The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  April chose the carpets, wallpaper, curtains, the paint, the cupboard doors and everything behind them. There were discussions, but only in the sense that April was thinking aloud and trying out the sounds of various fixtures, fittings and ideas. When she asked what colour I wanted to paint the front door, my mind went blank with the shock of being consulted. I said blue, for no reason other than it was the colour of April’s nail varnish and she was growing impatient. April produced a colour card filled with twenty-five shades of the single colour and I dropped my finger onto its approximate centre.

  The door is now black. My meagre input painted over and obliterated.

  I have been standing here for five minutes now, but the coursing panic has abated not one bit. And I suspect it won’t even if I stand here all day. As I put my hand on the gate, the front door opens and I all but turn and run. Perhaps the only thing that stays my feet is the pure blanching shock of seeing my former best friend standing in the doorway of my former future house. He’s tanned, looks like he’s lost two stone and recently had a very good haircut. He looks extraordinarily well, even in a pair of bright orange slippers.

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘Tea?’ he says, holding one of a pair of blue mugs towards me. I was with April when she picked out those mugs.

  ‘You don’t have anything stronger, do you?’

  Brian laughs. ‘Not before six, no.’

  He sits on the front step, and I sit down beside him.

  ‘Nice slippers,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks. Oh, and fuck off.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my mug against Brian’s. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Brian nods: Yes, it is.

  We drink our tea in silence for a while, exchanging the occasional sideways glance and half smile.

  ‘I’m glad it’s you,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, me too. Not going to knock my tooth out again, are you?’

  ‘I won’t if you won’t.’

  Brian laughs under his breath. ‘The Dentist.’

  ‘Do you remember making those birdhouses?’ I say.

  Brian nods. ‘There’s still plenty of fences with missing panels round and about.’

  Wrecking one thing to make another.

  ‘I’m sorry I dropped you in it,’ I say. ‘At the . . . castle.’

  ‘It’s not me you need to apologize to,’ Brian says, looking over his shoulder to the house.

  ‘How is she?’

  Brian nods: Good. ‘I knew you weren’t right,’ he says. ‘You and April.’

  ‘You didn’t think to share this?’

  Brian shrugs. ‘Not my place, is it. And anyway, would you have listened?’

  Maybe. Very very maybe.

  ‘So what’s this?’ I say, indicating the two of us sitting on the doorstep like a pair of little boys.

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you first. Get one thing out of the way before the other, you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Brian takes a deep, bracing breath. ‘I suppose we should go in.’

  ‘Is it six o’clock yet?’ I ask.

  We both know six is a long way off, but Brian checks his watch reflexively. ‘Close enough,’ he says. ‘Ready?’

  ‘No.’

  Brian opens the door. ‘After you.’

  In all the years I was with April, I don’t think I ever saw her reading a book, but she’s reading one now.

  Sitting on the sofa with her back to me, her blonde hair in a high neat ponytail, she closes the book, sets it down on the coffee table, pauses for what could be two seconds or eight thousand years, and then turns to face me. Like Brian, she is radiating good health. Tanned, clear skinned, bright eyed, she looks amazing.

  ‘You’re late,’ she says.

  My game plan, such as it was, consisted of receiving abuse gratefully and with contrition, and then apologizing to April and any attendant family into submission. But April’s composure and lack of apoplectic outrage, it throws me.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s a good one.’

  April cocks her head with pantomime smugness. ‘Well, I’ve had time to work on it, haven’t I.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so, so sorry, April.’

  And now her face hardens. ‘Jesus Christ, Henry. Where do I begin? How could you do that to someone you’re supposed to love? To someone who . . .’ She puts a hand to her eye, then takes a slow, deep breath, regaining her composure as if willing herself – commanding herself – not to cry. ‘Have you any idea what you did to me?’

  I have nothing to say, and all I can do is shake my head.

  ‘If you didn’t want to marry me, why propose, Henry? Why?’

  ‘I did. But . . .’

  ‘Do you think you’re better than me?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘I wonder about that, you know. But I’m real people, Henry! I like who I am and where I’m from. And the way you treated me is . . . I don’t even know what it is.’

  ‘Sweetheart . . .’ says Brian. ‘Nice and easy, yes?’

  April closes her eyes and allows her features to relax.

  ‘Do you want anything?’ he asks.

  April opens her eyes, nods. ‘I’ll have one of those teas,’ she says, and when she smiles at Brian, she winks. Her eyes follow him out of the room and the affection is absolutely sincere.

  She is still sitting on the sofa, head turned to the side so she can see me standing in the doorway. I decide to risk moving further into the room. I make it as far as the armchair, but before I get a chance to sit, April shakes her head, says, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Right, I’m . . . sorry. I never thought I was better than you,’ I say. ‘I loved you.’

  ‘Loved. You’re a coward, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, shut up! Yes. You should have told me. To my face, not in a stupid . . .’ April picks up a piece of folded paper from the coffee table, clenches it in her fist and throws it at me. I don’t need to pick it up to know this is the letter I left behind on the morning of our wedding.

  ‘Pick it up,’ April says. ‘Take it with you because I’ve read it enough times.’

  I do what I’m told and shove the balled-up note into my pocket.

  ‘We were kids when we met,’ April says, sneering.

  ‘April, please—’

  ‘You’ll always have a special place in my heart. I mean, my God! Did you not cringe when you wrote that . . . shit!’

  ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, you fucking should. It’s the very very least you should have done. Do you know what? I’m glad you did it.’

  April looks at me, as if waiting for a response, but we both know there isn’t one.

  ‘Do you want to know why I’m glad?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Two reasons, Henry. First, because you are clearly a cruel, weak, fickle bastard. And I’m glad I found out before things got any more complicated. The thought that I might have had a baby with you makes me physically sick.’

  April is glaring at me, waiting for a reaction, so I nod, mutter sorry under my breath.

  ‘And second?’ April asks. ‘Second, because I am happy now. With Brian. Happier than I ever was with you. And I’m not just saying that to make myself feel better. I’m saying it because it’s true.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy.’

  April nods. ‘I suppose I should thank you . . . but I never will.’

  And it isn’t until she begins the process of standing up from the sofa that I notice the bump. It’s a big bump.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, pointing at April’s stomach, and dropping into the armchair after all. The bump looks even bigger from down here and I jump back to my feet. ‘Oh my good G— wait, what month is it?’

  ‘It’s July, Henry.’

  ‘Wh . . . w . . .’

  ‘October,’ April says. ‘We were meant to get married in October.’

  I start counting on my fingers: ‘Octobe
r, November, December, Ja—’

  ‘Nine,’ April says. ‘Nine months ago.’

  The book on the coffee table is titled 501 Baby Names; it’s impossible to tell at what letter it is splayed open, but it looks pretty central – M, maybe; N, perhaps, none of which clarifies anything.

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ I say, looking for some stability in solid fact, but not finding much.

  ‘Who told?’ says April.

  Again, I point at the bump, which can’t possibly have grown in the last thirty seconds, but nevertheless appears to be expanding before my eyes. ‘Is it . . .?’

  ‘Yes?’ says April.

  I swivel the finger around so that it’s now pointing at me. ‘Is it . . .?’

  ‘Mine,’ says Brian’s voice from behind me. He is carrying a small round tray, red with white polka dots, which I seem to remember buying in the Trafford Centre about twelve months ago. ‘Here you go . . .’ Brian hands a mug of herbal tea to April, then a tumbler of whisky to me. I empty it in a single swallow.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I finally manage. ‘How . . . long?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Brian, ‘it’s definitely mine.’

  ‘Eight months,’ says April, a touch of defiance in her expression.

  ‘So you . . .’

  Brian shrugs.

  ‘November,’ says April, looking at my hands, and I realize I am counting on my fingers again.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Yeah, you said that.’

  ‘Another?’ says Brian, reaching for my glass.

  ‘Henry has to go now,’ says April.

  Brian and I shake hands, and then we hug. ‘Give it time,’ he whispers into my ear, clapping a hand on my back.

  I was supposed to carry April over this threshold, into the house. Instead, she escorts me in the opposite direction, my best friend’s baby growing inside her.

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ I say.

  ‘I suppose that makes it easier for you, does it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a little.’

  ‘Well, don’t think I forgive you, because I don’t. I fucking don’t, Henry.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ll always be that girl, thanks to you. That girl who . . .’

  I nod towards the house. ‘What about Brian, the baby?’

  ‘Brian’s amazing.’ April’s face comes alive when she says his name. ‘And he’ll make an amazing father,’ she says. ‘But it doesn’t change . . . it doesn’t make what you did right.’

  ‘I’m sorry, all I am is sorry.’

  April nods. ‘Yeah, I know. So,’ she says, crossing her arms, ‘you seeing anyone?’

  ‘I . . . kind of.’

  April shakes her head. ‘Kind of? You’re amazing, Henry.’

  ‘It’s complicated. She’s had . . .’

  ‘You know what, Henry? I don’t want to know. Just . . . Actually, I really hope you sort yourself out, okay. I hope you and whatever she’s called get together and fall in love and . . . I really do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And then I hope she leaves you standing at the altar.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. And call your mother more.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Make sure you do, she misses you, Henry. Big Boots, too.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’ I go to hug her, but April steps away from me.

  ‘Sorry. Okay then, well, it’s been . . . it’s been nice seeing you. Both. All three of you.’

  April nods and – against her will, it seems – smiles.

  I make it all the way to the gate before remembering; and when I turn around, April is standing in the doorway, waiting. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got my passport?’

  April laughs.

  ‘You remember where Mum and Dad live?’

  As I walk, I sing ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ inside my head. I sing slowly and drag my feet, but it does nothing to shorten the distance.

  April must have called ahead, because her old man is waiting on the step when I turn the corner. At his feet is a battered Samsonite suitcase – they’re advertised as indestructible but it looks like someone has had a good go at disproving this claim. The shell is dented and scratched, the pull-up handle twisted and bent, and the zip is broken. But it’s still standing.

  April’s father says nothing as I shuffle down his drive, his expression doesn’t flicker. And if it turns out the old bugger died six months ago and has since been stuffed and placed outside to scare off burglars, then I have to wonder why April forgot to mention it. As I get within punching distance, however, I can hear the old man breathe and see the hairs in his nose quiver under each exhalation.

  ‘Derek,’ I say, nodding.

  Derek’s jaw tightens, the muscles bunching at the hinges. His hands clench into fists.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and Derek shakes his head very slowly, the message as clear as the sky: Don’t! He toes the case and it wobbles.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I . . .’

  Another shake of the head. ‘Don’t mek me break a promise to my daughter,’ he says. ‘She’s had enough of that, don’t you think?’

  To pick up the case I will have to bend down, placing my jaw within six inches of Derek’s foot. I don’t know if he’s been working today, but April’s dad is wearing his work boots. Again, he nudges the case with his foot.

  I bend at the waist, stretch forwards and grip the handle, but as I snatch at it, the handle comes free, leaving the battered case still wobbling on its wheels. I try again, bending further now and needing both hands to lift the case out of Derek’s range. He doesn’t kick me in the face.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘My passport’s in the . . .’

  Derek’s nostrils flair, he exhales slowly and turns to go back into the house. ‘George sends his love,’ he says, and he closes the door in my face.

  I wait until I get round the corner before sitting on a wall and opening the case. The crotch of my swimming shorts has been slashed, my new linen beach trousers have lost a leg, my sunglasses have lost both arms, a hole has been cut in the heart of my favourite shirt. Underwear, socks, shoes, sandals, hat, everything has been destroyed. The book I had packed to read on holiday is now a loose collection of torn pages. And all of it stained and sticky from the contents of, amongst other things, a skewered bottle of suntan lotion, and – to look at it – a jumped-on tube of toothpaste. On the front of the suitcase is a separate, zipped compartment. Inside are our tickets, intact, unused and expired. Also in this compartment is my passport, in one piece, and containing all its pages. No one has taken a pair of scissors or a blowtorch to it. No one has drawn glasses on my picture, a dagger through my neck, a penis on my h—

  ‘Fucking jilter!!!’

  The thrown hamburger hits me square in the chest, bull’s eye. It’s hard to be sure with mustard in my eyes, but the receding car looks an awful lot like George’s Ford Cortina.

  ‘You didn’t think to tell me?’ I say to Mum.

  ‘Of course I did,’ she says. ‘But it wasn’t my place, sweetheart. Here . . .’ she licks her finger and rubs it through my eyebrow, ‘. . . bit of mustard.’

  ‘You got off lucky,’ my old man says. ‘I’d have knocked your head off.’

  Mum smiles at my father with affection.

  Nailed above the front door to the pub is a small oblong plaque with the name of the licensee painted in white on black. When I turned eighteen, Dad had had my name added so that it read: CLIVE SMITH & SON. LICENSED TO SELL ALL INTOXICATING LIQUOR FOR CONSUMPTION ON OR OFF THESE PREMISES. From a man of few sentimental gestures, it meant a great deal. Not only did it announce my arrival as a man, but it signified my father’s pride in his son. It put us together, as equals. So it was a huge shock to see my name had been painted over when I walked through the front door an hour ago.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘I guess I’m not licensed to sell intoxicating liquor anymore.’r />
  My dad frowns in confusion. ‘You’ve lost me, son.’

  ‘The licensee thingummy,’ Mum says. ‘Honestly, Clive, I do worry about your memory.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, cocking his fists. ‘Bobbed when I should’ve weaved.’

  ‘Weaved when you should have bobbed,’ finishes my mother, and again the smile.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘the sign?’

  ‘Well, you see, son. You’re not the most popular man in town.’

  ‘By a long chalk,’ says my mother.

  ‘Thing is, lad, someone took a brush to it.’

  ‘Clive Smith & Bastard,’ says my mother. ‘Licensed to sell blah blah blah.’

  ‘They did a good job, too,’ says Dad. ‘Din’t they, Sheila?’

  ‘Very good, I reckon it was weeks before we noticed.’

  ‘Anyway, son, I thought it simplest to just . . .’ He makes a gesture as if painting out a bastard.

  ‘Thank you, I suppose.’

  ‘So,’ says my mother. ‘You’ve no excuse not to come back for our anniversary now.’

  ‘Except for not being the most popular man in town by a long chalk, you mean.’

  ‘Smith and Bastard,’ says my dad, laughing.

  Mum shrugs. ‘Time heals. More slowly in some cases than others, but it heals.’

  ‘When is it, exactly?’ I ask, earning a scowl from my mother. ‘What? It’s not my anniversary.’

  ‘Ninth of August,’ Dad says. ‘Haven’t lost all my marbles yet, see.’

  Mum leans across the bar and kisses Dad on the cheek.

  ‘What’s got into you two?’

  ‘It’s not every year you get to have a ruby anniversary,’ says my mother.

  ‘Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it,’ I say. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Thought we’d have a bit of a do here on the Saturday,’ says Dad. ‘Friends, family.’

  ‘Well, I guess that includes me. Will April be here?’

  ‘Of course, love. She’s like a—’

  ‘—daughter to you, I know. But her, me, Brian, their bloody baby . . .’

  ‘Time to move on, Henry. April knows that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Dad, ‘can’t see her throwing much in her condition.’