Who We Were Before by Leah Mercer

I twist and turn, flipping and thumping the pillow, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get comfortable. It didn’t take long before Zoe suggested I sleep in the guest room, and I was more than happy to oblige. Lying so close beside my silent wife each night made the distance between us seem even further.
    Fiona hangs up, and I gaze at the clothes arranged like ornaments on glistening hangers. Might as well get kitted out while I’m here. There are still a few hours to kill, and if I keep busy, keep moving, I won’t have time to look back.

25
    ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010
    E ver since that night at the restaurant, I’ve avoided the South Bank like the plague. I don’t want to see Edward again – it’s too much, especially if he’s with another woman. My heart constricts painfully at the memory of him chatting so easily with his date, of that smile he used to give me. When I managed to unpeel myself from the man on the dance floor, Edward was gone. I staggered back to the table, barely able to breathe. What the hell just happened?
    I sank into my chair, and Kate reached across to grip my hand. She didn’t say anything – she’d said it all anyway; what else was there to say? – but poured me more wine, then handed me a tissue as the tears streaked down my cheeks.
    That night was a definite low, and for the past few weeks, I’ve either been holed up at work or sitting at home, knitting like a crazy thing to keep my hands and mind busy. There’s a huge pile of socks sitting on the side table, socks I know I’ll never wear but just have to keep making. I guess I’ll donate them to charity or something. Kate’s been trying to get me out to a pub, over for supper, anything , but I always turn her down.
    The fact that I feel like absolute shit makes it easy to reject anything to do with the outside world, too. People sometimes say if your heart is hurting, your health suffers too. Well, that’s definitely the case here. My stomach churns at just the thought of food, I wake up with blinding headaches, and all I want to do is sleep. I’d see a doctor if I wasn’t so obviously depressed.
    I’m about to stitch together yet another pair of socks when the buzzer sounds. My heart jumps that it’s Edward – in my mind, I’ve replayed the scenario where he comes to say forever doesn’t matter and he just wants to be with me so much, it’s practically worn out. But when I hear Kate’s voice, I let out a laugh and shake my head. Of course Edward won’t come round. Why would he, after my little display at the restaurant?
    I buzz her up, wondering why she’s here. I certainly haven’t invited her.
    ‘Christ, you look like shit.’ She hugs me when I open the door, then pushes her way into the flat. ‘Has a yarn bomb exploded in here?’ she asks, surveying the room. ‘Is this what you’ve been doing every night – sitting here in front of the telly making socks? What are you, seventy years old?’
    ‘Hello to you too, dear friend.’ My tone is snarky, but I can’t help smiling. She’s right: it does look like a yarn bomb exploded.
    ‘Sit down and let me get you a cup of tea or something.’ She pushes me gently onto the sofa. ‘You’re practically skin and bones! Haven’t you been eating?’
    I shake my head. ‘Not much. My stomach’s been acting up a bit. I’m just not hungry.’
    ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that!’ Kate laughs, then leans in to study me. ‘You do look kind of pale.’
    ‘Yeah. I’m just tired all the time, and I keep getting these awful headaches . . .’ Yesterday’s delightful migraine felt like someone jabbing my temples with a pointy instrument of pain.
    ‘How long has this been going on for?’ Kate calls from the kitchen, where I can hear the kettle whistling as it boils. It’s a comforting noise, and I can’t help closing my eyes and letting myself drift off a bit. God, I am so tired.
    ‘Zoe!’
    I jerk upright at Kate’s voice.