d agreed to have some time apart when we’d got home, and I’d stayed in the flat while Ed had gone to stay with his mum for a bit, and later with Rob.

  We’d arrived home and Ed had hardly spoken to me since our row the day before, on the streets of Paris. The journey home had been tense; we’d been polite but cool. I’d hated every minute of it and hoped everything would be fine when we got home. But Ed had other ideas.

  ‘I don’t think I can do this.’ We were in the kitchen; I was shoving clothes into the washing machine, Ed was chopping mushrooms. He’d turned, knife still in his hand, to face me, his face set, drawn. I’d never seen him look so miserable and my stomach flipped over.