Who We Were Before Read Online Free
Author: Leah Mercer
a willingness to push his boundaries: so far, so good. Anyway, it’s not like I have hundreds of viable men to choose from. I keep waiting for men to improve with age, but thirty-something blokes my age are just as bad. Okay, so he’s an absolute stranger and we’ve only just met, but we’ll be right here in broad daylight on the South Bank, and he’s hardly going to jump me over dinner.
‘Why not?’ I say, trying to sound casual, but feeling nervous excitement at the thought of an evening together.
‘Brilliant.’ His face lights up, and I can’t help smiling, too. ‘My name’s Edward, by the way.’
‘Zoe.’ I extend my hand, praying he doesn’t have a limp, sweaty grip that’s an instant turn-off. But his fingers curl warmly around mine with just the right amount of pressure, and now my cheeks colour as a tingly feeling starts up in my tummy.
‘See you here next week, then. And don’t forget the socks!’ And with that, he strides off before I can even ask for his phone number.
5
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 1.30 P.M.
T he taxi turns onto a narrow, dead-end street, and through an arch at the end, I can see a grassy square – the Place des Vosges, I reckon. I wonder if Zoe is there now, stretched out on the grass, arms flung out as she soaks up the sun. A true sun worshipper, she used to drive me crazy with her insistence to lie outside and bask, the way cats constantly flop on sunny patches. I picture the way her skin would turn the colour of almonds, and my mind flips to a memory of tracing my finger down the inside of one leg . . .
I shift, forcing my mind away from that image. These days, I’d be lucky to even get near a bare leg. Frigid doesn’t come close to describing my wife. It’s more like— shit, I don’t know. What’s colder than frigid? About a year ago, I casually mentioned we could start trying again for another baby, something to revive our home, to fill it with laughter . . . and, just maybe, bring us back together. But apart from going off sex, Zoe’s also gone off the notion of family. She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility with me, even if – despite all our attempts – it is just that: a possibility. Guilt sweeps through me once more that I couldn’t give her another child, back in the days when we longed to add to our family, when we were on the same page. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this place right now.
I pay the driver and tug our small case out of the back seat, then duck inside the narrow entrance to the hotel. The reception is small and dark, dust hanging in the air and the ceiling pressing down as if the building is enforcing on you just how old it is. I should have been expecting something like this: Zoe’s parents pride themselves on finding ‘authentic’ hotels, steering clear from bland chain hotels in favour of quirky, the kind of thing The Guardian would describe as a ‘hidden gem’. Fingers crossed our room at least has an en suite.
‘Edward Morgan, checking in,’ I say to the woman behind the desk. ‘My wife might be here already?’ I slide the mobile from my back pocket – still no messages, apart from a smiley face from Fiona and a reminder to have a drink for her. I can’t help grinning in return.
The woman rifles through an antiquated filing system. Clearly they’ve never heard of computers here, along with dusting. ‘Ah yes, monsieur. No, your wife has not been here.’
‘Oh.’ I raise my eyebrows. If she hasn’t come here, where else would she go? And why hasn’t she rung? I look at my watch. It’s only been a couple of hours since we parted ways at the station. She has her mobile, she has her wallet, and she’s a big girl. I’m sure she’ll turn up, just like she did those other times. I’ll enjoy this time away from her while I can. Perhaps she’s trying to do us both a favour, reducing the unbearable time we spend together.
I take the key card from the receptionist and climb the twisting stairs, shaking my
‘Why not?’ I say, trying to sound casual, but feeling nervous excitement at the thought of an evening together.
‘Brilliant.’ His face lights up, and I can’t help smiling, too. ‘My name’s Edward, by the way.’
‘Zoe.’ I extend my hand, praying he doesn’t have a limp, sweaty grip that’s an instant turn-off. But his fingers curl warmly around mine with just the right amount of pressure, and now my cheeks colour as a tingly feeling starts up in my tummy.
‘See you here next week, then. And don’t forget the socks!’ And with that, he strides off before I can even ask for his phone number.
5
EDWARD, SATURDAY, 1.30 P.M.
T he taxi turns onto a narrow, dead-end street, and through an arch at the end, I can see a grassy square – the Place des Vosges, I reckon. I wonder if Zoe is there now, stretched out on the grass, arms flung out as she soaks up the sun. A true sun worshipper, she used to drive me crazy with her insistence to lie outside and bask, the way cats constantly flop on sunny patches. I picture the way her skin would turn the colour of almonds, and my mind flips to a memory of tracing my finger down the inside of one leg . . .
I shift, forcing my mind away from that image. These days, I’d be lucky to even get near a bare leg. Frigid doesn’t come close to describing my wife. It’s more like— shit, I don’t know. What’s colder than frigid? About a year ago, I casually mentioned we could start trying again for another baby, something to revive our home, to fill it with laughter . . . and, just maybe, bring us back together. But apart from going off sex, Zoe’s also gone off the notion of family. She wouldn’t even discuss the possibility with me, even if – despite all our attempts – it is just that: a possibility. Guilt sweeps through me once more that I couldn’t give her another child, back in the days when we longed to add to our family, when we were on the same page. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be in this place right now.
I pay the driver and tug our small case out of the back seat, then duck inside the narrow entrance to the hotel. The reception is small and dark, dust hanging in the air and the ceiling pressing down as if the building is enforcing on you just how old it is. I should have been expecting something like this: Zoe’s parents pride themselves on finding ‘authentic’ hotels, steering clear from bland chain hotels in favour of quirky, the kind of thing The Guardian would describe as a ‘hidden gem’. Fingers crossed our room at least has an en suite.
‘Edward Morgan, checking in,’ I say to the woman behind the desk. ‘My wife might be here already?’ I slide the mobile from my back pocket – still no messages, apart from a smiley face from Fiona and a reminder to have a drink for her. I can’t help grinning in return.
The woman rifles through an antiquated filing system. Clearly they’ve never heard of computers here, along with dusting. ‘Ah yes, monsieur. No, your wife has not been here.’
‘Oh.’ I raise my eyebrows. If she hasn’t come here, where else would she go? And why hasn’t she rung? I look at my watch. It’s only been a couple of hours since we parted ways at the station. She has her mobile, she has her wallet, and she’s a big girl. I’m sure she’ll turn up, just like she did those other times. I’ll enjoy this time away from her while I can. Perhaps she’s trying to do us both a favour, reducing the unbearable time we spend together.
I take the key card from the receptionist and climb the twisting stairs, shaking my
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