The Trouble with Henry and Zoe

by Andy Jones

  ‘He’s a handsome boy,’ I say.

  Better looking than me.

  Zoe smiles, nods. ‘Yeah, he was.’

  ‘Have you seen Bringing Up Baby?’ Zoe shakes her head. ‘He looks a little like Cary Grant,’ I say. ‘Without the Brylcreem.’

  Zoe laughs, touches her finger to the picture and says, ‘Don’t let it go to your head, mister.’

  I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen to check on the water.

  The kettle has boiled, as has the smallest of the four pans, the remaining three lagging behind in proportion to their volume. At this rate it will take us approximately four hours to half fill the bath. The water we have so far carried up the stairs is already turning tepid, and the trips are becoming increasingly hazardous as we become progressively less sober. It’s a futile plan, but it has served as a gentle distraction while Zoe has introduced me to her house and the ghost of Alex. His remaining possessions are confined to the spare room: decks, records, games, where they will remain until sold.

  Hit by a car, apparently – popped out for milk one morning and never came back. It explains a lot; everything, I suppose.

  ‘Top you up,’ Zoe says, refilling my glass.

  ‘Thank you.’ I test the temperature of the water in the largest pan.

  ‘Anywhere near?’ she asks. It would be quicker to walk over to my house, bath there and walk back. I shake my head and Zoe shrugs then turns off the gas rings one by one. ‘So much for romance,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll hold my nose,’ I tell her, and Zoe takes me by the hand and leads me outside and into the back garden. She fetches two deckchairs from the shed, and positions them where we can watch the last of the sunset.

  The sky is smudged with warm swathes of gold and lilac, and the temperature is dropping. Beyond the distant traffic sounds, the still air is textured with the chatter of nearby birds. A gleaming mountain bike is propped against the dilapidated fence separating this garden from the next. Old cans of paint are ranged neatly in front of the shed along with various bags and cardboard boxes.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Zoe says.

  ‘You’ve had a busy day.’

  Zoe nods pensively. ‘Busy week. How was yours?’

  ‘It was . . . actually, I was telling one of my . . .’ I turn to Zoe, so I can register the effect of the next word on her expression, ‘. . . patients about you.’

  ‘Patients?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, I’m kind of a dentist.’

  Zoe’s brow furrows. ‘Kind of . . . what?’

  ‘On Fridays,’ as if this clarifies anything at all. ‘I used to be . . . still am, a dentist. I just sort of . . . got bored?’

  ‘A dentist?’

  ‘Afraid so. I’ll understand if you want out.’

  Zoe, thankfully, laughs, shakes her head. ‘So what’s with the . . .’ She snips the air with her fingers.

  ‘Call it a mid-life crisis.’

  Zoe reaches across to take hold of my hand. ‘I hope not,’ she says, a single tear in the corner of her eye. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I said it was a long story?’

  ‘A girl, then?’

  My heart rate quickens, because this is it – the first teetering domino in the row that leads to me leaving a girl at the altar. Zoe appears lighter for sharing her secret, and I feel a lurching, almost exhilarating temptation to tell all. But wouldn’t that be selfish – more for my benefit than hers?

  ‘Sorry,’ says Zoe in response to my silence. ‘Prying.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘you’ve been telling your’ – she laughs – ‘patients about me?’

  ‘Jenny, yes.’

  ‘Should I be jealous?’

  ‘She’s seventy-two. No teeth.’

  ‘Makes your job easier, I suppose.’

  I hesitate to say anything further, but besides being a story of loss, Jenny’s is also optimistic and funny and not unlike those vignettes from When Harry Met Sally. And if not now, then when? So I tell Zoe all about Jenny, about her husband and her planned trip to India to scatter his ashes. The colour has all but left the sky when I’ve finished, but in the final traces of light I can see tears on Zoe’s cheeks.

  ‘It’s a nice story,’ she says quietly.

  A small bird lands on the fence and trills into the darkness.

  ‘Must be lost,’ I whisper.

  Zoe laughs quietly. ‘Aren’t we all.’

  ‘Starling, I think.’

  ‘Bird spotter now, are we?’

  ‘No, just—’

  ‘A bird nerd?’

  ‘Haha, no. But if you grow up in the country, you know . . .’

  ‘I grew up by the coast, and I can barely tell the difference between a gull and a pigeon.’

  ‘You know when you see those huge clouds of birds,’ I say, swishing my hand through the air. ‘Clouds of them, all moving together.’

  ‘Starlings?’

  ‘Uh huh. It’s called a murmuration.’

  ‘Good title for a kids’ book,’ Zoe says.

  ‘Greedy little buggers too,’ I say, turning to face her. ‘Eat anything.’

  ‘What? What are you implying?’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘You are; you’re a bird nerd.’

  ‘Maybe a little. Brian – my best friend at home – me and him used to make birdhouses and sell them to the tourists.’

  The starling chirps once more and takes flight; heading home.

  ‘Will you make one for me?’ Zoe says.

  ‘Have you got a saw?’

  ‘Somewhere,’ Zoe says, nodding at the shed.

  I get up from my chair and test a few of the rickety fence panels. One of the boards is already detached at the base; I give it a sharp tug and it comes cleanly away in my hands.

  Zoe

  He Made Me A Birdhouse

  The white in my hair is a pure and complete streak now, starting at the roots and, after this latest haircut, extending all the away to the tips. On the way back to his flat we dropped into the dental surgery where Henry works one day a week. He let us in with a spare key and sealed a ‘fissure’ in my tooth with a quick application of fluoride varnish. My hairdresser fixing my teeth. My dentist fixing my hair.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a nice-shaped head?’ I ask.

  Henry jerks backwards, laughing.

  ‘Hold still. I’ve never done this before.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s one of the first things Gus said to me.’

  ‘The Hairy Krishna?’

  ‘The very same.’

  After Henry trimmed my split ends, levelled my fringe, recalibrated my graduation, I insisted he let me return the favour. Running the clippers over his head, taking the fuzz down to an even stubble and dropping his hair onto the floorboards where it settles with my own. Last night he made me a birdhouse from a piece of knackered fencing and we painted it with an old sampler of Aubergine Dream.

  I feel lighter for telling Henry about Alex; I think he understands now why I’m travelling. Making it less likely, I suppose, that he will ask me to stay, or invite himself along for the ride. And what would I say if he did? It feels like we’re at the start of something, and the more I learn about him and reveal about myself, the more I want . . . more. I don’t want to leave him, but the whole point of my year away is to find and fend for myself – and I’m not sure you can do that with someone holding your hand.

  ‘What made you choose dentistry?’ I ask.

  ‘Didn’t want to see old people with their clothes off.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Doctors,’ Henry says. ‘I mean, I see some pretty horrible stuff, but nothing compared to doctors. God, the places they have to put their fingers.’

  ‘So, what, it was one or the other? Doctor or dentist?’

  Henry shrugs. ‘Sounds a bit corny, doesn’t it: I always wanted to help people?’

  ‘Well,
yes, when you say it like that.’

  Henry makes a noise as if conceding the point. ‘I dunno. I mean, you’re a kid when you make these decisions, aren’t you. I was good at Biology and Chemistry; liked working with my hands; dentists get paid well.’

  ‘And you don’t have to see old men’s bums.’

  ‘Exactly. Do you know anything about determinism?’

  ‘Sh’ya! Loads. No, of course not.’

  ‘With names, say; call your kid Walter; chances are he’ll grow up to be a wimp. Or call them . . .’

  ‘Call them Trixie and they grow up taking their clothes off.’

  ‘Right. Well, my nickname at school was the Dentist.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Knocked a kid’s tooth out and—’

  ‘What! Tell me you weren’t one of those horrible rufty tufty boys?’

  ‘I hated fighting. But, well, you don’t always get a say in it. Anyway . . .’

  ‘The Dentist,’ I say. I kiss Henry on the back of the head and instantly regret it as my lips come away stuck with hair dust. ‘Ptph!’

  ‘I mean, obviously that’s not why I’m a dentist, but . . . well, it makes you wonder.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it. So’ – I touch his buckled nose – ‘is that how this happened?’

  ‘Ha, no. Worst I ever got on the playground was a black eye. This happened after the old man took me to the boxing gym. To learn to defend myself.’

  ‘And isn’t it ironic.’

  ‘Don’t you think. And what about you; why publishing?’

  ‘I was a lawyer, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Hold still, I don’t want to cut your neck.’

  ‘So why law?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. I think . . . God, this sounds stupid; but . . . You know Ally McBeal?’

  ‘The TV show?’

  ‘Well, of course I knew it wasn’t going to be all Starbucks and Robert Downey Jr., but . . . like you said, I was a kid.’

  ‘Is that why you quit? No Robert Downeys?’

  I don’t answer straight away, instead concentrating on guiding the clippers over the topography of Henry’s nicely shaped skull. In truth, the job was finished within four minutes, but I’m enjoying this relaxed, intimate contact.

  ‘But you’re happy now?’ Henry says.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m happy now.’

  ‘So,’ says Henry after a quiet pause, ‘do I have any hair left?’

  ‘Nope, all gone. How about we share a shower?’

  ‘It’s a small shower.’

  ‘I know. And then you can buy me Sunday lunch.’

  Henry

  Nettles To Grasp

  I’ve never before approached home from this direction.

  Travelling back from university on a Friday evening, clearing the motorway and rolling into the proudly dishevelled byroads, I used to imagine my heart rate slowing down. Winding down the windows regardless of the season, my breathing would slow as my grip relaxed on the wheel. But now, driving up from London in bright July sunshine, the sight of the restless peaks has entirely the opposite effect. Swollen with summer, the hedgerows push into the road and scrape at the car as if trying to get at me.

  Nettles to grasp, Henry.

  Passports to swipe.

  ‘We’ll expect you at midnight, I suppose,’ Mum had said.

  ‘I’ll see you for lunch,’ I told her.

  Zoe will be in Brighton by now; we kissed goodbye three hours ago and I’m already missing her silly sense of humour, her inelegant laugh, her touch. Vicky has organized a tight itinerary: beach, drinks, restaurant, club, stripper. ‘Wish me luck,’ Zoe said when we left her house together this morning. I nearly said the same thing back – Wish me luck – but as far as Zoe knows, the biggest challenge I face this weekend is a salon full of split ends and uneven fringes.

  My car is still severely gouged along both sides, announcing my return to anyone who happens to notice. And while the cat will soon enough claw its way out of the bag and run yowling through the streets, I’d like to at least have a drink with my parents before people start throwing things. As such, I drive the long way round to the Black Horse, avoiding the village centre and busier stretches of road. Good weather is bad for business, Dad used to say, and it’s no surprise to find the pub car park largely empty on this clear and cloudless afternoon. I tuck the car away in the far corner of the gravel yard, count to ten and climb out. I haven’t forgiven myself for what I did to April, but time and miles have made it feel like a less real thing. Standing here now, though, the reality – You left her at the altar! – comes flooding back, cold and unforgiving. The fear, too. The side door of the Black Horse is maybe twenty paces away, but seems to recede before me, like a trapdoor in some old horror movie.

  Mum has said she would talk to April, to warn her I’m arriving and, in her words, ‘lessen the shock for the poor girl’. How this news was received I haven’t asked, but I’ll bet it wasn’t with a smile. I am seriously contemplating the idea of getting back into the car when my mother’s voice lances down from an upstairs window.

  ‘For God’s sake, get inside.’

  ‘Some welcome,’ I say, once I’m inside and up the stairs.

  ‘What did you expect? A brass band and flowers?’

  I put my arms around Mum’s neck and feel her posture soften as her hands wrap around my back and pull me against her. ‘I missed you,’ she says. ‘You stupid, stupid . . . I missed you.’

  I kiss my mother’s head, inhaling the familiar smell of her hairspray. ‘I missed you too.’

  ‘And what the hell have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Disguise,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t get smart, Henry.’ Mum’s eyes narrow and her cheeks fill with colour. ‘Don’t you get bloody smart.’

  Dad walks into the room, closes the door behind him and pulls me into a long, heavy hug. ‘What’s all this?’ he says, rubbing a hand over my head.

  ‘A hairdresser?’

  I think this is the fourth time Dad’s asked this, but my mother has made the same enquiry several times herself, so it’s hard to be precise. Although when my mother asks, it’s with a sense of surprised pride, rather than the concerned suspicion that my father manages to inject into the two words.

  ‘A hairdresser, yes.’

  I have explained the process by which I ended up cutting hair at The Hairy Krishna (‘That’s an odd one’), and reassured them both that I haven’t entirely abandoned dentistry. But the news is still taking a while to sink in.

  Dad’s eyebrows are knotting together as he appears to struggle with a thought. ‘You’re not . . .’ – he raises his right hand as if about to take a vow and then let’s his wrist fall limp ‘. . . you know?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Clive, just because the boy has suddenly embraced his . . .’ My mum’s eyes go to my hair, and her expression changes from indignance to dread. ‘Son,’ she says, ‘is that why you left April? Living a lie? Isn’t that what they call it? Oh, Henry.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ says my dad. ‘I mean . . . thank God.’

  My mum is still examining me shrewdly, the anger tightening her features again. ‘But there is someone, isn’t there?’

  ‘What? Don’t be . . . silly.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m your mother, Henry. I know your stupid sodding face, and I know when you’re hiding something. Name?’

  ‘Zoe.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Mum, smiling insincerely. ‘I see. Zoe, is it?’

  ‘Sheila, give it—’

  ‘Didn’t bring her with you, heh? Didn’t bring Zoe with you?’

  My mum is on her feet, and Big Boots rises to meet her, positioning himself between us.

  ‘Does she know? This . . . Zoe?’ as if, instead of her name, my mother is stating my girlfriend’s crime, condition or other failing: Killer, cheater, bitch.
r />   ‘Mum, please.’

  ‘Wait a minute, how long have you b—’

  ‘Mum, it’s been a few weeks, it has nothing to do with me and . . .’

  ‘Who, April? What’s the matter, can’t you say her name now?’

  ‘Sheila, sit down.’

  Mum walks backwards to her chair and drops into it in a defeated heap. ‘She’s like a daughter to me.’

  ‘I know. What about me, Mum? What about what I want and what I’m going through?’

  Mum looks as if she’s been slapped. But instead of angry, she looks all of a sudden contrite. ‘Like, I said. I said she was like a daughter . . . that’s all.’

  Dad perches on the edge of Mum’s chair, takes her hand and rests it on his thigh. It’s an unusually tender gesture, and it does me good to see it. Perhaps my stupidity and subsequent exile has brought them closer together. I know I don’t deserve any kind of silver lining, but if this is one, then I’ll take it.

  ‘It’s been difficult, son,’ says my dad. ‘For all of us.’

  ‘How is she?’ I say. ‘April?’ And my mother is right, her name does feel strange in my mouth.

  Mum and Dad look at each other and something passes between them.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  They look at each other’s hands, and Mum lets her head list sideways onto my father’s chest.

  ‘She’s seeing someone?’ I ask.

  My mother looks at me with exasperation. ‘Well, did you expect her to wait for you, Henry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘After everything you did to the poor girl?’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Becau—’

  ‘So,’ says Dad, ‘what’s the plan?’

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t have one.’

  ‘Well, there’s a sodding surprise,’ says Mum, snatching her hand from Dad’s grip.

  The house was finished three months before the wedding, making it one year old this July. Maybe today is its birthday. I have been inside before, April and I both have, but never at the same time – someone, it could have been me – deemed it to be bad luck.

  I feel nothing towards this brick cube. No regret, no loss, no sense that this is where I should be. Yet here I am. Standing at the foot of the short drive, behind the closed gate, staring at the shut curtains.