The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (19 page)

‘Did you tell him about . . . Alex?’

‘No.’

‘Zoe!’

‘I know. I should have told him straight away, but it’s hardly . . . I mean, how do you drop that into conversation?’

‘Very very tricky,’ says Rachel. ‘I’ll go Midnight Satsuma,’ she says to Molly.

‘He wants to go on a date,’ I say. ‘Like a proper couple.’

‘Awkward.’

‘I know. But if I don’t, then it’s just a bit . . .’

‘Cheap?’

‘Sad. But if I do, then it gets a bit . . .’

‘Fucked up?’

‘Yeah . . . fucked up.’

‘Talking of which,’ says Rachel.

‘What?’

‘Well, when we get back off honeymoon, me and Steve were going to start trying for a baby.’

‘Okay.’

‘So, I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen. A
long
time. And they say you should come off it a few months before you start trying. Give your bits and bobs a chance to
settle down and get ready.’

‘Rachel?’

‘Yeah, well, turns out I’m ready. Very ready.’

‘As in . . .’

‘As in ten weeks yesterday, twenty big fat weeks when I walk up the aisle.’

‘Holy shit, Rachel. Holy . . .
shit
.’

‘Yeah, that was me for about an entire week after I found out.’

‘Are you . . . happy?’

‘Well, the honeymoon’s kind of ruined. Not sure I’ll be scuba diving or bungee jumping, and I certainly won’t be drinking any piña coladas, but . . . yeah,
I’m happy. Very happy, actually. Are you crying, babes?’

‘Only a little. Good crying, though. So’ – I indicate a growing bump – ‘twenty weeks?’

‘Well, I’ve had a look online, and it could be anywhere from a bit bloated to the massive “oh my God the bride’s up the duff” look. Probably that, knowing my
luck.’

‘Dress?’

‘Well, the good news is I should have a decent pair of boobs by then. So, plenty of cleavage, and then’ – Rachel indicates a wide A-line starting just below her boobs –
‘away she goes.’

‘Holy shit.’

‘You like cake, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘I need to ask a favour.’

‘Okay.’

‘Great. And then you can explain all that nonsense about jigsaws.’

It’s been a long day. A routine morning of simple procedures followed by an entire afternoon with Jenny. It would have been easier under a general, but Jenny is old and
frail, and the risks outweighed the advantages. Instead I have fitted nine titanium implants under local anaesthetic and a mild sedative.

‘Are you sure there isn’t someone who can come and collect you, Jenny?’

It’s been four hours of hard work for me, but it’s been a lot tougher on Jenny. Her mouth is going to hurt like she’s been kicked by tomorrow morning, but for the time being
she is still numb with lignocaine. Nevertheless, her hands are trembling and she’s been through quite an ordeal. Despite this, and despite the crudeness of her temporary crowns, her smile is
transformed.

‘Everyone busy,’ she repeats. ‘I fine. Taxi fine.’

‘Well, let’s give it another half hour or so, shall we? Then I’ll call you a cab.’

‘You’re good boy,’ Jenny says, patting my hand. ‘Very good boy.’

‘I’m really not,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just that I don’t have anything better to do.’

And even though this is in every way true, Jenny laughs, and smacks my wrist. This is my last appointment of the day and there’s no more dentistry to be done; my nurse has gone for the
weekend, so it’s just me and Jenny in the consulting room.

‘What ’bout that girl?’ she says.

In addition to her full-time day job, Zoe works shifts at the Duck and Cover. As far as I can tell, Saturday nights are a repeat fixture; and for the last three weeks I have warmed the stool on
the other side of the bar. Three dates, I suppose, sharing a bottle of wine, answering random questions in the Duck and Cover quiz, playing Scrabble, Kerplunk, Snakes ‘n’ Ladders. And
then the long walk back to mine through largely empty streets, holding hands, talking trivia, laughing, anticipating.

On the Sunday morning after our first night together, I went out for papers and pastries. We placed two chairs in front of the bay window and drank a pot of coffee, the sound of turning pages
loud in the bright room. We spent a strange two hours where it seemed the air around us consisted of discrete pockets; some heavy with an awkward tension, others light with familiarity and humour.
In one of those clouds of charged atmosphere, we found ourselves kissing again, but as the kiss gained heat and pressure, Zoe stepped away from me, repeating her line from the previous night:
‘We shouldn’t.’

We left the house together: Zoe to go home and change before her Sunday shift, me to wield a pair of scissors at The Hairy Krishna.

We said we’d see each other around, but we didn’t exchange numbers or make arrangements. Something in Zoe’s body language – the way she kissed me, touched my cheek,
squeezed my hand – felt like a subtle injunction. And then when she was gone from sight, I felt like a fake and a fool and almost ran after her, but something stayed my feet. She is
travelling in a few months, after all.

The following Saturday night I walked into the Duck and Cover as Winston was handing out the quiz sheets. My reasoning went that I could order a drink, feel the temperature and then make my
excuses or make myself comfortable.

‘Hello stranger,’ Zoe said as I took my seat at the bar. ‘What’s going on?’ Taking down the Scrabble board as she said it.

At the end of the night we walked the forty-five minutes back to my flat, holding hands, kissing, walking slowly then fast, drawing the tension out, then letting the anticipation quicken our
feet.

‘We shouldn’t,’ Zoe said again, a small smile playing about her mouth.

She said it again last week, our own in-joke, losing humour and gaining truth each time it’s said. And then in the morning, we kiss goodbye under that pocket of bad weather, and tell each
other ‘see you around’, although we make no plans or promises. We have exchanged numbers at least, but they remain unrung. There is no doubt in my mind I’ll spend tomorrow night
in the Duck and Cover, sitting on the other side of the bar playing some game or other, drinking mediocre wine and having a wonderful night talking about nothing. ‘My place, or mine?’
I’ll say, and Zoe will pretend to deliberate before choosing mine. And then the walk home, the familiar and surprising sex, the weird ecosystem of Sunday morning.

The longer this goes on, the harder the end will hit me when Zoe leaves. So let’s hope it lasts as long as possible, and hurts every bit as much as I deserve.

After the second time – date, thing, call it what you will – Rachel phoned. Just a short call to book a cut in a couple of weeks. She asked how I was, made small talk and then,
before signing off:

‘Listen . . . Zoe, she’s . . . she mentioned that you and her had . . . met. A couple of times.’

I hadn’t considered whether or not Zoe had told her friends about us, but I was still surprised to learn that she had. Surprised and pleased.

‘You know she’s travelling?’

‘Yes, she said.’

‘I know it’s none of my . . . actually, she’s my best friend so I suppose it is my business, but . . . sorry, rewind, I don’t want to sound all . . .’

‘It’s fine, I understand.’

‘Thank you, I . . . just be nice, yeah?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Do better than that, Henry.’ Laughing a little. ‘Just . . . be nice.’

‘I will.’

‘Good. I’d hate to have to stab you with your scissors. See you in two weeks, yeah.’

And God knows what the story is. I’d ask, but I assume that if Zoe wanted me to know she’d have told me by now. My guess is there’s a man involved, maybe he cheated on her, or
walked out, or maybe it’s the other way around. But whatever it was, I’ll bet it’s the reason Zoe is working two jobs to buy a plane ticket.

‘She’s going travelling,’ I say to Jenny. ‘The girl.’

‘Where?’

‘All around,’ I say. ‘Going to see the world.’

‘India!’ says Jenny, jabbing a crooked finger towards the sky. ‘She should go there, very nice.’

I’m always wary about guessing someone’s country of birth; it’s just too easy to come off sounding like an ignorant racist. I have a hard enough time with Aussies and Kiwis,
let alone the whole of Asia. ‘Aren’t you . . .’ I gesticulate nonsensically with my hands, trying to keep them from performing some involuntary reductive mime.

‘Chinese, yes,’ says Jenny. ‘But my husban’, India. I’m go in October.’

‘To India? That sounds nice.’

Jenny nods. ‘Yes. Scatter ashes.’

‘You . . . you mean the ashes of . . .’

‘Husban’, yes. He die, innit.’ There are tears in Jenny’s eyes as she says this. In boxing, they say the punch that hurts most is the one you don’t see coming, and
Jenny’s simple, matter of fact revelation has caught me with my guard down.

‘Jenny, I’m so sorry to hear that. When did it happen?’

‘March,’ she says. ‘Two week before birthday.’

‘His?’

‘Mine. Was going take me theatre. That one with dancing boy.’

‘Billy Elliot?’

‘Funeral on same day so tickets wasted.’

I look into her eyes for any hint of humour, but there is nothing but sincerity.

‘So I get my teeth, innit.’

‘Instead of
Billy Elliot?’

Jenny laughs, pats my hand as if I were joking. ‘Husban’ family never like me. Chinese girl, see. Very cross when he marry, so never go back.’

‘But you’re taking his ashes.’

Jenny nods. ‘I promise. When he get the cancer’ – Jenny holds a hand to her tummy – ‘I promise.’

‘Does he have any family left there?’

‘Only sisters. They nice, write letters, cards.’

‘So, that’s why you’re here? For India?’

‘Nice to have good teeth,’ she says.

By my estimation, Jenny’s teeth have been beyond bad for at least ten years, possibly twice as long. And the fact that she is having them fixed only now – after her husband’s
death – is nothing short of a tragedy.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘Your teeth will be perfect.’

Jenny nods. ‘You love her?’

I laugh involuntarily. ‘It’s a bit early for that.’

Jenny shakes her head. ‘I know straight’way. Husban’ a very handsome man, you know.’

‘I’ll bet he was.’

‘I work in hospital, in Chennai. Like my name, innit. And every day I go in bakery for sweet biscuit.’

‘Bad for your teeth, Jenny.’

‘Yes, but baker very nice man, see. Say to me, no money for biscuit, just beautiful smile.’

‘Ah, I do see.’

‘So I get sweet biscuit every morning to work. And lots of weeks. Then one day – biscuits in square box, like this – one day, open box and no biscuit. Just flat cake. On top is
little lady and little man. Like on wedding cake, innit.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘He follow outside, and say to me, “You marry me”. Not even know my name.’

‘But you married him.’

Jenny laughs. ‘No, baker very fat man, hairy nose. I eat the biscuit in hospital, with handsome doctor. He buy tea, I bring biscuits. Then one day, he moving to England. And so I go with,
get marry, have babies.’

‘Blimey, Jenny, you are full of surprises.’

‘Just know, straight’way.’

‘Maybe you do,’ I say.

‘Why you not travel with girl?’

‘It’s not that easy, Jenny.’

Jenny shrugs. ‘Not that hard, neither. I okay now, you can call taxi?’

‘Sure. Just remember, don’t eat anything hard tonight. And no sweet biscuits, you hear me?’

Jenny laughs and pats my hand.

As I take out my phone to call a taxi, I see that I have one new message. And it’s from Zoe.

‘So are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?’ Henry asks as our train pulls out of Victoria station. It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve
swapped my shift at the Duck, so we have the whole day and night together.

‘Surrey,’ I tell him.

Henry taps his ticket on the table. ‘Yeah, I’d kind of figured that part out.’

‘We’re getting married.’

The colour drains out of Henry’s cheeks as if someone has opened a tap at the back of his neck. ‘That’s a joke, right?’

‘God, Henry, you really know how to make a girl feel special.’

‘Sorry . . . weddings, they’re a bit . . .’

‘Relax, we’re going cake tasting.’

‘Cake?’

‘Wedding cake, actually, but I promise not to propose.’

‘Wh . . .?’ Henry begins, but the process of forming one question seems to raise nine more, and the enquiry dies on his lips.

‘It’s a favour for Rachel. She’s . . . can you keep a secret?’

Henry nods sincerely. ‘Yes. Yes, I can.’

‘She’s on the nest.’

Henry glances out of the window, scanning the passing scenery. ‘Nest?’

‘Up the . . . you know, family way.’

‘Pregnant! What about the wedding? How pregnant?’

‘Well, I’m pretty sure you either are or you aren’t but . . . she’ll be twenty weeks when she walks down the aisle.
Biiiig
floaty dress.’

‘Blimey. Have to make a bit more of her hair, hey.’

‘Good idea. Massive beehive or something.’

‘So . . . cake?’

‘Well, you did say you wanted to go on a date.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of a movie.’

‘Well, Rachel has been a bit pukey, so . . . loosen your belt.’

Henry has a very handsome smile. He relaxes back into his seat and again stares out of the window.

‘What have you got for yummness?’ I ask Henry.

‘Hmm . . .’ He holds up a finger, finishes chewing, swallows. ‘Definitely a seven.’

‘Not an eight?’

‘I’ll give it an eight for scrummness,’ he says, jabbing at the cake with his fork. ‘But yummness is a seven; seven-point-five tops.’

‘Remind me again what the difference is?’

‘Yummness is taste, scrummness is—’

‘Texture, darling,’ says Janice – our Sherpa through this mountain of cake. ‘The way I remember it,’ she says, ‘is scrummness sounds like crumbness, as in
consistency. Whereas yummness is just, you know, yummy.’