The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  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.

  Zoe

  P Is For Prick

  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?’

  Sunni smiles, shrugs. ‘I’m an atheist, but I still think it should be Christmas.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ says Charles.

  ‘Or,’ I say, ‘how about Xenophobe?’

  Claire stands up. ‘Zoe, can I have a word?’

  Her office is not the book-lined, oak-panelled, leather-upholstered chamber one might expect of a senior editorial director. It�
�s plain, austere and the stuffing is hanging out of her chair. But she does keep a bottle of Scotch in her bottom drawer; whether this is a nod to convention or a medical necessity, no one knows, but it’s no secret and now it’s on the table.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘It helps,’ I say, raising my glass.

  I could tell Claire that today is the day I first met my dead boyfriend, but I think that would be weak. And anyway, it’s not the reason I unloaded on Charles. ‘Sorry about that, Claire. I’ve got things on my mind. No excuse, I know, but . . .’

  ‘P is for Prick,’ says Claire, smiling.

  ‘And Professionalism, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Claire. ‘We seem to have our roles reversed. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  I nod. ‘I’m sure. I . . . I wasn’t going to do this for a few weeks but, now as we’re here . . .’

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘R is for Resignation,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, Zoe, darling.’ Claire gets up from her chair, puts her arms around me and kisses my cheek. ‘Tell me, tell me all about it.’

  And I do, I tell her about the day I met Alex, the night I met Henry, the coffee on Albert Bridge and Scrabble in the Duck and Cover.

  When it becomes apparent that this is going to be more involved than a five-minute chat, Claire pops out to confirm with Charles that C is for Christmas, X is for Xylophone, and S is for shove it up your bum if you don’t bloody well like it. When she returns two minutes later, my boss has acquired a plate of muffins. I tell her about the house, the mortgage, the fight over the wallpaper, the creaky floorboard and my one-way ticket to Thailand. By the time I get to the part where I accused our author of being a xenophobe, we’ve finished the muffins, the whisky and most of a box of tissues.

  Henry

  Quite White

  Everything is temporary.

  Temporary teeth, temporary boyfriend.

  Jenny’s implants have integrated perfectly, and today I am chopping down her remaining thirteen teeth, grinding them into pegs that, like their titanium counterparts, will hold her new porcelain crowns. It’s the longest day in the process, removing the crowns from her last appointment, cleaning the implants, taking a full mouth impression and then fitting a complete mouthful of temporary crowns that she will wear while her new teeth are prepared in the lab.

  Jenny cried when she saw her mouth full of crude, white temporary teeth, and I had to calm her down so I could remind her that we still had another appointment to go. Normally, I would colour match the crowns to her existing teeth, but this isn’t an issue for Jenny – there are no teeth left.

  ‘Is a bright white, you know. I tell you, white smile.’

  ‘Look at this.’ I show Jenny a row of mounted veneers, ranging from Hollywood white to a more subdued shade, still white but tinged with yellow – what a paint company might call Vanilla Cream, or some such.

  Jenny rests an arthritic finger on the Hollywood incisor.

  ‘It will look wrong,’ I tell her.

  ‘White. Look white.’

  ‘When you get older, Jenny, your teeth darken naturally. Something more like this’ – I slide her finger along the row of veneers – ‘will look a lot more natural.’

  Jenny slides her finger all the way back to Hollywood. And, well, it’s her money, her teeth, her smile.

  ‘Quite right,’ I tell her.

  ‘Hah, joke! Quite white, innit. Quite white, haha!’

  And I laugh right along, because, really, who the hell am I, jilter, outcast, idiot, to tell anyone how to live their life.

  Since the cake tasting and our pledge of temporary monogamy, Zoe and I have seen considerably more of each other. She drops in on Fridays now, a change of clothes in her backpack, and stays until early Sunday evening. We watch films, take long walks, play games in the Duck and Cover. We don’t leave each other’s side for forty-eight hours, making me feel her imminent departure more keenly than ever. Perhaps that explains my compulsion to invite her out for what you might call conventional dates – cinema, restaurant, theatre – despite the fact I know she will refuse. Zoe is saving for her travels and watching every penny, but at the same time she is too . . . proud, I suppose, to let me foot the bill. I tried again on Sunday.

  ‘Let’s go out. Sunday dinner and a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I don’t get paid until next week.’

  ‘My treat.’

  ‘I don’t want treating, it makes me feel bad.’

  ‘I’d rather pay for both than not go. I’m being selfish, see, so it’s okay. You’d be indulging me.’

  ‘Can’t we just . . . hang out?’

  ‘All we do is “hang out”. Aren’t you bored?’

  Stupid thing to say.

  ‘Why? Are you?’ An edge to Zoe’s voice.

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean. Let me take you out.’

  Zoe sighed. ‘It’s sweet of you, honestly, but . . . I’d feel better if you didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, okay. Look, I’m sorry, I . . . it’s just important to me.’

  I should have left it there. ‘What about me, about what’s important to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Henry. How could I know? I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘You know where I live. Which is more than I can say about you.’

  ‘Don’t. Please . . . can’t we just enjoy this while it . . .’

  ‘What? While it lasts?’

  Zoe sighs, the set of her eyebrows appearing to say: Well, yes, that’s the situation. Thanks for spelling it out.

  ‘Zoe, that’s what I’m trying to do. To enjoy it. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t want us to be nothing more than . . .’

  Zoe looked at me intently; as if she knew exactly what I meant (of course she knew) but was curious to see whether I was stupid enough to say it out loud. There’s a phrase people use that describes our relationship very well, and it’s been bouncing around the inside of my head for weeks. Maybe I’d had too much wine, not enough sleep, or seen too many rotten teeth, but the words had made their way to the tip of my tongue, and the taste of them was nauseating.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

  Zoe slid towards me and rested her head on my shoulder. I don’t know if it was an apology or forgiveness, but I let the matter drop and we moved quietly through the rest of the day. We have two months left, and even if I could change that fact, I don’t know that I should. Zoe clearly has baggage and it’s obvious this trip is important to her. Maybe I should be glad she’s going before she has a chance to find out who I really am. ‘See you around,’ we said when Zoe left in the evening, but as usual nothing was arranged.

  The routine is that one or the other of us will call on Friday afternoon, and then Zoe will arrive a few hours later with two pairs of knickers in her backpack. I’m holding out, waiting to see if Zoe will take the initiative, but she is better at this game than I am, and I’m losing my nerve.

  ‘She call an a message yet?’ asks Jenny, as I check my phone for the seventh time.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maybe got other man, haha.’

  ‘You’re a laugh a minute today, Jenny.’

  ‘Good joke though, innit.’

  ‘Well, I hope so, otherwise I’ve just wasted twenty-eight quid on a pair of ladies’ flip-flops.’

  Zoe

  Double Shit

  It’s six o’clock when I stagger out of Claire’s office; the way my head feels it should be dark, but it’s a bright July evening and I have to shield my phone from the sun before I can read the screen. I have one message from Henry:

  See you tonight? Call me – Have a surprise.

  I feel like I’m teetering on an emotional precipice and the last thing I need is a surprise. I don’t know if I can handle any affection either, for that matter. All of a sudden it feels like it would be wrong – disre
spectful, maybe – to cuddle up with Henry on the anniversary of the day I met Alex. I type out a short reply, the grey characters allowing me to project a mood and humour I couldn’t pull off in the flesh:

  Arrgh! Have to pull a shift at D&C. Sorry, will call tomorrow x

  A white lie, and if ever one was justified it’s tonight.

  My phone pings:

  No worries. Surprise will keep x

  I’m too drunk to ride my bike, but it’s a clear evening and I am in no hurry to be back at the house. There was mail for Alex again yesterday, and if there’s more tonight I might just tear my hair out. I send a kiss back to Henry, turn my phone to silent and start walking. I walk through Soho, past the Friday night drinkers, spilled onto the pavements, laughing, shouting, flirting. I cut through quiet exclusive streets, past giant houses and walled gardens until I reach Albert Bridge. There is no one selling coffee at this time of day, and the thousand lightbulbs are cold and will remain so for a few hours yet. This is city time, and the bridge is heavy with traffic, noise and exhaust fumes. If I came here for a small slice of recent nostalgia – and maybe I did – then I’m more of a fool than I give myself credit for.

  It takes a little over three hours to walk home, and if I’d thought it through I would have worn different shoes. I’m sweaty, my feet hurt, and my hair stinks. I’ve gone in and out of hunger, and all I need now is a long bath and twelve hours’ sleep. There’s no mail for Alex, and when I draw level with his picture on the stairs, I blow him a kiss and do my best version of his patented head wobble. I never could do it, and looking at my reflection superimposed over the picture I first laugh and then cry. But it’s okay, it feels right and it feels somehow good. ‘Hey, babes,’ I whisper, and then I touch my finger to his face and go to run a bath.

  There’s half a bottle of wine in the fridge, so while the bath runs I pour most of it into a glass and take it upstairs with a trio of tea lights and a box of matches. The bath is full but I immediately sense something is wrong. The temperature in the room is wrong, there is no steam on the mirror, no steam above the water. And when I put my arm into the bath, the water is as cold as my chardonnay.