The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘I won’t miss it when I’m gone,’ I say, instantly regretting the reference to my imminent departure.

  Henry smiles awkwardly. ‘September, right?’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘In which film,’ says Winston, ‘did Donald Pleasance play Bond villain—’

  ‘You Only Live Twice,’ whispers Henry.

  ‘God that annoys me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just . . .’

  ‘No, not you, the film. Because you don’t, do you. I know I’m being a twit, I know it’s not meant to be literal, but it irritates the hell out of me. You live once and that’s it; that’s all you get. And it pisses me off when people take what they’ve got for gr— God, I sound like such a psycho. Sorry, I think I’m slightly pissed. Do you want to play Scrabble?’

  Henry looks at me – quite rightly – as if I’m foaming at the mouth. ‘Yes?’ he tries. ‘To the Scrabble part, that is. Not the . . . psycho bit . . . so much . . .’

  ‘We’re missing a few tiles,’ I say, extracting the Scrabble set from underneath Monopoly, Buckaroo, Tumblin’ Monkeys, Jenga and so on. ‘But I think it adds an element of mystery.’

  After the final round of questions and another zombie apocalypse, the board is crowded with tiles and, to my dismay, my hairdresser is a good fifty points ahead. So much for private school.

  ‘Put’ I say, laying down two tiles. ‘Five points.’

  ‘Nice,’ Henry says, nodding in mock appreciation. As if I’d dropped punitive, pupate or putative instead of this puny three-letter disappointment. ‘Putty,’ he says, laying down two tiles and holding eye contact for a second. His lips part, as if he’s about to speak, then he looks away and smiles.

  I don’t know if this counts as a date, but if it had been set up that way, I’d have to count it as a success. We have talked and laughed, easily and for the most part about nothing, flitting from topic to topic, taking our conversation cues from the random words laid down on the board:

  Yowl: How Henry came by the scar on his forehead

  Fin: My favourite film

  Ray: His favourite song

  Shade: My first picture book

  Something and nothing.

  It has crossed my mind that if I ever do date, then at some point I will have to tell someone about Alex, and how will that play out? But Henry doesn’t appear interested in the standard first-date inventory of where did I study, what degree did I do, why did I choose my career. So we paddle and splash in shallow conversation, avoiding all the rocks and dark shadows of the deeper regions. What we talk about isn’t important; it’s the way we talk that gives it value. Most men want to tell you about their job, their car, their plans, this one time when, but Henry doesn’t talk about himself other than in anecdotes and abstracts teed-up from the letters in play. It’s refreshing, amusing and – like Scrabble with a few missing letters – not without an element of mystery.

  Henry upends the wine bottle over his glass, but the wine is done. ‘What time do you finish?’ he says.

  ‘Depends how quick she can collect the glasses, wipe down the tables and put the empties out,’ says Winston, appearing beside me.

  I glance at my watch and see that my shift finished five minutes ago. The bar is mostly empty now. A few stragglers nursing their drinks; a couple necking in the corner; a table of regulars, arguing about football and showing no sign of slowing down.

  ‘Shit, sorry, Winny, I lost track of . . . you now.’

  Winston smirks. ‘I noticed. We haven’t been introduced,’ he says, extending a hand to Henry. ‘Winston, I’m the landlord.’

  ‘Henry, I’m—’

  ‘My hairdresser,’ I say. ‘He’s my . . . hairdresser.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Henry, still shaking Winston’s hand.

  ‘Hairdresser? What, like . . . hair?’

  Henry nods, shows Winston a pair of finger scissors.

  ‘Fair enough,’ says Winston, shrugging – each to his own.

  ‘Listen,’ Henry says, looking out at the sticky tables, ‘I could help.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Winston, opening the hatch, ‘I’ll take care of it tonight.’

  ‘You sure, Winnie? I don’t mind.’

  ‘Get out of here before I change my mind,’ he says. ‘You owe me one.’

  I kiss Winnie on the whiskers, and he pats me on the bottom as I make my way out from behind the bar.

  ‘Hands, Winston.’

  ‘Apologies, Duchess, force of whatssaname. And nice to meet you,’ he says to Henry. ‘Good job on the Barnet, by the way, suits her.’

  ‘Does, doesn’t it,’ says Henry, and before I can quite figure out what’s happened we’re outside and all alone.

  And then Henry is kissing me.

  Did he kiss me or did I kiss him?

  At my third meeting of the heartbroke widows, I had stubble burn on my neck. That evening I wrote in my black notebook: No more meaningless sex.

  And while it feels in no way meaningless, this kiss is leading somewhere.

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ his lips not losing contact with mine as he whispers this.

  ‘We can’t stand here all night, either,’ I say, even though I sincerely wish we could.

  ‘Walk you home?’

  I have had men back to my house before, but no one I intended to see a second time. So it didn’t matter when they asked who was the guy in the photographs. I could lie, cry, laugh it off or ignore the question. But I don’t know what I’d say to Henry, and I’m not ready to find out.

  ‘House is a mess,’ I say.

  Something catches Henry’s eye and he leans away from me, extending his arm. A taxi pulls to a stop beside us.

  ‘Where to?’ says the cabbie.

  Henry

  It’s Everyone’s Thing

  Gus is looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He’s paying more attention to me than his customer, but she, in turn, is too busy playing a game on her phone to notice.

  ‘Ever cut anyone’s ear off?’ I ask.

  ‘Only once,’ says Gus.

  My client’s reflection stares at me, wide-eyed.

  ‘So?’ says Gus. ‘How was the date?’

  Now both customers and Gus are looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Well?’ says the girl with the phone.

  I nod, smile.

  ‘Sweet,’ says Gus. ‘Seeing her again?’

  And my smile vanishes.

  Gus shrugs. ‘You gotta do, what you gotta do.’

  ‘Men,’ says the girl, turning back to her phone.

  ‘So,’ says Gus, ‘I guess that means you’re not busy tonight?’

  ‘Well, I dunno, I mean . . .’

  ‘Don’t fight it,’ says Gus.

  ‘It’s just . . . it’s not really my thing.’

  ‘It’s everyone’s thing, Henriqué.’

  We have beanbags and blankets.

  ‘Everybody comfortable?’ says Gus, affecting something of the hypnotist’s lilt.

  The room above The Hairy Krishna is thick with incense and dim with flickering candlelight, the sound of waves and harmonic chimes plays on the speakers, and the beanbag is very plump. But I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable. Besides cutting hair, Gus runs a once-weekly meditation group. From what he’s told me, the hour-long sessions draw on a range of half-understood principles gleaned from Buddhism, late night TV and a yoga teacher with whom Gus once had a fling. There are five of us lying cushioned and cocooned on the floor; a big turnout for Gus’s ‘Tune Out Tuesdays’.

  ‘We’re going to slow it down,’ says Gus, doing exactly that with his annunciation, which has more of a comic than a relaxing effect. ‘Relax your toes . . . are your toes relaxed?’

  ‘Uh hmm . . .’ say several disembodied voices.

  ‘Henriqué, are your little piggies relaxed?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, Ah huhh . . .’

  ‘Gooooo
d. Now your ankles.’

  And knees, thighs, bums (‘Is your rump relaxed, Henroldo?’), tummies, arms, hands, fingers, necks and faces. And yes, I do relax; not as much as I might without Gus’s diverting commentary, but I relax.

  ‘Now for the noodle,’ drawls Gus. ‘If there’s something on your mind, something weighing you down . . . Henry . . . bring it into your consciousness now.’

  Zoe. Zoe’s face looking at mine while I cut her hair. Zoe’s heavy smile. Zoe travelling.

  ‘Are we there?’ intones Gus.

  ‘Hmm hmm . . .’

  ‘Now visualize a balloooon, any colour, just needs to be a ballooooon.’

  ‘Ya hmm . . .’

  ‘And attach that heavy thinking to your balloon. Mine’s a red one. And let your balloon float that funk away.’

  We are silent for a minute. My balloon floats away, Zoe clinging to its trailing string. And I don’t want it to float away. I reach for Zoe’s hand and pull her back towards me.

  ‘How we doing, everyone? Have we floated our funk?’

  ‘Ahh hmmm . . .’

  ‘Henriqué?’

  ‘Nuh huhh . . .’

  ‘Gooood.’

  June

  June 6 at 8:43 PM

  From: Audrey

  To: Alex Williams

  Hello Son

  I’ve been thinking about you a lot this last week.

  I think about you almost constantly, is the truth of it. Sometimes it’s a quiet thing at the back of my mind, like a radio left on in another room. And then there are the things that catch you off guard. Like last week, I was in Morrison’s and they had a special offer on blueberries. Oobries, you called them as a toddler. And remembering that, I all of a sudden needed to be out of there as quickly as possible. Just left my trolley half full in the aisle and walked out the door. And I just walked and walked until it was nearly dark.

  In my mind you exist as so many different versions of yourself. From baby to boy to great strapping man. Maybe it’s the summer coming on (you always loved those long school holidays!) but lately when I close my eyes, I see you as a lanky 11 year old, all skinny legs and grazed knees. It was hard without your dad around to help, but you and Pat were good boys – even if you did give me the run around! The number of nights I’d fall asleep exhausted on the sofa, probably I slept as many hours there as in my bed. But I’m not complaining son. I loved your energy and joy and noise and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. There’s gouges in the banister from where you and your brother would slide down, even though I told you a hundred times not to! They’ve been painted over a few times now, but I can still see the marks in the wood. And when I feel them under my hand, it’s almost like I can feel you too. So no, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Well, I think I’m going to turn in for the night. The sun woke me up just after five this morning, and I don’t think I can keep my eyes open much longer. Every year I think I’ll get thicker curtains, but for some reason I never do. Maybe I’ll look at some in the shops tomorrow – no time like the present don’t they say.

  No time like the present son. I think you lived your life that way, and I’m grateful that you did. You should have had longer sweetheart, so much longer.

  Sleep well beautiful boy.

  All my love and all my heart

  Mum xx

  Zoe

  Definitely In My Top Two

  ‘Sure you won’t let me treat you?’ says Rachel.

  ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I don’t think it’s possible.’

  ‘Show me,’ says the nail technician, an aggressive Thai lady who summons memories of intimidating schoolteachers.

  ‘Really,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll just watch.’

  The woman’s name badge identifies her as Molly. ‘Hand,’ demands Molly, extending her own to receive mine. Molly squinches her mouth to one side and tuts disapproval. ‘Biter.’

  ‘Blimey,’ says Rachel, ‘they are quite . . .’

  ‘Non-existent, I know. They’d look even worse painted – like child’s hands.’

  ‘Pedicure,’ says Molly, indicating a leatherette chair beside the table.

  ‘Great idea,’ says Rachel.

  ‘No, really, thanks.’

  ‘Not bite feet?’ says Molly.

  ‘No. I not.’

  Molly pats the chair firmly, and then clicks her fingers at another technician who scampers over.

  ‘So,’ says Rachel, as the nail techs set to work, ‘how’s my hairdresser?’

  ‘You don’t hang about, do you?’

  Rachel taps her watch. ‘I’m a busy lady. I’ve got meetings all afternoon, and I still need to sort out flowers, a band, a photographer and your bridesmaids’ dresses. So . . . come on.’

  ‘He’s . . . whoo! What’s that?’

  ‘Chair,’ says my tech, a surly girl with tight top-knotted hair. ‘Vibrates.’

  ‘Oo er!’ says Rachel. ‘Might get one of those for the house, get rid of Steve. Anyway, Henry – you were saying?’

  ‘He’s good,’ I say, a slight tremolo to my voice now.

  Rachel pouts at me in a way that communicates this answer is in no way close to acceptable.

  ‘He’s nice.’

  Rachel dials up the pout to maximum.

  ‘He comes to the pub on Saturdays, we talk, play Scrabble . . .’ Rachel’s pout has not softened, ‘. . . we have a little . . . in-joke, I suppose.’

  ‘In-jokes are good.’

  ‘“My place or mine,” he says, then we go back to his flat.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Well, it’s weird; it’s a shabby old guesthouse really. Feels kind of . . . I dunno, temporary. Henry has a big room on the top floor. Got his own kitchen and shower, like a bedsit. Neat, but very basic. Maybe he’s saving up for a place of his own. It would explain why he works so hard, I suppose. And he does jigsaws, which is weird, but . . . I find it kind of sexy for some reason. His brow crinkles when he’s concentrating.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ says Rachel. ‘I meant what’s it like? You know . . .’ and she waggles her eyebrows for emphasis.

  ‘It’s . . .’ Rachel is already pouting; making it clear she will accept no prevarication. I smile. ‘Definitely in my top two.’

  ‘Blimey,’ says Rachel. ‘Not quite a’ – snapping her fingers – ‘Ken, Ken Wood! Ha!’

  ‘Not quite,’ I say. ‘But Ken was a freak of nature.’

  ‘Colour?’ This from the surly top-knot.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The girl juts her chin at the colour chart in my lap.

  ‘Oh, right, er . . . red?’

  ‘Cherry Red, Ruby Red, Red Apple, Red Devil, R—’

  ‘She’ll go Devil,’ says Rachel. ‘So, you like him?’

  I nod.

  ‘He knows you’re travelling, though?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Tricky.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘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.’

  Henry

  We Shouldn’t

  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.