Before You Go Page 18

  My head’s spinning and I stop and lean against a wall for a minute. Bile rises in my throat and I lurch forward, thinking I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

  I look round to find an elderly man cupping my elbow in his hand, concern etched on his face. ‘You took a funny turn, are you all right?’

  I stand up and feel the nausea subsiding. I wipe my hand over my mouth. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Sorry, I just felt a bit . . . I’m OK now, thank you.’

  ‘OK, well, you look after yourself,’ he says.

  ‘I will.’ I smile weakly to let him know I’m fine. He seems reassured and starts walking away, his cane tap-tapping on the pavement as he walks.

  I look around and realize I have no idea where I am, or how long I’ve been walking. A blanket of darkness has been pulled over the sky, leaving half of it bathed in a whitish-blue light, the rest a dark grey above the buildings. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the display. 4.50 p.m. I’ve only been walking about half an hour but have managed to get myself totally and utterly lost.

  I look round for signs, some indication of which direction I need to head in. Middle of London, and nothing. I peer up at the shopfronts. Nothing is familiar. I know I don’t visit Becky very often, but this is ridiculous. I try not to panic as I keep walking, praying for a familiar landmark, anything to give me a clue where I am. And then, finally, it’s there, like an oasis in a desert – the familiar red circle and blue line of the Underground, and I scurry towards it as quickly as I can and descend the grimy stairs towards the Tube, and home.

  It’s late when I walk through the front door. The light from the hall spills over me and I can hear the tinny sound of the TV. As I close the door Ed appears in the doorway of the living room. ‘Hey, how was she?’

  His hair is ruffled and his eyes are red as though he’s been asleep. He looks unbelievably handsome.

  ‘She’s great. Gracie’s beautiful.’

  He nods, steps towards me. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean what I said. I was just angry.’

  ‘You did mean it, Ed.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, it’s OK. You had every right.’ I pause, take a breath. ‘Listen, I don’t know why I’ve been acting the way I have. It sounds as though I’ve been a bit of a bitch—’

  ‘You make it sound like you haven’t really been there, Zo.’

  ‘Maybe I haven’t, not really. I don’t know what’s been wrong with me, Ed, but whatever it was, seeing Gracie today has made everything much clearer.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘As I held her, I kept thinking what it would be like if she was ours, and I realized I wanted to find out. I don’t want to regret never having one. I think it really is time, this time.’

  Ed looks at me, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you sure you mean it this time, Zoe? It’s not just the excitement of meeting Gracie today? Because, to be honest, I don’t think I could face going through all that again.’

  ‘I am sure, Ed, absolutely one hundred per cent, I promise. I won’t let you down again.’

  He looks at me a moment longer, then holds out his arms for me to walk into. ‘In that case, you’ve just made me the happiest man in the world. Thank you, Zoe.’ My shoulder feels damp from his tears but I pretend not to notice. I know I should feel happy that we’ve finally decided to do this – and a part of me is excited about the thought that maybe this time things will be different. But I can’t help worrying that, after today, I’m just going to mess things up again, and that despite all my efforts nothing will have changed. That I’ll just end up hurting him all over again.

  Later that night as I’m dropping off to sleep I wake up with a jolt. I’ve been dreaming about a baby. I’m holding it in my arms and it’s screaming and screaming and then Ed’s trying to pull it from my arms, shouting, ‘It’s not yours, you have to give it back; it has to come with me,’ and then I’m crying and Ed’s ripping the baby from my arms and running away with it and I’m left sobbing, my arms empty, with no baby and no Ed, and no hope. Fully awake now, I’m breathing heavily and my heart’s struggling to slow down, and I’m shivering in the cold. I toss and turn for what feels like hours, desperate for sleep to come so I can wake up another day and find out if I’ve done the right thing. And finally, I fall into a fitful sleep, without dreams . . .

  14

  14 December 2009

  I’m not sure whether it’s the sound of a cup smashing onto the floor, the swearing, or the overhead light flicking on and almost blinding me that wakes me up, but I’m awake with a start this morning, my heart racing. I sit up in bed and as my eyes adjust to the light I squint through my half-closed eyelids to see Ed, on his hands and knees next to the bed. My stomach does its usual flip at seeing him again and it’s all I can do not to shout out his name at the top of my voice.

  ‘What on earth are you doing down there?’

  Ed’s head snaps up to look at me. ‘Oh bugger, you’re awake.’

  ‘Lovely to see you too.’

  He looks sheepish. ‘Sorry, love. I was trying to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but then the bloody cup slipped and – well, this happened.’ He held up his hands, one holding a cloth soggy with tea, the other holding my favourite mug, in pieces. ‘Your toast is on the floor, if you want it.’

  ‘I think I’ll pass, but thanks.’ I shuffle over and pat the bed. ‘Come back to bed instead.’

  He climbs in next to me and gives me a peck on the cheek. ‘Happy anniversary, anyway. Can you believe it’s been six years already?’

  Six years. That means two years have passed since I last woke up in my old life. I have a lot to catch up on, but I’ve no idea where to start.

  ‘Happy anniversary to you too.’ I return the kiss. Then Ed pulls away and stands up.

  ‘Wait there a sec.’ He disappears, then returns moments later, brandishing a bunch of white lilies and a white box with a handle. He thrusts the lilies at me and sits down again. I take them from him and place them on the bed.

  ‘The lady in the shop said these were traditional for a sixth wedding anniversary,’ he says. ‘I assumed she was right.’ He grins then picks up the white box from the floor. There’s a scrabbling noise and I know instantly what’s inside. I watch as he opens the top of the box and pulls out a wriggling, squirming, black and tabby kitten and places him gently on my tummy. I gasp with excitement and scoop him up in my arms. ‘George!’

  Ed frowns. ‘You’ve decided his name already?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, it – just seemed right . . .’ I trail off weakly, aware I sound odd. It had just slipped out when I saw him, the little kitten that became like a surrogate baby for so long, that we’d showered with love.

  Ed looks at me for a moment then shrugs. ‘OK, George it is.’

  ‘Thank you, Ed, he’s perfect,’ I whisper, squashing my nose into the kitten’s soft fur.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter, why are you crying?’ Ed leans forward and wipes a tear from my cheek.

  I hadn’t realized I was. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ I sniff, trying to force a smile to my face. ‘It’s just such a lovely surprise. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my lips, and I struggle to fight back the tears again. For a few minutes we lie there, watching as the kitten investigates his new home, sniffing his way round the room, pushing open doors with his tiny paws. My heart swells with love, and for a moment it almost feels as though everything is going to be OK.

  But I can’t help wondering, again, why I’m here. This had been a bittersweet day, the first time round. We celebrated our anniversary, gave all the signs of being happy. But there had been an undercurrent of tension, rippling away, waiting to cause waves, that we’d chosen to ignore. We both knew what it was – how could we not? – but we skirted around the issue, as we always di
d.

  But now it’s clear nothing has changed from last time: here we are, six years into married life, and there’s still no baby. If it’s been the same as last time we’ve been trying for two years, with no success.

  And, if it’s like last time, I’ve become totally obsessed with the idea too. Every month had become a trial to be endured, waiting to see if my period would arrive. And every time it did: heartache.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Zo, but you’ve got to stay positive,’ Ed had said after one particularly bad month. My period had been a few days late, and its arrival had triggered a meltdown.

  ‘Positive?’ I spat as I sat on the toilet with the lid down, my head in my hands. ‘This is a nightmare, Ed. What the hell is wrong with me?’

  He stepped towards me but I turned my back and he stopped. ‘I just mean – listen, Zo, remember what you read in that magazine the other day? Stress can make it less likely you’ll fall pregnant. I know you’re upset – I am too – but you need to try and do something to relax. I don’t know. Yoga? Meditation?’

  ‘You’re joking, right? Medi-fuckin-tation?’ I knew even as the words came spitting out that I was being totally unreasonable, but I just couldn’t help it. It must have been a bit much for Ed to take in: one minute I was adamant I didn’t want a baby; the next, I was obsessed. But I hated the fact that this was something I couldn’t control, something I couldn’t get right straight away. Every time I saw someone with a baby I felt a surge of resentment, a pain rising in my chest until I could hardly breathe. It made me so angry, at the world, at myself, at Ed, that I couldn’t even stand to spend too much time with Becky and the baby.

  And then Becky fell pregnant again.

  I knew she was scared to tell me.

  ‘Zoe, I need to talk to you,’ she said, her face as white as a sheet as we sat in my living room together drinking tea one morning. And I knew without even looking at her what she was going to say.

  ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ I tried not to make it sound accusing. I was happy for her, after all. It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t conceive and she could, and I was determined not to make her feel guilty about it.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Zoe,’ she said.

  ‘Becky, don’t ever say you’re sorry,’ I said, standing up and throwing my arms around her. ‘I’m thrilled for you, I really, really am.’

  I felt the tension drain from her body as she realized it was all going to be OK. And I put on a good show, I really did. But after she left later that afternoon – after I’d strapped Gracie into her car seat and kissed her warm forehead, after I’d hugged Becky and told her I loved her, after I’d waved them goodbye as they drove away down the road – only then did I fall onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow and sob and rage until I had no more tears left to shed. Ed didn’t know what to say. I knew he was hurting too, but somehow, even though he’d been the one to want a baby all along, it didn’t seem to be such an utter obsession for him as it was for me.

  I was furious about it, and even though I knew it wasn’t fair to take that anger out on Ed, it was the easiest way.

  That was two months ago now and as Becky’s belly bloomed I was still no closer to becoming a mummy. Before, we’d left it longer and longer before admitting we needed help. Perhaps, if I could bring it up today, suggest we get some help now, it might change things, give us more of a chance.

  I turn to Ed. He’s cradling George in his arms, rubbing his nose gently with his own nose. He looks so happy, I know I have to give us this chance.

  What do I have to lose?

  The trouble with fertility treatment is it’s so utterly devoid of what a marriage is about – love, emotion, feelings. It’s clinical and unromantic and sometimes downright embarrassing. You have to lose all your inhibitions and just let your body become a machine.

  It can also cause terrible mood swings and even worse arguments. And that’s what I was terrified might happen again.

  But despite all this, I know I have to give myself and Ed the chance we deserve for things to work this time.

  Which is why, when we sit down in our kitchen-diner later that evening to eat the meal I’d bought in our local deli, my heart is thumping against my ribcage as I think of how to bring up the subject.

  In the end I just blurt it out.

  ‘I think we need some help.’

  Ed looks up from his dinner, his fork, spearing a mushroom, halfway to his mouth.

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Having a baby.’

  Ed pops the mushroom into his mouth and chews slowly, watching me across the table. Finally, he swallows, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Seriously?’

  I nod. ‘Ed, it’s been two years. Nothing’s happened and probably nothing’s going to happen. I think we just need to go and see someone, talk about our options.’ I take a gulp of wine and watch him carefully. He’s holding his wine glass by the stem, turning it slowly one way and then the other. Music plays gently in the background.

  ‘I think you’re right.’ He pauses, takes a breath. ‘So what do we do now?’

  I shrug, hoping I’m not giving away my fear. Because I know what comes next; the hospital appointments, the tests, the prodding and poking; the injections, the moods swings, the stress, the arguments, the almost marriage-busting tension. But I can’t say any of that.

  ‘I guess we need to see the doctor, find out if there’s a problem.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ed says. He goes quiet as he chews. ‘What happens . . .’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘If, well, what if we find out we just can’t have a baby at all?’

  ‘Well, then we deal with it. But Ed, there’s no reason why that should happen. It might just be that we need a bit of help.’

  I feel like a fraud, like I’m playing the part of his wife. Because I’m lying to him: I know we need more than a bit of help. But I also know that we were never told to give up all hope. So it has to be worth a go.

  ‘I hope so.’

  We eat our dinner in silence for a few minutes, both of us lost in our thoughts.

  ‘You know if we can’t have a baby I’d never leave you, don’t you?’ Ed’s words come out in a rush, as though a plug has been removed and there’s nowhere else for them to go.

  ‘I know,’ I say. And I do know he means it. It doesn’t mean it won’t happen though, despite our promises. There’s only so much a marriage can withstand.

  ‘If it comes to it, we can always adopt.’

  ‘Ed, let’s not talk about that. Let’s just take it one step at a time. Let’s make an appointment to go and talk to the doctor and see what he has to say. If we need tests then fine, but let’s just see what happens.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he says, staring at his dinner. Then something snaps inside him and his face lights up. He lifts his glass. ‘To the future. To our future.’ I lift my glass to his and clink. ‘To the future.’

  I can only hope we have one.

  15

  10 December 2010

  When I wake up I’m bolt upright in bed, sweating and shaking, my heart pounding as though it’s trying to escape from my chest. The room is dark and as my breathing slows I turn to Ed, desperate for comfort. But he’s not there. I reach my hand out and smooth it over the crumpled sheet, as though I need confirmation that he’s not where he’s supposed to be.

  I frown. Where is he?

  My heart races as my mind trawls through the possibilities. He rarely went away, so it can’t be that. He could just be up already, but it’s the middle of the night and that doesn’t feel right.

  Oh no. It couldn’t be – could it? My eyes move around the room like a searchlight, trying to see details in the dark room to disprove the theory. No, this isn’t a hospital room; I haven’t woken up in 2013 to find Ed is dead. This is still the past. I just need to work out when.

  The room is cold and I shiver as I roll onto my side and push the duvet away. I grab my dressing gown from the floor next
to the bed and wrap it round myself. I pull open the bedroom door and pad through to the front room. The floorboards creak under my feet and the orange glow from the streetlight outside the front door shines through the glass panel, lighting my path. I push open the living-room door quietly and peer inside. At first I can’t see anything. The blinds are fully closed and not a peep of light is getting through. But as my eyes adjust to the gloom I see a shape on the sofa.

  Ed’s curled up on his side, a thin blanket over him, snoring softly. I flick on the light in the hallway so I can see him better without waking him, and sit down in the chair opposite. As I sit, Ed stirs a little, and pulls the blanket higher up his face so that all I can see are his eyes over the top. I watch him for a few minutes in the darkness, the blanket rising and falling gently with each breath, and I wonder why he’s sleeping in here, and not next to me where he belongs. Have we had a row? It only happened a few times, but each time it was terrible. I have no desire to relive one of those days again. What would be the point?

  I pull myself up from the chair and go through to the kitchen. The clock on the cooker says 4.05. I know I’m not going to sleep any more, so I fill the kettle and perch on a stool while I wait for it to boil. As the hum fills the air I look around and realize with a start that this is the flat we lived in when Ed died; that I live in now. It’s a different flat from the one I woke up in last time, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to notice.

  There’s a calendar on the wall and I peer at it in the dim light. It’s December 2010. My God, only three years until Ed dies. Time’s passing so quickly, this could be the last day I ever have with him. My head spins at the thought.