The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (14 page)

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I dunno; it’s a bit . . .’

‘Pretentious?’ tries Rachel.

‘Hold still,’ says Henry, placing a hand on top of her head and rotating it back into position.

Alex bought the thing off eBay, drunk one night, bored and disgruntled with work. ‘A hobby.’ Typical Alex; rushing into something full of enthusiasm and good intentions. I remember
the look of disappointment when we collected his first roll of developed film from Snappy Snaps. A flimsy cardboard wallet containing twenty-four mostly out-of-focus prints of trees, brick walls,
railings and a dog. Undeterred, Alex decided the solution was to develop his own film and print his own photographs. He ordered chemicals, gizmos, and a scanner to convert the negatives into
digital images. I should have let him get on with it, but couldn’t resist pointing out – and ridiculing – the preposterous irony of spending eight hundred pounds on a manual
camera, turning the spare bedroom into a darkroom, hanging up dripping rolls of film and then converting them into a format I can take on my mobile phone. He used an analogy of baking bread –
saying you can buy it, bake it in the oven or make it in a bread-maker. What he was doing, Alex said, was akin to the latter, ‘getting your hands dirty, but with a bit of assistance in the
final step.’ And when I still refused to let it go, he called me a killjoy and suggested I might be better getting a hobby of my own instead of ‘pissing all over’ his. And
don’t I feel like a bitch. He took the camera out only once after that, and never did get around to setting up his darkroom. I tried to be encouraging, inviting him and his camera out for
walks, but the Leica remained on a shelf and the scanner stayed in its box. For his last –
final
– birthday, I bought him vouchers for a photography class, but then October
happened.

I put the camera down and pick up the remote, flicking through the channels, stopping on a young Meg Ryan.

‘Love this film,’ says Rachel. ‘“I’ll have what she’s having.”’

‘Did you know that the woman, the lady at the next table, she’s the director’s mother?’ says Henry.

‘Ha,’ says Rachel, flicking me a look, which I interpret to be her presenting evidence that Henry is, indeed, gay. ‘I did not know that.’

Henry lifts a handful of Rachel’s hair. ‘Maybe we could go for something a bit Albright,’ he says.

‘Alright?’ says Rachel.

‘Albright,’ he repeats, nodding at the TV. ‘Sally Albright.’

‘Of course,’ I say, ‘
All bright
, I never noticed that before.’

‘Yeah,’ says Henry. ‘Bit obvious, but . . . well, amazing film, so what do I know?’

Again, that look –
gay
– from Rachel. ‘But her hair’s a bit . . . eighties, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘God yes. But you know at the start, when she’s in college – we could go for a shorter, toned down, less
Charlie’s Angels
version of that. I’d bring it in
here’ – he holds her hair in towards her cheeks – ‘show off those cheekbones.’

‘What’d you think, Zo?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘A bit of Albright. Definitely.’

‘I won’t take any more off tonight,’ says Henry.

‘Tease,’ says Rachel, smacking him on the arm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was flirting with Henry.

Henry shakes his head as if it isn’t the first time he’s heard this, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s ever led anywhere. ‘We’ll keep it neat and
healthy,’ he says, ‘but we could use a little more length—’

Rachel sniggers at the back of her sinuses. ‘That’s what I keep telling my fiancé.’

‘
O
kay,’ says Henry.

‘Sorry about Rachel,’ I say, ‘she’s an idiot trapped in an accountant’s body. They go a little crazy when you let them out in the evening.’

Henry laughs. ‘I’ve had worse,’ he says, brushing hair from her shoulders and carefully removing the gown from around her neck.

‘Give me five minutes to rinse my head and I’ll sort you out,’ Rachel says to Henry, popping her eyes at this last turn of phrase.

‘Take your time. I’m not in any rush.’

‘Zoe,’ says Rachel, ‘keep Henry company while I jump under the shower, this hair’s making me itch. Make him a coffee, yeah. There might even be some biscuits.’

I glance at Henry and he smiles awkwardly:
Why not.
‘Milk and none, if that’s okay.’

When I come back into the living room with two cups of coffee, Henry is perched on the arm of the sofa, watching the movie. Harry and Sally are watching
Casablanca
together down the end
of a phone line, each in their own beds.

‘You know,’ I say, ‘I’ve never watched that movie.’

Henry points at the TV. ‘
Harry Met Whatsit
?’

I laugh. ‘
Casablanca
.’

‘You should,’ he says. ‘It’s excellent. I used to watch it with my mum . . .’ Henry trails off at the end of the sentence, his eyes going to the scissors still in
his hand. He looks at me, as if he’s about to say something, then smiles and looks back to the TV.

‘She does have amazing hair,’ I say. ‘Bit bouffy for me, but, hey.’ I blow my fringe out of my eyes and shrug. As well as economizing on groceries, clothes, travel and
leisure, I haven’t had my hair cut since February and it’s beginning to look a little feral. Particularly now that my white streak has grown through.

Henry spins his scissors around his index finger, and points them at my hair. ‘Want me to . . .?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

‘Sure? I could just take the split ends off, if you like.’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘You’ve got nice hair,’ he says, smiling. ‘Is this’ – he pulls at an invisible lock of hair, where my own has turned white – ‘natural?’

I nod, feeling myself flush slightly.

‘Sorry, professional . . . you know. Come on,’ he says, beckoning me towards the chair in the centre of the room. ‘Sit down.’

The word
forceful
forms on my tongue, but I keep it caged. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘honestly. But I’m . . .’ I mime turning my pockets inside out,
‘skint.’

‘On the house,’ says Henry, pointing his scissors at the chair. ‘And I promise to do a lousy job.’

‘You better,’ I tell him. And I think to myself, no way is this guy gay. I don’t think he’s flirting with me, exactly, but . . . well, neither is he not flirting with
me.

Rachel has taken the mirror down from above the fireplace and balanced it on the seat of another chair in front of this one. In the reflection, I watch as Henry lifts, bunches and weighs my
hair, his fingers sliding through the neglected curls, making my scalp tingle. He piles the mess of hair onto the top of my head, then lets it drop like tangled wool. Beside the chair is a plastic
spray bottle half filled with water, and without a word, Henry starts wetting and brushing my hair.

‘Any requests?’ he says.

‘I’m in your hands,’ I say, and for some reason Henry laughs.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Last time I said that to someone they . . .’ He runs his hand over his shaved head.

‘Suits you,’ I say.

Henry nods, not in agreement necessarily, but acknowledging the compliment. ‘You’d really suit a graduated bob,’ he says, using his hands to indicate hair slanting in towards
my neck at a forty-five degree angle.

‘Really?’

‘You have a nice neck,’ he tells me.

‘What about my cheekbones?’ I ask.

Henry makes a fifty-fifty gesture with his scissor hand, but he’s smiling.

‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Do your worst.’

On screen, the film breaks for one of those interludes with the cute old couples telling how they met all those years ago. The lady explains that her husband – a young man at the time
– walked across the room at a dance, and introduced himself. She thought he was going to hit on her friend, people always did, but he introduced himself to her. Just walked up and told her
his name. ‘And I knew,’ she says. ‘I knew the way you know about a good melon.’

‘Sweet,’ I say. ‘I always like these little clips.’

Henry hum-haws, not convinced. ‘I always thought Harry and Sally were one of the most . . . convincing couples, you know. I absolutely believe they’re meant for each
other.’

He pushes his fingers downwards into my hair, then rotates his palms outward so that the tips of his fingers are pressed into my neck, pulling my hair tight so that there’s a not
unpleasant tension at the roots. And then he cuts the hair up to his hand and repeats the process.

‘In
Casablanca
,’ he says, ‘it’s chemistry between Bogart and Bergman more than the characters they play. For me anyway.’

‘I really need to see it,’ I say, watching Henry in the mirror, his hands working through the layers of my hair with a smooth hypnotic rhythm.

‘But Sally and Harry,’ he says, ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a more convincing couple.’

I murmur my agreement as Henry walks around to the front of me, blocking my view of myself. He reaches his hands towards me, one on either side of my face, and gently touches my cheekbones,
measuring their line and level, the way a painter might measure the horizon. There is a moment of eye contact matching the contact of his fingers against my face, and then he looks away and
continues cutting.

Henry points his scissors at the TV. ‘These stories with the old couples, though, they’re all about . . .’ he doesn’t wink when he looks at me, but there’s a
flutter of movement in his cheek that could be taken as a close relative of a wink, ‘. . . physical attraction.’

‘Like the melon?’ I say.

‘Exactly,’ says Henry, becoming worryingly animated with his scissors. ‘Their decades of marriage is founded on nothing deeper than instant physical appeal.’

‘They seem happy to me,’ I say.

‘You know they’re actors, right?’

‘Sure,’ I say, lying.

‘Real stories, apparently. But actors.’

‘Well, there you go. Real stories. And anyway, you’ve got to start somewhere. Physical attraction seems as good a place as any to me.’

Henry smiles, finds another layer of hair and continues cutting.

If forty years from now, a man with a camera were to ask Henry and me how we met, I’d say to the guy:

He was cutting my friend’s hair, and there was . . . there was just something about him. And then he offered to cut my hair.

For free!
Henry adds.
I cut it for free, remember?

I tap his hand, smile.
I remember. It wasn’t quite so white then, either
, I say, putting my hand to my perm.
There was a film on the TV
.

Casablanca
, says Henry.

That’s right
, I say, our memories failing but adjusting to preserve a mutual truth.
And as he cut my hair, I looked into those eyes – careful blue eyes – just inches
from my own. And I thought, yes, there’s definitely something about that boy.

When Henry met Zoe, I think.

‘What?’ says Henry, and I realize I’ve laughed under my breath.

‘Nothing,’ I say, shaking my head. Because there won’t be any forty years from now. The reality is that four months from now I am getting on a plane to I don’t know
where. But I do know I am going alone.

There is something about this girl.

Although exactly what, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there seemed to be a chemistry between us for a moment. But now, for no reason I can detect, she has become suddenly
awkward and quiet. Maybe it was all that dopey talk of physical attraction.

While I had been hoping Rachel would take her time, it’s a welcome relief when she comes downstairs, towelling her hair, and dispelling the tension.

‘My God, Zo,’ she says. ‘Your hair!’

Zoe grimaces. ‘What? Is it . . . what?’

‘It looks amazing. I love it!’

‘Almost done,’ I say, ‘hold still.’

‘Honestly,’ Rachel says, handing me a fold of ten-pound notes, ‘you turn your back for ten minutes. Do I get commission?’ she asks.

‘Sure,’ I say, winking at Zoe, and I’m relieved to see her return it with a smile. ‘Fifty per cent.’

‘Deal,’ says Rachel. ‘I’m making tea. Anyone else?’

‘I’d love to,’ says Zoe, ‘but I’m flagging and I’ve still got to ride home.’

‘Henry?’

‘Riding too,’ I say.

‘Where to?’ Rachel asks. I tell her. ‘That’s near you, isn’t it, Zo?’

It’s an innocent enquiry, but Zoe seems discomfited by it. ‘Well, kind of,’ she says. ‘Not exactly.’

‘And you’re done.’ I lift the mirror so Zoe can better see her hair, watching her reaction as she inspects her reflection from various angles. Her hand goes to the white streak
flowing from her temple, she pulls it through her fingers and smiles, but there’s something behind her expression that’s hard to read. ‘I’ve had better reactions,’ I
tell her.

Zoe appears to come back to herself. ‘I love it,’ she says, and she turns from her reflection to me. ‘Thank you. I love it.’ And then, almost as if she doesn’t
trust herself to speak, she mouths the words again:
Thank you
.

The sound of a boiling kettle echoes through from the kitchen. ‘You two sure you won’t join me?’ says Rachel’s disembodied voice.

I wait for Zoe, and when she answers in the negative, I do the same. I brush the hair from her shoulders and help her remove the gown.

‘Suit yourselves,’ says Rachel, walking into the room with a steaming mug of something herbal. ‘So, Henry, what are you doing in August?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Thursday the fifteenth of August.’

‘Nothing as far as I know.’

‘Good, because I’m getting married on the Saturday, and if I don’t look exactly like Meg Ryan, I’ll be holding you responsible.’

Weddings, even the mention of them makes my feet itch. The thought of being associated with one makes me feel vaguely bilious.

‘Right,’ says Zoe, bending at the waist and shaking her hair over the pile of clippings. ‘I had better be going.’

‘I’d ask you to come on the day,’ Rachel says, and I all but heave, ‘but it’s in France, so . . . no offence.’

‘None taken.’

It’s a cool spring evening, so despite it being a little out of my way, I offer to cycle Zoe home. We’re both heading south of the river, so she has little option but to accept.