Who We Were Before Read Online Free Page B

better get a move on if I don’t want to leave him waiting too long. From my office on Warren Street, it’ll take about thirty minutes to hop on the Northern Line and make my way to Waterloo, then over to my favourite bench by the river on the South Bank, where we met last week. As it is, I’ll already be about ten minutes late. I spritz on some perfume and shut down my computer.
    The streets are a combat zone of stabby umbrellas, and by the time I get to the station my feet are wet and my hair is whipped across my face. I approach the entrance only to see the attendant pull down the iron grate that blocks the entrance.
    ‘Sorry, folks!’ he bellows. ‘This station is closed due to overcrowding. There’s a signal failure at Camden Town and no trains are running at the moment.’
    Bloody Northern Line!
    Rain pelts down on me as I stand in the swarming crowd, trying to decide what to do. Should I try for a bus? I’ve no idea what buses to catch, or how long it’ll take me. I spend the next ten minutes or so trying to find my mobile in my black hole of a handbag, then frantically opening the browser to plan my new journey. Just as I’m about to push back up the stairs, the grate opens and the crowd surges forward. Phew!
    I leap off the train at Waterloo and dodge the rush-hour com muters towards the exit to the South Bank, splashing through puddles and running down stairs until I’m out on the riverside terrace. It’s empty except for a few forlorn souls, and my heart is pounding as I race towards the bench at the far end of the walk. Given I almost didn’t even come, it’s funny how much I want to see Edward now. I squint, trying to see if there’s a person on the bench, but it’s still too far away to make out.
    I’m sure he’ll be there, I think, breath tearing at my throat as I fly past the National Theatre. Okay, it’s pouring rain and I am a little late – a lot late – but still. Finally, the bench comes into focus and my heart drops.
    It’s empty, except for a pigeon pecking away at God knows what. I shoo off the bird and flop down, trying to catch my breath. As the minutes tick by, rain soaks through my trousers and my hair is plastered to my forehead, but I don’t care. I stand and pivot in a circle, straining my eyes for someone coming my way. The walkway is deserted.
    He’s not here. Either I missed him, or he didn’t turn up. Whichever, it doesn’t really matter. Water trickles down my cheek, but I don’t know whether it’s a tear or a random raindrop. I let out a laugh, telling myself not to be ridiculous.
    How can you feel like you’ve lost something when you never had it in the first place?

7
    EDWARD, SATURDAY, 2 P.M.
    N ow that I’m sitting outside in the sun, a frothy beer on the table in front of me as the parade of chic Parisian women march by, I’m starting to unwind a bit. I’m on my second pint, and it’s taken the edge of the niggling guilt that I should be doing something to find my wife. Is it so bad that I don’t want to find her? If she were here now, she’d be staring into her glass of wine or gazing blankly down the street. We’d be sitting in silence, just like we did the whole train ride over, and I’d be itching to get away. Away from the permanent reminder of grief and loss that radiates from her with every breath, away from the bleakness of the past two years.
    Anyway, I’d bet a hundred pounds when I get back to the hotel, she’ll have checked in. I gulp my drink, watching the punters come and go from the tables around me, then take a selfie of me with my beer and send it to Fiona. My phone buzzes straight away and I grin, picking it up.
    Looking good! Have another for me. Xxxx
    I’m not going to argue with that. I flag down the waiter and order a third, sipping it slowly as the clenched fist of tension inside me relaxes even more. It’s been ages since I’ve drunk this much, but right now, the soporific, numbing effect is doing the trick. Ever since