The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (7 page)

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Well . . .’ Zoe felt suddenly tired, exasperated. ‘Glad I could be of assistance. But I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Meetings to pretend I’m interested in, fingers
to shred, and all that.’

Zoe pushed her chair back from the table.

‘Wait,’ Alex said, apparently amused, looking like he was about to laugh. ‘Did you say . . .
fingers to shred
?’

Zoe closed her eyes, sighed. ‘Things,’ she said, blushing. ‘I meant
things
to shred.’

Zoe laughed, laughed so abruptly, in fact, that she snorted; and there’s nothing cute about that. She has always done it, and long ago learned that any attempt to stifle this sinus gurgle
only exacerbates it from little-piggy grunt to great big snotty hog-sized bellow. So she let it go. Good, cathartic, tears-in-the-eyes laughter. Alex laughed too, but not as hard. He sat back,
sipped his wine and smiled as Zoe pulled herself together and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her button-mushroom nose would be red and swollen now – the complete antithesis of
poised Teutonic beauty. But . . . well, fuck it.

‘Feel better?’

Zoe nodded.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you look beautiful when you laugh?’

‘Don’t push your luck. Seriously d . . .’ and like a crazy woman, she was laughing and snorting all over again.

They talked. About bad decisions, work, ambition, disappointment, university, family, the seaside, the Fens, kids’ TV shows from when they both grew up. They talked about love and sex; Zoe
and this man she barely knew. But she felt like she did know him, or perhaps understand is a better word. A two-way thing. They held hands across the table as they talked about first times and
funny times, Alex’s thumb stroking the back of her hand. They extended their legs towards each other, letting their feet and shins connect beneath the table like their hands above. Zoe told
Alex he should leave Ines, and he told her she should quit her job. You have to do what makes you happy, they told each other; you only live once, they confided across the table, lapsing into
cliché, but embracing its truth without self-consciousness. Yes, they agreed, absolutely, life is way too short to waste a moment with the wrong person, in the wrong job, in the wrong place.
And so, when Alex told Zoe she had a beautiful laugh, a sexy smile, and – yes – a cute nose, she chose to believe him. They kissed in the pub, her initiating by leaning across the table
and – she felt it would be wrong to ignore the impulse – putting her lips against his as he talked with infectious enthusiasm about his love of music. They kissed again outside, less
inhibited now in the glow of the streetlights; each pushing hard against this other body and whispering statements of desire and intent; they kissed against the glass façade of Blackfriars
Underground station where anyone might see them. Their teeth clashed and she could feel the physical proof of Alex’s muttered frustrations pressed hard against her as the city filed past them
out of the rain and into the station for the last train home. They laughed when a gang of drunk men heckled and jeered and told them
to get in there
. They ran down the escalators, Zoe
precarious in her heels, and then – the guard warning
stand clear of the closing doors
– one more kiss before she jumped onto her tube, travelling north to the flat she shared
with Vicky; leaving Alex to make his way west to the bed he shared with Ines.

There were more dates, more kisses, more last trains home. Arguments, too, when the promises and pledges went unfulfilled. ‘Complications,’ Alex said. He did broach the subject of
moving out, but Ines cried, refused food, threw things, threatened to swallow a bottle of pills. And what do you say to that:
Let her; She’s lying; She’s manipulating you
? What
if Ines were telling the truth? What if Alex left her and the German bitch jumped off Waterloo Bridge? ‘Do what you need to do,’ was all Zoe could say; neither condoning, nor making any
demands of her own. ‘It’s your life, your call.’ They continued to meet in the same dingy pub, but the energy changed. There was still a physical attraction, still flirting and
revealing and laughing and sometimes kissing, but there was drama, too. Exciting in a way, but exhausting, and eroding the candour and empathy that had seemed on their first meeting to be so
special. Zoe came to feel foolish, like a distraction, a fling, while Alex agonized and beat his breast and lamented his life before going home to rent-free Chelsea and the beautiful Ines. Zoe
stopped answering texts and emails. Not all but some. She made excuses when Alex suggested meeting, she went on a date with another guy and – instant regret – screwed him because, well,
he had no German to go home to and it was easy. She never told Alex about this distraction (and to this day doesn’t intend to); not his business while he had a woman at home. They sent emails
at Christmas; polite, succinct and, probably, final. And then, midway through January, Alex sent a text:

Two years and nine months ago now.

Zoe sits on the edge of the bed in her underwear (a matching set, peachy pink, no loose threads) applying make-up. She glances at the clock and sees that it is past eleven.
Whatever time Alex left, he’s been gone for more than an hour, maybe as long as two. Zoe experiences the mental equivalent of a flinch, pulling back from a thought she doesn’t want to
acknowledge.

Alex has been . . . what? . . . off, lately. Not himself. He’s been quiet, distracted and . . . uncharacteristically attentive, is how it feels – volunteering to cook, clean, fetch
(‘let me bring you breakfast in bed’). Almost as if he feels guilty for something. When he came in from the pub last Wednesday, Zoe was an hour into a chick-flick and had expected him
to be loud, smelly, kissy, irritating, but he’d come in quietly, whispered an apology then kissed her on the cheek before going through to the kitchen and micro-waving a bowl of leftovers.
Zoe had turned up the volume on the TV, but Alex had eaten quietly on the opposite end of the sofa, checking his phone periodically, but going out of his way, it seemed, not to distract her.
Ironically, Zoe found this more distracting than the anticipated barrage of interruptions, questions and snide commentary on the film. Before the film finished, Alex had washed the dishes and gone
upstairs to brush his teeth. When Zoe went up after him, she found him in bed, reading. They talked for five minutes, and while Alex wasn’t exactly remote, neither was he overly forthcoming.
He answered her questions and enquired after her day, but he was just . . .
off
. In the dark of the room, with Alex sleeping beside her, Zoe recalled a scene from the movie, in which the
heroine discovers her reliable, faithful – boring, even – boyfriend had been cheating on her for almost a year. The thought presented itself, like an unwelcome guest at a party, and Zoe
had found herself holding her breath as she studiously ignored it.

Because that was a film and this is her life and Alex would never do that.

Do what, Zoe?

She looks at her reflection in the compact mirror.

Is Alex cheating on me?

Zoe doesn’t believe he is, but of course it’s possible. More likely is that after nearly a year of living together, he has simply become complacent. Or bored. He could be; after all,
hasn’t Zoe been guilty of complacency, too?
And we all know what bored men do
, says the unwelcome guest.

And what if he was cheating on her? How would she feel about that? The truth is, Zoe isn’t entirely sure. Of course she would feel betrayed, embarrassed, angry . . . But – and maybe
this is why she has been reluctant to address the idea – maybe she would be relieved. Because there would be no second chances. Her brain – independently of its owner, it seems –
presents the consequences and logistics: the mortgage; the dishwasher; the sofa; the cushions; the Scrabble-print mugs, a single A and a solitary Z. The details move freely through her
consciousness, rapid and scattered and unushered.
He left his girlfriend for you. Not true: he left her for himself. But he cheated on her for you, didn’t he?
She considers the wine
decanter, a moving-in present from her parents – surely she has the claim on this item, even though it’s Alex not her who ever bothers to use it. The bedding – someone has to take
it; to sleep alone under the covers they bought together. Whereas the other will have to spend ninety quid on a new set of linen. And what of the bricks and mortar? Could Alex afford the mortgage
on his own? Maybe; but Zoe certainly couldn’t. Would he buy her out, or would they sell, and can she force the issue if he resists?

So what is this,
Zoe? Is it cold feet, or something more significant? She doesn’t know, and worse than that, she doesn’t know
how
to know.
And why now?
Why now
and not before you signed up to a twenty-five-year, six-figure mortgage?

When Alex had first suggested buying a house together, she had been in her new job for over a year. And again, she reminds herself that it was Alex who supported her – in
pocket and morale – through this frightening transition. She was riding high on the excitement of seeing her first picture book in print. The author had even taken on board one of Zoe’s
suggestions and given the bumblebee a pair of love-heart sunglasses. While they were promoting the book, the author had given several readings at bookshops and book fairs, and they had given away
pairs of love-heart sunglasses to the children in attendance. Seeing these delighted, fat-faced children sit, fidget, giggle and cry through these events had made Zoe incredibly broody, and
whenever she picked up a copy of the
Busiest Bee
she imagined reading it to her own child (a girl), and telling her
Those sunglasses were your mummy’s idea.
And so, when Alex
had said
Let’s buy a place of our own
, parenthood was the first thing Zoe thought of. Before a mortgage or a wedding or where they would live or what types of plates they would buy,
she had imagined a nursery. Because isn’t that what happens in a new home? Maybe that’s why she had agreed so readily.

That or the smell.

They had been together for almost two years and were already renting a small two-bedroom flat together. The couple in the house next door argued and banged doors on a daily basis, and the
Nepalese family in the flat below cooked fish-head stew at least twice a week, suffusing every cubic centimetre of air with an almost palpable seaside stench that would swell and fade but never
fully clear. She suspected the smell had impregnated her clothes, but she had become so accustomed to the pong, it was hard to be sure. And then one November night, with the sound of an argument
blasting through the walls and the smell of fish guts wafting up the stairs, Alex had said why didn’t they buy a place of their own?

Zoe had laughed, assuming Alex was merely passing comment on their various domestic pollutions.

‘Is that a fish joke?’

‘What?’

‘The smell. Cod, haddock, a
plaice
of our own.’

Alex laughed and kissed her like he loved her. ‘P-L-A-C-E. We’ve got the multiple.’

‘Multiple?’

‘On our salaries. We could do it; we could borrow enough to buy a flat, maybe a small house.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Here’s the thing. I’ve got enough saved for about half a deposit. But . . .’ He raised his eyebrows.

Alex was earning good money by now, including a sizable annual bonus. And he’d been prudent, saving and investing, since the day he began work. Zoe, on the other hand, had a lot of nice
shoes and expensive handbags.

‘I don’t have more than a couple of grand.’

‘What about your folks?’

Zoe took a deep breath, blew it out in a long steady stream. She already knew she would ask, and that her parents would agree to lend her the money. It would be a loan, of course, but there
would be no rush and no interest. Still, it felt appropriate at least to pretend that it wasn’t a foregone conclusion. Alex’s father had died when he was twelve, and his mother had
struggled to raise him and his brother, working several jobs, taking in ironing and buying groceries at the end of their shelf life or in bashed packaging to make their meagre means go further.

‘I’ll ask,’ Zoe had said.

But even with the loan from her parents, their options were limited. For months, they spent their weekends and evenings viewing neglected flats and squashed houses at the far reaches of the
various tube lines. ‘Doer-uppers’ in estate agent speak; places where a couple with vision could ‘place their stamp’. But despite the peeling paint, bad wallpaper and worn
carpets, it was an exciting time. They drank in a variety of oppressive pubs, scribbling notes on the property sheets and exercising not so much their vision, but a pragmatic blindness towards the
scowling locals and depressed high streets lined with poundshops, bookmakers and whitewashed windows. Balancing the variables in their small equation – size, setting, squalor – they
settled on a ‘cosy’ house in tired but serviceable repair, two tube stops or a good walk from a fashionable area with trendy bars. There was no Starbucks or organic deli, but they did
have a Sainsbury’s Local and two pubs that it felt reasonably safe to drink in. They were further encouraged by the high proportion of what Alex called ‘PLUs’ – People Like
Us: young professionals in nice shoes, returning home from gainful employment, who would, with their collective optimism and need for good coffee, drag the area up to par with its near
neighbours.

The baby hadn’t happened. Not that it would; you needed to stop taking the pill first, and before you did that, it was considered polite to discuss the matter with the man donating the
other half of the genetic goods. And Zoe wasn’t ready for that conversation; the maternal pangs had passed, replaced by more practical concerns – a pay rise, new windows, taps that
didn’t drip. A clearer sense of herself, perhaps. Neither had they discussed marriage in anything other than an indirect fashion, but then, they had only been living together for nine months.
And, again, a conversation Zoe was in no immediate hurry to hold. She wants these things – a husband, children, family – but . . . well, she’d at least like to sort out the
carpets first.