The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s not . . . it’s not exactly . . .’

  ‘Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.’

  ‘L—’

  ‘Let you explain. Is that what you were about to say? Wh . . . do they give you a handbook?’

  ‘Zoe—’

  ‘You can’t sit here with your hand on my wrist all night, Alex. For one thing, what if your girlfriend walked in?’

  ‘She’s not. She’s . . . I’m going to end it.’

  Zoe glanced pointedly down at the table, the glass still in her hand, Alex’s hand (nice watch, clean fingernails) still firmly gripping her wrist.

  ‘Do you promise not to throw it on me?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. If you’d bought a better red, I’d be more inclined to drink it. But this tastes like someone’s gran made it in a mop bucket.’

  ‘You’re funny,’ Alex said, smiling. ‘Almost as funny as a bloke.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a laugh a minute, me. Zoe Bubbles, they call me.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘Nope. And I don’t know why I’m telling you. My flatmates at uni came up with it; called me Zoe Bubbles, Zoe Bubbs, Bubbs, ZeeBee. God, I’m wittering.’

  ‘I like your wittering. ZeeBee.’

  Zoe unpicked Alex’s fingers from around her wrist. They both looked at the glass. Zoe shook her head in resignation, took a sip, winced. ‘Never call me that again. You know what “Bubbly” is a byword for, don’t you?’

  ‘Fat.’

  ‘First things first, I was not “fat”, I was . . . bonnie. But I was young and we drank pints and ate a lot of chips.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with bonnie. Although I prefer “cuddly”.’

  ‘Cute doesn’t suit you. And second things second, my nickname had nothing to do with the former size of my bum.’

  A look from Alex: Really?

  ‘Like I said, it’s because I’m a laugh a fucking minute.’

  ‘I like you,’ Alex said then. A flash of the cool confidence she had seen at the summer party, and it was impossible not to fall for it. She smiled thinly as her anger (at least one-quarter contrived, after all) cooled.

  ‘Right, here’s the plan. You go to the bar and get me a decent glass of red. Then we can get to the bottom of this “not my girlfriend” business and decide where we go from there.’

  Alex nodded, stood and reached for Zoe’s glass. ‘I’ll keep it,’ she said. ‘I still might need it.’

  Alex came back from the bar with a bottle and two glasses; the glibness had gone, replaced with an expression of nervous sincerity. He filled their glasses, then backtracked to Phuket.

  The ‘thing’ he had allegedly stolen from the Thai club owner turned out to be a German girl called Ines. Ines was also taking a year out after graduating and before embarking on a career in London; in her case, out of Heidelberg University, and into a large American bank. Alex and Ines ‘got together’, which would have been fine, but for the fact the club owner had formed the idea that Ines was already taken – by him. Zoe had many questions, but Ines (no doubt privileged and beautiful) was the competition, and it didn’t do to appear too interested in the ‘other woman’. ‘Coke,’ was pretty much all Alex offered by way of explaining this pivotal misunderstanding, and Zoe allowed it to remain it that. For now, at least.

  Alex had no money and Ines had no agenda, but she did have friends in London and a house off the King’s Road, paid for (confirming half of Zoe’s assumptions) by her father. They flew back to London and shacked up in the pastel blue two-bedroom mews house in the heart of Chelsea. Their neighbour on one side was an investment banker; on the other a gruff gentleman who had played bass in at least two bands Alex had heard of from the sixties. After two weeks of eating in restaurants with heavy cutlery, and drinking expensive coffee from small cups, Alex took the train north to visit his mother and brother in a now defunct mining town. He made the return trip carrying two suitcases full of clothes, books and photographs, and by Sunday evening he and Ines were living together.

  Sipping her wine a little too quickly, Zoe did not particularly want to know which members-only clubs Alex and Ines frequented, or how much Ines spent on clothes, or which socialites they befriended. But this was how Alex chose to tell his story, building up to the point in his own sweet way. And, okay, she was maybe a little interested.

  ‘Have you ever felt trapped by a bad decision?’ Alex had asked.

  Zoe thought about the patches of eczema on her shins. She thought about pulling her hair in the bath, and the Sunday night blues that had seeped backwards so far she had come to dread the entire weekend, leaving work on a Friday depressed because she would be walking back through the revolving doors all too soon. Shredding a document at work earlier today, she had wondered how much sick leave she would get if her fingers became accidentally jammed in the mechanism. Two weeks, had been her guess, and the exchange had felt worryingly tempting.

  Zoe nodded.

  ‘I knew on the train back to London that I was making a mistake.’

  ‘Why?’

  Alex sighed. ‘Ines isn’t exactly . . . dazzling company.’

  ‘But you went to all those cool clubs and ate in all those fancy restaurants.’ Laying on the sarcasm a bit thick, but what the hell. ‘So it took you how long to figure that out? A month?’

  ‘Thailand’s weird. Everything’s . . . it’s different . . . weird.’

  ‘Is she beautiful?’ Damn.

  Alex swirled his wine and watched the drops run down the inside of the glass. He nodded without looking up. ‘Yup.’

  Annoying. And Zoe felt suddenly self-conscious about her nose – cute, it’s been called, cute as a button, but the phrase has always made her think of mushrooms. And now the damned thing was itching. Even so, there was something flattering about being courted over a beautiful German woman.

  ‘Rich, beautiful and . . . a banker, did you say?’

  Another nod from Alex.

  So that’s why we’re drinking in a back-alley ale-house. So we don’t get spotted by Ines or any of her City colleagues.

  ‘Rich, beautiful and intelligent,’ said Zoe. ‘That’s the fantasy, isn’t it?’

  Alex looked up and laughed. ‘Actually, that’s rich, beautiful and dumb.’

  ‘So which am I?’

  Alex smiled but resisted the bait.

  ‘Long story short,’ he said. ‘It was wrong – is wrong – but I stayed too long. It was too easy, too convenient, I guess.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘About eighteen months.’

  ‘So you chat up girls at discos—’

  ‘Discos?’

  ‘Invite them out for a drink in a dingy pub, bare your soul, then catch the last tube home to the rich, beautiful, boring girlfriend on the King’s Road.’

  ‘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:

  Single guy seeks disgruntled lawyer for bad wine, public snogging, naughty talk and snorty laughter. Beautiful smile preferable. Germans need not apply.

  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 de
lighted, 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.’