The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (20 page)

Henry winks at me. ‘And wowness?’ he says to Janice.

‘Eye appeal,’ she says. ‘How’s it going to look in photographs when you two lovebirds’ – she touches Henry’s cheek with the back of one finger, pinches
mine with the other hand – ‘cut the first slice.’

‘Remind me of the date.’ She addresses this to Henry, and although I briefed him on the train ride out, he’s clearly struggling.

‘August . . . the . . . middleth?’

Janice laughs, as if Henry’s hesitation is an adorable charade of male indifference.

‘The seventeenth,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that right, Poppet?’

As Janice turns her attention to me, Henry raises his eyebrows and mouths the word
Poppet?

‘Too cute,’ says Janice. ‘I see a lot, I mean
a lot
of couples and, trust me, I know.
Too
’ – and she pinches my cheek again –
‘
cute!
Right, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone while I get the next selection. Be good!’

Henry seems to have recovered from his initial shock and has relaxed into this rather odd day, deftly fielding questions about the proposal, the honeymoon, and what happened to my engagement
ring (at the jeweller’s, being matched to the wedding band, apparently). If I’d met Henry six, or three or even two months ago, I don’t know if I would have been ready for all
whatever this is. But what about if I’d met him four years ago, before I met Alex? Would we still be together now? And – not that I’m getting confetti-headed, but I have eaten a
lot of wedding cake today – if we had met four years ago, isn’t it possible that we might be planning our own big day instead of Rachel’s?

‘Nearly there,’ says Janice. ‘I like to call this selection
the icing on the cake
. Because it is – haha! – literally, all about
the icing on the cake
.
You’ve got eight different frostings so I hope you brought your sweet tooths with you. Or should that be sweet teeth? I never know.’

After a final platter of Italian cream, marbled coffee, lemon poppy and spiced pumpkin, my jeans are cutting me in half and my tongue feels like it’s been removed, tenderized, dipped in
sugar and sewn back in upside down. Everything tastes like everything else, and I score the selection arbitrarily, already knowing we’ll recommend the almond poppy sponge with fresh-fruit
filling and peach buttercream frosting. Before we leave, Janice presents us with two sugarcraft souvenirs: a blushing bride for Henry, and a top-hatted groom for me.

‘Good gosh and trust me,’ she says, dabbing the corner of her eye theatrically. ‘Just made for each other.’

Henry sleeps most of the way back to London, his head resting against the window as the passing scenery loses its space and colour. Maybe it’s this situation, this
part-time, while-it-lasts relationship, but there is always a trace of tension in his face. As if he never fully relaxes or lowers his guard. But it melts away now, and watching him doze with a
half smile on his lips I feel a mixture of guilt, loss, doubt and frustration. Tangled emotions extending back towards Alex, and forward to the day I leave Henry. All connected, all pulling in
different directions, distorting what might have been a simple uncomplicated thing. We both sense it, but it leaves Henry while he sleeps, and if I could change anything about today, this train
would roll though London now and just keep on rolling.

‘All change,’ I say, stroking his cheek as we pull into Victoria.

‘We back?’ he says, massaging his eyes with the heels of his hands.

‘Yup.’

‘So,’ he says, smiling, ‘my place or mine?’

I lean across the table and kiss him. Passengers are heaving down bags from the overhead racks and filing down the corridor past our seat and off the train, but I kiss Henry hard and without
inhibition.

‘What was that for?’

‘I don’t have any right to ask this, but . . . do you think that for the next twelve weeks . . . do you think that while we’re together, it can be just us?’

Henry puts his hands on my face and kisses my forehead. ‘Did you think there was anyone else?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. It’s just, we’re not . . .’ and all I can do is shrug again.

‘Yes,’ says Henry. ‘Just us.’

‘In that case . . . can I ask one more thing?’

‘Sure, name it.’

‘How would you like to be my plus one at Rachel’s wedding?’

‘Is everybody relaxed?’

‘Uh huhh . . .’

Very far from it.

In place of waves we are listening to something repetitive on a cello. It brings to mind the string quartet April and I booked for our wedding.

‘Excellent. Now relax your toes.’

I would be happy never to even hear the ‘W’ word again, but now Zoe has invited me to be her ‘plus one’ at Rachel’s wedding in August. Last time I was a
‘minus one’.

‘Kneeees,’ says Gus.

The girls are all travelling out by ferry on the Friday before the wedding; I’m in no hurry to be there, so I’ve played the work card and will fly out first thing on the Saturday
morning. I’ve even bought my ticket. All I need now is a passport. That essential piece of paperwork is in the front pocket of the suitcase I left in April’s room eight and a half
months ago. I assume she has unpacked our sandals, sunglasses and mosquito repellent and, in regard to my possessions, thrown them into the nearest volcano. And in a way, I hope she has. Better
that than have the still-packed Samsonite standing in the hallway of our new home, gathering cobwebs like Miss Havisham’s wedding cake. Whether April would deliberately destroy a legal
document or not, I don’t know, but I’d bet not. I could apply for a new passport, of course, but that feels cowardly. And besides, it would only be delaying the inevitable.

‘Aaaand face.’

Face the music, people say. But I’ve never known what that means; what’s so terrible about facing music? Music doesn’t throw bricks or slash your car tyres. Grasp the nettle at
least makes sense, but even that brief and shallow sting would be welcome compared to the reception I can anticipate in my hometown. Since walking out on April I have missed Christmas, my birthday
and those of both my parents. It’s their fortieth wedding anniversary at the start of August, and I would very much like to be there. Dad, for all his outward displays of antagonism,
oafishness and indifference to all things romantic, has never forgotten to give my mother a card and a bunch of flowers on their anniversary. This year he’s upping the ante and splashing out
on a piece of ruby jewellery; he’s been on the phone twice in as many weeks, calling when Mum’s out so he can confer with me on what to buy: ring, necklace, earrings. But if I want to
attend their anniversary party without ruining it, I need to first show my face and allow it to be slapped, punched and screamed at. Maybe even get my teeth knocked out. And wouldn’t that be
poetic.

‘And let’s bring out the balloons,’ says Gus. ‘This week I’m going with yellow, but any colour will do. Just so long as it floooooats.’

Zoe is going to Brighton for Rachel’s hen party a few weeks from now, and while Rachel parades along the beach in a veil and an L-plate, I will head north to grasp the nettle, take my
medicine, face the music and grab my passport.

‘Are we floating?’ says Gus.

My passport can’t weigh more than a few ounces, but it’s giving my little blue balloon some serious problems.

There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet; thirteen double-paged spreads in
The Elfabet
: A is for Antler; B is for Bauble; C, for Christ’s sake, is for Carols.
Christmas is almost five months away, but the way these things work, this book needs to go to print before the end of the month, so here we all are – me, my boss, the author, illustrator and
art director – looking at the illustrator’s roughs, checking the layout, and double-checking that, yes, Toys really is the best use of a T. We’ve been crowded around this small
table since two o’clock and we’ve only just landed on V for Vixen, which has caused all kinds of innuendo and forced laughter.

Early on, Alex and I saw each other so often that people started calling us A-to-Z, an entity. I pretended to be offended, of course, but secretly enjoyed being one half of a complete and
unified whole. It was our little joke: ‘You complete me, Zee,’ Alex would say. ‘And you begin me,’ I would answer. It’s the anniversary of the day we first met, and I
miss him today more profoundly than I have for weeks, more than I have since I met Henry probably.

I glance at my phone; it’s 4.30 and Henry still hasn’t been in touch. A needy little game, played every Friday, but I’ve lost track of whose turn it is to buckle.

We argued last Sunday. Henry all but called us fuck buddies, and although I was kind of affronted, it was good to see his frustration coming through. I almost told him as much, but felt it might
be mistimed.

W is for Winter, by which time I will be on a beach somewhere.

I bought my ticket at lunchtime. Just walked into an old-fashioned high-street travel agent’s and spent four hundred and forty-nine pounds and ninety-nine pence, one way to Bangkok. So, no
turning back now. The man said I could get the ticket cheaper if I waited until August, or better still, September, but it felt like something that needed to be done now, today, that minute.
Because the more I feel for Henry – and it’s growing by the week – the more I feel my resolve wavering.
Maybe I should put if off for a month, two months, maybe until next
year.
But I know that’s just fear talking. I stayed with Alex too long; some of it was gratitude, some guilt, but mainly fear. Fear of being alone, of the unknown. When I decided to go
travelling it terrified me, and that’s how I knew it was exactly the right thing to do. And yes, there is something about Henry, but if I don’t do this now, there’s a good chance
I never will. And I’ll never forgive myself. So I took a deep breath and handed the travel agent my credit card, and he handed me a ticket. Or what passes for one. This is no gilt-edged piece
of stiff card, my name and destination printed in slanting, curving script; this is a flimsy sheet of A4 paper with a QR code on the bottom. But it’ll get me where I’m going.

Henry still hasn’t tried to contact me. Five minutes and I’ll excuse myself to the loo and send him a message:
What you doing tonight?
Or maybe
I’ll add a little joke; a peace offering:
You win! See you at 7.00.

‘Am I the only one who has a problem with Xmas?’ This from our illustrator, Maggie, a small, unassuming girl who, from what I can tell, is doing ninety per cent of the work on this
project for just fifty per cent of the cheque.

‘I bloody hope so,’ says the author, laughing awkwardly, ‘I mean, it is a Christmas book, after all.’

‘Well,’ says Maggie, fiddling with her pen, ‘that’s sort of my point. Isn’t Xmas sort of, you know, crossing out Christ?’

Charles, the author – and God how I resent attaching that title to a pompous twerp whose book consists of twenty-six letters and twenty-seven words including Plum Pudding – sighs.
‘Seriously?’

‘It’s sort of important to me,’ says Maggie.

‘You might have said that before agreeing to the sodding book.’

‘I thought I did, sorry.’

‘I kind of agree,’ says Sunni, the art director.

‘Claire?’ says Charles, appealing to my boss despite this being my book.

‘Zoe?’ says Claire, as I was rather hoping she wouldn’t.

I realize I’m sighing, and make a big show of stroking my chin, trying to disguise the outflow of air as an act of deep consideration. And at the same time, I wonder why the hell I’m
bothering. ‘How about Xylophone? I say. ‘Xylophones are Christmassy, aren’t they?’

Charles makes a loud, braying noise. ‘
Whonk whonk whonk!
Cliché alert!’

‘What,’ I say, ‘and Toys isn’t? Or Decorations or Snowman or Jack sodd-!’

‘Okay,’ says Claire, her voice projecting its full authority, ‘let’s all just . . . take a breath. Zoe?’

I nod. ‘Sure, no problem.’

‘Charles?’

Charles, who has been staring at me in open-mouthed shock, turns to Claire. ‘
Xmas
. . .’ he pauses, looks at the assembled faces, making sure we all understand that he is not
to be interrupted, ‘. . . is non-denominational, yeah. Muslim friendly and all of that.’ He focuses his attention on Sunni. ‘You know what I mean?’