Before You Go Page 6

  ‘Great. I just got a new job today.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’

  ‘Thanks, I’m really chuffed.’ I stop, not sure what to say next. The silence stretches, waiting to be filled, and I’m sure he can hear my heart hammering from the other end of the phone line.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘London. Brixton,’ he adds. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Camden right now. I live in Tufnell Park, though. With Jane.’

  ‘Do you now? Gosh, last time I saw her she was snogging the face off anything that moved.’

  ‘Jane never did that!’

  ‘She did do that. Oh, except not with me.’ He pauses, embarrassed. ‘Surprised she didn’t snog you, to be honest.’

  ‘Cheeky sod. No, Jane’s great, we love our flat. It’s fun living together and we love living in London too, even though it took us a while to get down here; but now it’s great and . . .’ I stop, aware I’m rambling, but trying to fill the silence.

  ‘Sounds terrific.’ Ed pauses and when he speaks again his voice sounds unsteady, unsure of himself for the first time. ‘I was thinking, maybe we could meet up? Go for a drink?’

  Static crackles down the line and I can hear him breathing. The silence stretches out and I feel a throbbing at my temple.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Um, maybe, I’m sure you’re not free, but, well, how about tonight?’

  I smile. He sounds terrified, so I answer quickly. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Yes, nice. What’s wrong with nice?’

  ‘Well, it’s just a bit – ’ he pauses – ‘tame.’

  ‘Well, OK then, that would be lovely. Smashing. Brilliant. Better?’

  ‘Yes, much.’

  ‘Good. So, er, where do you want to go?’

  ‘Soho any good?’

  ‘Perfect. How about seven?’

  ‘Seven it is. Meet you at the Shakespeare’s Head, at the top of Carnaby Street.’

  ‘OK, great. See you later.’ And before he can change his mind I put the phone down, my pulse racing. It was so good to talk to him that I feel like a teenager again, giddy with excitement and possibility. I still have no idea what’s going on but it seems clear I’m reliving days that involve Ed, or more specifically me and Ed: the day we met, seeing him with someone else after our first kiss – I never have any idea whether this will be the last day I get to see him, and so I have to make the most of it. There’s got to be something I can change.

  The rest of the day crawls by. The hands on the clock above the door hardly seem to move all afternoon and each minute feels longer than an hour. I read the same thing 300 times and still can’t make sense of it. I chat mindlessly to Anna – the girl next to me, whose name I finally remembered when someone called it across the office – about what she’s doing that weekend with her boyfriend. Something involving Hoxton and an art exhibition, but I’m not really listening. All I can think about is meeting up with Ed later.

  At last, after what seems like days on end strung together, the clock struggles round to six and it’s time to leave.

  It won’t take me an hour to get to Oxford Circus, so on the dot of six I pick up my bag from the floor and practically run into the office toilets. They’re grim. A bare bulb gives out a harsh overhead light, the mirrors are splattered with black marks, some of the tiles on the wall are chipped and there’s always an unpleasant smell that seems determined to battle its way through the overpowering air freshener that the cleaner squirts round the room every time she leaves. But tonight I don’t care. I don’t notice at all.

  I rummage in my bag and find my lip gloss, mascara and hairbrush. It’s not much but it’ll have to do. I glance in the mirror and as I pull the brush through my hair I realize this is the first time today I’ve had a chance to look at myself properly. My hair is still very dark but it’s not as long as before and the shorter style makes my face look rounder and even younger, which probably wasn’t the effect I was going for at twenty-four. It’s straightish with a hint of frizz and I have a memory of blow-drying my hair in the days before straighteners and feel a pang of sympathy for the old me. My hair has always been unruly. It never looked sleek apart from when I went to the hairdressers, and I wish I had my straighteners with me right now to give it the once-over.

  I apply one more slick of lip gloss – pointlessly, because it will all be gone by the time I get there – and turn to leave. I walk the familiar route past Sainsbury’s, past the string of tatty shops, their wares spilling out onto the pavement: mops, buckets, plastic boxes, tea towels, saucepans, shoehorns, all vying for attention. The icy wind has picked up and it feels very wintry all of a sudden, the heels I threw on this morning in preparation for my interview doing a terrible job of keeping my feet warm. Scraps of paper whip around in the wind, and a homeless man sitting in a shop doorway pulls his blackened blanket tighter around his shoulders. The weak sun has disappeared now and dark clouds are gathering. ‘It looks like snow,’ my mum would have said.

  I carry on walking, head down, to the Tube station, the wind whipping my hair round my face. By the time I get there a few spots of rain have started and I must look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. But I don’t care, because all I can think about is seeing Ed.

  I go down the escalator in a dream, staring blindly at the posters lining the wall. I step off and stand on the platform, people walking round me and behind me, and I hardly notice any of them. The wind in the tunnel picks up, indicating the arrival of the next train, and when the doors slide open I step on and stand in a tiny space between bodies, holding on tightly to the overhead bar, swaying gently with the movement of the train. I try to empty my mind.

  The train pulls into Tottenham Court Road and I step off. I still have twenty minutes until I’m meeting Ed, so despite the weather I decide to walk the rest of the way, through the backstreets of Soho. I wind through the streets, my hair whipping wildly and my mind racing just as fast. As I approach the beautiful black-and-white Liberty building at the top of Carnaby Street, the familiar place where we often used to meet for after-work drinks, I feel my heart rate picking up, and I take some deep breaths. I slow down, aware I’m a few minutes early, not wanting to seem too keen. After all, as I have to keep reminding myself, he doesn’t know what happens next. He doesn’t know that we fall in love. He doesn’t know, yet, that I like to read my book in the bath, or that I’m like a bear with a sore head in the morning until I’ve had two cups of tea; he’s never seen me naked; he’s never seen me sobbing my heart out while he holds me tightly, trying to calm me down. He knows none of this and yet I know it all and more, so I have to be careful.

  I’m waiting, staring into the crowds, when I spot Ed, his distinctive amble as he slowly makes his way up Carnaby Street towards the sign that spans the top of the car-less road. He looks so handsome and so young in his jeans with a rip at the knee and his hair flopping over his eyes, and my heart squeezes a little tighter as it surges with love.

  My Ed.

  And then he’s there in front of me and his face breaks into a wide smile as he sees me, and it’s as though the sun has come out.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he says, hugging me tightly.

  I hug him back, not wanting to let go, but eventually I do.

  I keep my voice steady. ‘Hey, you.’ I smile, and look him up and down. ‘Look at you, all grown up.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘God, I don’t know about that.’ He doesn’t say any more and I think I see a hint of sadness behind his eyes which clears almost immediately.

  ‘So, where shall we go?’ I say. ‘I need to warm up a bit.’

  ‘Let’s go in here for a drink first, then we can decide.’ He takes me by the hand and drags me towards the Shakespeare’s Head. His hand feels warm in mine, and so right.

  We run into the darkness of the pub and stop, giggling as we push the bar door open. I scan the room and spot a free table in the corner and make a dash for
it, trying to hide my disappointment at him letting go of my hand.

  ‘Right, what do you want?’ I dump my bag under the table and start to head for the bar.

  ‘Don’t be daft, I’ll get these. What’ll it be?’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s pretty expensive in here . . .’ I tail off.

  ‘Of course. I think I can afford to buy you a drink.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean—’ I pause, take a breath, reminding myself that Ed doesn’t know he’s always so skint that it’s usually me who pays for drinks – and everything else – these days. ‘I’ll have gin and slimline, please. Lime, not lemon.’

  ‘Coming right up.’ He does a little bow and heads to the bar.

  Alone for a few minutes, I take some deep breaths to steady my nerves. I feel so overwhelmed at seeing Ed again, but he has no idea how happy it makes me feel. To him I’m just a friend he had a snog with a few years ago, whereas to me, he means everything. And everything I’ve lost.

  I watch him at the bar as he waits to be served. His face is caught in a spotlight and it’s so familiar I can hardly believe I’d started to forget its beautiful details. Long lashes frame his deep-blue eyes, and there are yet to be lines creasing the corners. They’ll come later. I touch my own smooth skin in wonder. Stubble covers his chin and cheeks, a couple of days’ growth, and the light picks out his sharp cheekbones. There are shadows under his eyes and he looks tired, and a small frown creases his forehead. Then it’s his turn to order and he leans forward across the bar, his lips breaking into a smile, and my heart leaps. And then I can’t resist. My eyes travel down to his bum, barely discernible under his loose-fitting jeans, trying to make out its contours, remembering how I used to grip those bum cheeks when we were – God, Zoe, stop it! My face flushes at where my thoughts were heading, and I tear my eyes away, trying to calm myself.

  Ed walks back towards the table, a gin and tonic in one hand, a glass of red wine in the other.

  ‘Not beer these days?’ I nod at the drinks as he places them on the table to cover up my embarrassment. I feel as though I’ve been caught out doing something really naughty.

  ‘Nah, never really liked it anyway. Red wine, though, is the dog’s bollocks.’

  ‘Charming.’ I grin and he smiles as he takes a sip. I feel nervous, which is ridiculous. This is Ed, who I’ve known for years, shared a bed with, shared my life with. How can I be shy with him?

  ‘So, what’s new with you, then?’ he says.

  ‘What, since I last saw you? Well, I moved down here, obviously, and as I said, me and Jane got a flat together.’

  ‘Ha, yeah, bet that’s fun.’

  ‘It is, actually, although it’s the size of a postage stamp. Not quite like the house we had before, at uni. But it’s great to be living with Jane. And I work at a charity, in the marketing department, and I just got a new job today.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ he says. ‘I forgot. We should be drinking champagne, celebrate a bit.’

  ‘God no, my budget doesn’t run to that.’ I stop, hoping I haven’t insulted him by implying he couldn’t afford it either. Since when did it get this complicated to talk to Ed? Well, since you haven’t been a couple for fourteen years, you idiot.

  ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve done brilliantly,’ he says. ‘But then who’d have ever doubted it, Miss I-Got-My-Homework-Done-Before-We-Went-Out Morgan?’

  It’s said with a smile and I can’t take offence. He’s right, I did work hard. I was probably a right pain in the arse. ‘Yeah, thanks. What about you, what are you up to these days?’

  ‘Not much. After uni I went travelling for six months – a cliché, I know, but I didn’t know what else to do. I lived with Mum for a few months after that but, much as I love her, she drives me mad, always trying to do everything for me, so I came to London to seek my fortune. Now I live alone in a tiny studio flat in Clapham with a bed like rice pudding, and have a crappy job selling water coolers to companies who have no interest in having one in their office and just wish I’d leave them alone. It’s not quite what I was expecting when I left uni, to be honest.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ My voice is sharper than I intended and Ed looks up, surprised.

  ‘Well, I suppose I thought, you know, with a degree, even a crappy one in Geology, that it would be easy to find a job I liked doing. I guess the trouble was I didn’t really know what I liked doing. Still don’t.’

  ‘It’s not exactly been that long, though. There’s still plenty of time. Maybe if you didn’t feel so sorry for yourself you’d find something.’

  ‘Whoa, where did that come from?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. It’s just—’ I stop and pick up a beer mat, aware I mustn’t take out the frustration of the last fourteen years on the Ed who hardly knows me. I’ll drive him away before we’ve even got started and then where would it leave us? ‘I just mean, there’s plenty you’re good at and that you could make work if you put your mind to it.’

  ‘Such as?’ He puts his chin in his hand, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Well, what about music? You loved the guitar. Could you not teach?’

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe, but I’m probably not good enough.’

  ‘Well, what about cooking, then? You always loved making dinner for us all at uni. Isn’t there something you could do with food? Or gardening, something practical. You’ve always been good with your hands.’ I flush at the double meaning. ‘I don’t know. I’m not trying to tell you what you should do with your life, but, you know, there’s plenty of things you’re good at that you might find you loved if you just gave them a go.’

  Speech finished, I sit back and watch his face. He looks amused rather than cross and I’m relieved, aware I’ve probably gone too far.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Zo. It just sounds as though you’ve given this a lot of thought – more than I have. Maybe you should be a careers adviser rather than working in marketing. I reckon you’d be a hit.’

  ‘Oh, ha ha.’

  ‘But you are right. I do need to sort myself out, “find” myself. Maybe you can help me do that.’

  His tone is flirty and I smile, glad to move on. ‘Maybe I can.’

  He leans closer and I’m aware of his hand on the table, right next to mine. I can almost feel the heat from it and am desperate to touch it, hold it. It’s so all-consuming that for a minute I can’t think about anything else. He glances down and I pull my hand away and twiddle my glass.

  ‘So, enough about me,’ he says. ‘Tell me more about your promotion.’

  Back on safe ground, I chat happily about work, about moving to London, and about everything that’s happened in the eighteen months since we’ve seen each other.

  ‘And what about boyfriends? Been seeing anyone?’

  I glance up. His face is serious, studying me.

  ‘Um, not really. Well actually, I was meant to be meeting someone tonight . . .’

  ‘But you blew him off for me?’

  ‘No!’ I glance at my watch. It’s 9 p.m. ‘Well, er, yes, I guess I have. Oh dear. Poor Andy.’ I grin mischievously. ‘I hope he didn’t wait too long.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? I would.’

  His words hang thickly in the air, neither of us sure what to do with them. Anyway, there’s something else I need to ask, whether I want to know the answer or not.

  ‘What about you? Have you been seeing anyone?’ The words sound stilted even to my ears.

  He looks down at his drink, runs his finger absently round the rim of the glass, creating a low, insistent hum. He looks guilty as sin and I know what he’s going to say before he speaks.

  ‘I – sort of.’

  ‘Sort of.’ I try and keep the anger from my tone but it’s hard. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Just – I’ve sort of been seeing someone, but it’s – complicated.’

  ‘Complicated?’ God, I sound like a parrot. Get a grip, Zoe.


  Ed rubs his hand over his face and breathes deeply.

  ‘OK, Zoe, this is it, right. I have been seeing someone: it’s been a few months, maybe five or six. We – she – is talking about moving in together—’ He stops, drums his fingers on the tabletop. I wait. ‘The thing is, I haven’t exactly discouraged her. But now . . . Well, now this, Zo.’ He waves his hand between us. ‘Now we’re here and, well. As I said, it’s complicated.’

  I let his words hang between us for a moment. ‘It doesn’t sound that complicated to me. You’re with someone, it’s pretty serious – serious enough for her to think you want to move in with her.’

  Ed shakes his head quickly. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong, Zoe. It’s not that simple. Jenny – well . . .’ He tails off, stares at his hands clasped tightly on the tabletop and lets out a rush of air. ‘It’s not an accident, you know.’

  I frown. ‘What’s not?’

  ‘That we’re here, now. Me and you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Ed carries on staring at his hands, refusing to meet my eye. ‘I rang you on purpose. You know, earlier.’

  I let his words sink in for a minute. ‘How? Why?’

  Ed shrugs, uncomfortable. ‘I just – me and Jenny, it – well, it just felt wrong when there was someone else I couldn’t stop thinking about. And then – well, then I did some detective work, found out where you work. And then – well, then this.’

  I stare at him a moment, willing him to look at me. And finally he does, and we sit like that for a moment, not speaking.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  He nods. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  Ed laughs, a small, self-deprecating laugh. ‘So, you could say it’s a bit of a mess. I suppose – well, I suppose I just need to sort it out.’

  I nod in agreement. Silence crackles between us and I don’t know how to fill it. My mind’s racing with possibilities. This is how this evening ended last time, apart from a kiss before saying goodbye later. I’d wanted to do the right thing, and so I had. But what if I didn’t? What if I wasn’t that girl for a change, and, knowing that we get together in the end anyway, I say stuff it, and just be with him? It could be my last chance.