The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  And if a year from now, I were to walk into the village, whistling a jaunty tune with a bindle over my shoulder and a cheeky apologetic grin on my face . . . what then? Certainly no fatted burgers would be thrown on the barbecue. No, the obstinacy that keeps small towns constant comes with a long memory. The can of old vitriol would be opened, stirred and thrown over me and all within splashing distance. Probably, this is why Brian and I no longer talk. All for what? How, when and where does it end?

  I think about this a lot, and I think I have the answer.

  The answer, I think, is love.

  Gus towels my thatch semi-dry and transfers me back to the chair in front of the mirror.

  ‘Date?’ he asks, running a comb through my hair.

  I’m reasonably sure this is an enquiry rather than an offer, so I nod cautiously.

  ‘Nice one,’ says Gus, frowning at a hank of my hair.

  If there’s one thing the movies I watched with my mother have taught me, it’s that love justifies everything. In His Girl Friday, Cary Grant schemed, lied, stole, kidnapped, and demonstrated a sociopathic lack of compassion and conscience – but it’s okay. He did it for love. Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate stormed a wedding, assaulted the congregation with a crucifix and ran off with the bride. But it’s fine, we get it, he was following his heart.

  Love conquers, explains and excuses all. Love heals, too, and I want it to heal April. I hope she finds a better man than me, a better man for her. I doubt she will ever fully forgive me, and neither would I blame her, but she may at least come to tolerate me. And my mother will surely appreciate that it was all for the best once she sees April fulfil her own happy ending. And what about me? Would she wish anything less for her only son?

  Last night I signed up to an online dating agency.

  For the greater good, I told myself.

  I was approximately fifteen hundred pieces into a two-thousand-piece haystack and finding it less exciting than you might imagine. The devil will find work for idle hands, they say. And, apparently, for fingers that do jigsaws. I opened my laptop and typed the word ‘dating’ into the search bar. Just to see what came up, of course. I clicked on the first link, out of nothing more than idle curiosity. A free trial, it said. So I filled in my name, chose an old picture, answered six inane questions. Clicked the red, heart-shaped button. Just for something to pass the time, really. Before I’d managed to assemble another twenty pieces of identical beige, I had three offers. The speed with which these responses came in might suggest a certain . . . eagerness. But as I brushed my teeth before bed, one thing was glaringly apparent. No amount of romantic optimism could compensate for my hair.

  ‘Undercuts are in,’ says Gus.

  ‘Hmmm, I dunno.’

  ‘I know,’ says Gus. ‘Between me an’ you, I find ’em a bit . . .’

  ‘Shit?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gus, slapping me on the back. ‘Shit. Exactly.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Gus shakes his head. ‘Jojo would know what to do.’

  ‘Who’s Jojo?’

  ‘Genius with a pair of scissors. I’d be lost without her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Gus shrugs. ‘Australia.’

  ‘Maybe we should just start over,’ I say to Gus.

  ‘But we only just met,’ he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

  I reach up from under my gown and pull a length of hair away from my head. Gus nods at me in the mirror, then inserts his hands into the depths of my hair, pushing and threading them through the dense mat until his fingers find my skull.

  ‘Nice-shaped head,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No birthmarks full of sixes?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Fuck it,’ he says. ‘Let’s find out.’ And he moonwalks across the floor to retrieve his clippers, pirouettes and moonwalks back. ‘Local?’ asks Gus, examining my head and deciding where to start.

  ‘Ish,’ I say.

  ‘That a northern accent?’

  I nod.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Middle of nowhere,’ I say. And then I smile apologetically, hoping it will take the edge off my curt response to a friendly enquiry. This might be the longest face-to-face conversation I’ve had in the last two months that didn’t involve teeth, and I don’t want to ruin it.

  ‘Sweet,’ says Gus, and it looks like I’m off the hook. ‘Grade one?’

  ‘In for a penny . . .’

  Gus adjusts the clippers, takes my head in his free hand and ploughs an inch-wide furrow from the nape of my neck to my forehead. ‘Country road,’ he sings, laughing, ‘take me home.’

  To the place I belong.

  ‘Work round here?’

  The dental surgery is maybe a mile from The Hairy Krishna. But in contrast to my hometown, this triangular slice of South London is swarming with humans, and I am just one more anonymous shape.

  ‘Out of work,’ I say, which is eighty per cent true.

  My eight-week contract at 32 White finished on Friday, but the new and thoroughly modern dad I covered for has decided he only wants to work a four-day week from now on. They have offered the other day – a Friday – to me. It’s a friendly well-run practice, so I was happy to retain a slither of continuity in my new life. But one day a week isn’t enough to pay the bills. I have savings, but they are dwindling, and I need to find something else to keep me occupied for the first four days of the working week. The only slight hint of urgency comes in the form of a thus far uncashed cheque to the tune of seventeen thousand, six hundred and forty-six pounds. One lunch hour, around two weeks after landing in London, I found myself gazing through the window of a baker’s transfixed by a three-tier wedding cake. I might have stood there all day, but the sound of laughter from the other side of the glass snapped me back into the moment. What I’d been thinking was how much April’s father had spent on cars and flowers and violinists and beer and wine and cake, just for me to go and turn it into his daughter’s worst nightmare. That evening I wrote a cheque then drove all the way to a village outside Luton to post it. Six weeks later the money hasn’t left my account, and even though I sincerely want it to, the uncertainty has taken on the form of a dark shadow, roughly the shape of a dangling anvil.

  ‘What d’you do?’ says Gus, starting now on the western hemisphere of my skull.

  ‘Hairdresser,’ I say, smiling at his astonished reaction in the mirror.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ he says.

  I shake my head: Nope, I’m serious.

  ‘You any good?’

  ‘I can cut the second-best graduated bob in the middle of nowhere,’ I tell him.

  Gus points his clippers at my mad reflection. ‘For real?’

  I nod. ‘For real.’

  ‘Wicked,’ he says. ‘Wickid. Sixty quid a day or thirty-five per cent of your chair, whichever’s highest. And’ – he rubs his hand over the shorn side of my head – ‘staff cuts are free. Just like that whale.’

  ‘Willy,’ I say.

  ‘Who can tell,’ says Gus, laughing.

  Zoe

  All Over The Place

  Rachel is making a gin and slimline tonic last longer than should be legal, and Vicky – normally so reliable in these matters – has pulled the old palm-on-glass manoeuvre as I tried to top up her chardonnay. The second Tuesday in January was never going to be a wild night in the boozer, but I’m beginning to regret suggesting this ‘quiet drink’. But it’s an anniversary of sorts and I don’t want to drink on my own.

  Three years ago today Alex sent a message that I still have on my phone: Single guy seeks disgruntled lawyer for bad wine, public snogging, naughty talk and snorty laughter. Beautiful smile preferable.

  There are more dates heading my way: the day we first met, our first kiss, the day we moved in together, his birthday, the day he died. Others, too, and if I’m not careful I’ll ruin my calendar. But this one – the day it began properly – feels sign
ificant. I haven’t told the girls; they’re still treating me like I’m made of glass and it makes me want to scream or flash my boobs just to get a reaction.

  ‘How’s the first week back been?’ Vicky asks.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, topping up my glass. ‘It’s been okay. Be better if everyone wasn’t tiptoeing around like . . . well, like my boyfriend had just . . . you know . . .’

  Vicky doesn’t exactly wince, but her features make all the preparatory contractions. Rachel takes a good swallow of her drink, which is something of a relief.

  Things were less awkward in the immediate aftermath of Alex’s death. The grief was a thing we could share and address and examine. But as that fades and we transition back to normality, it’s hard to know exactly how to behave – how okay it’s appropriate to be.

  ‘I read a story about a pirate that wants to be a ballet dancer,’ I say, and the girls turn their eyes back to me, talking over each other in their relief to be on sounder ground.

  ‘That’s awesome.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant.’

  ‘I love pirates!’

  ‘Your job’s so much more fun than mine.’

  Work told me to take as much time off as I needed, but really, what else am I going to do? All my friends work, and after a week up the Alps in November and two weeks on the coast over Christmas, I’ve had as much of my parents’ care and concern as I can handle for a while. The start of the New Year served as a neat opportunity to begin the process of picking up where I’d left off three months previously. Although where I’d left off, in any meaningful sense, I’m not sure. But work seemed as good a place as any to start.

  I’ve never drunk so much coffee – it seems that no one can walk past my desk without asking if they can make me a drink, and they look so bloody uncomfortable, I don’t have the heart to say no. I’m on light duties, which is just as well because I spend around half my day in the loo on account of all the coffee. Not that anyone has put it that way, ‘light duties’, but I’m being well insulated from anything too demanding or stressful. The majority of my day revolves around reading manuscripts, but when they seldom run to more than a thousand words, I take care to read slowly.

  ‘What’s it called?’ asks Rachel.

  ‘Pirates and Pirouettes,’ I say, and I laugh reflexively at the ridiculousness of it all. The laugh catches, everyone relieved to have a legitimate outlet, and it feels like the air around us lightens a little.

  Vicky reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine. People do this a lot. And more than the tears and earnest sympathy and flowers, lasagnes and casseroles, more than the sleepovers and messages of support, it’s this, this quiet articulate contact that gets me the most.

  I have become reasonably good – competent, at least – at holding myself together. Learning the knack of composure, of controlling my irregular beats of grief and guilt. There are songs, situations and places that bring on the memory of Alex and all that comes with it. I avoid them when I can, and brace myself when I can’t. On Monday nights Al used to put the bins out. I do that now. The trick, I’ve found, is not to overthink it – I put the kettle on and listen to the water boil as I remove and knot the bag. As I carry it outside, I think about the coffee I’m going to make: a spoon and a half of instant, milk on the granules, water on the milk. And before you know it there is a new liner in the bin and you don’t have to reapply your mascara. People, too, have their own tells. Reacting to a faux pas, perhaps, or an item in the news, someone will exhale through their nostrils and turn a small sympathetic smile towards me. Seeing this, I fix my own smile, control my breathing and prepare myself for whatever – a touch, a word – comes next. I hold myself together. But this, this gentle contact that says: It’s good to see you doing better, Zoe; it comes without warning and feels like a hard mass between my lungs. It triggers a reflex of despair and I simply melt into quiet uninvited tears.

  ‘Oh, Zo,’ says Rachel, squeezing my hand tighter and wringing out a fresh pulse of tears. ‘Zo.’

  ‘Hey,’ says Vicky, placing her hand on my shoulder, ‘are you okay?’

  I withdraw my hand, ostensibly to wipe my eyes, but essentially because if I allow myself to be held a moment longer I might dissolve.

  I nod: Yes, I’m fine.

  ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘No. Just . . . caught me off guard . . . I’m fine. I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I fan my face and nod.

  Vicky is looking at my hair again.

  You hear stories about people’s hair turning white overnight, but it doesn’t happen that way. The change takes as long as it takes for your hair to grow through. If you were Sinead O’Connor, I suppose, you might turn white over the course of a day or two, but my hair hangs down to my shoulders. Small mercies; my hair has only lost its pigment in a localized patch three fingers wide at my right temple. Where I used to twist and pull it back in my hair-pulling days, as a matter of fact – so maybe it’s my own fault. At the moment it’s around an inch long, but by summer I’ll have a full-length streak like some kind of Disney villain or B-movie vampire.

  I run my hand through my hair and Vicky looks away.

  ‘How’s the wedding prep?’ I say to Rachel.

  Rachel shrugs. ‘Oh, fine. I’m mostly looking forward to the honeymoon now.’

  This, I am certain, is a lie for my benefit. In the three months before Alex’s accident, Rachel could barely talk about anything that didn’t involve flowers, lace or something blue. But in the three months since, she has swerved every attempt I’ve made to discuss her upcoming wedding. As if she feels guilty for having a still-breathing boyfriend. The big day is seven months away now, and I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid, but knowing Rachel I’ll bet she’s agonizing over whether or not this is still appropriate. Not for her sake, but for mine. Watching her face trying to settle on a suitable expression, I know that I have to pierce this fog or choke on it. So, before I’ve thought it through, I hear myself say: ‘I snogged someone on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Rachel.

  Vicky nods. ‘Blimey.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Rachel, ‘that’s . . . good,’ her face saying something subtly different – that’s odd, maybe, or that’s quick. ‘Right?’ she says, turning to Vicky.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Vicky, pouting with sincerity. ‘I mean, it’s only a snog, isn’t it. Christmas Eve, and all that.’

  Well, the snog was the least part of it, but I’m not sure my friends are ready to deal with all of that right now.

  ‘Anyone we . . . know?’

  ‘Old school friend,’ I say. ‘A bunch of us meet up in the pub every Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Vicky smiling with relief. ‘Great.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Rachel. ‘Great.’

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘Do I still get a bridesmaid’s dress, or what?’

  Rachel surprises me by throwing her arms around me and kissing my ear. ‘Oh, Zoe. Really? Do you still . . . really?’

  ‘Of course. I mean, come on – free dress!’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, reaching for her gin and tonic and finding it empty. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been . . .’ She stops, puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Zoe, I’m sorry, I sound so selfish.’

  ‘Of course you don’t; it’s your wedding, for God’s sake. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘We just thought, what with . . .’ and now it’s Vicky’s turn to try and stuff her own words back into her mouth. ‘What I mean is . . . we weren’t talking about . . . oh bloody hell, Zo.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I tell them, ‘honestly. This is weird as hell, I know, but . . .’ I have a tingling urge to confide in my friends that while I am in every other way upended, I am not necessarily heartbroken in the romantic sense of the word. I take a sip of wine and swallow the impulse.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’

  Vicky and Rachel drop their hands from their mouths.

  ‘Of course
.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Can we just be normal?’

  They nod in mute, bewildered agreement.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ says Vicky. ‘Normal.’ She forces a smile. ‘I . . . have a date on Thursday?’ She clenches her teeth at the end of the sentence, as if checking that this is okay.

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, and Vicky looks both relieved and surprised. ‘Anyone we know?’

  Vicky shakes her head. ‘Just some, you know . . . bloke. Probably be rubbish.’

  We all sip our drinks and nod.

  When it becomes clear that this topic has been exhausted, Rachel takes a breath and says, as if telling us about a new recipe, ‘I, er . . . I had sex last night.’

  ‘Sex?’ I ask. ‘With Steve?’

  Rachel nods uncertainly, as if sleeping with her fiancé might be some kind of moral transgression.

  ‘And this is you being normal?’ says Vicky.

  ‘I didn’t know what else to say. Sorry. I thought I’d sort of . . .’ – and here she illustrates her point by sliding a coaster across the table – ‘push the envelope.’

  ‘Any good?’ I ask.

  Rachel wobbles an equivocal palm. ‘Not bad for a Monday.’

  We all nod as if this makes some kind of sense, sip our drinks, nod again.

  Vicky tops up her glass. ‘This is going to take some practice, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s going to take more than that,’ says Rachel, standing up from the table. ‘Three tequilas?’

  ‘That’s better,’ I tell her. ‘And some crisps.’

  Normality creeps back into the evening as the empty glasses and crisp packets stack up. Vicky opens up on the details of her impending date (French, handsome, primary school teacher, triathlete), and it turns out that Rachel really is more excited about her honeymoon (elephants, tree house, waterfall, diving) than her wedding. It’s wonderful and it’s cathartic, and I only wish I could give it my full attention. The problem is, I have an ulterior motive for dragging my best friends out on a school night in the middle of detox season but what with this outpouring of normality, it’s fast approaching chucking-out time, and if I don’t say my piece now, I’m in danger of losing my nerve.