The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (3 page)

Zoe realizes she is holding her breath – a habit she seems to have developed some time in the last year. She catches herself doing it several times a day – sitting at her desk or
lying in bed with her chest hitched and her lungs tight with held air. It’s comforting almost, but at the same time a little odd – having to remind yourself to . . .
breaaathe
.
Stress, she imagines.

Is the idea of being a mother really that stressful? Or is it the idea of having a baby with Alex?
Zoe shakes herself mentally. Exhales . . . breathes.

In the bright October sunlight, Zoe thinks again about how tender Alex had been this morning, and reminds herself to live in the now. She slides open her bedside drawer and fishes out the strip
of contraceptive pills. She pops one into the palm of her hand and swallows it dry.

When she wakes again Zoe needs to pee. The house is cold and she has lost the afterglow of the unexpected fumble. The bathroom tiles will feel like the surface of a frozen lake
on her bare feet, and she pulls the duvet close to preserve any residual warmth. Christmas is only two months away, and she thinks maybe she and Alex should buy each other slippers – cheap,
practical and . . .

‘Good God almighty,’ she says out loud, ‘I’m turning into my mother.’

Still, slippers would be nice.

If she concentrates on something besides her bladder, Zoe thinks, maybe she can get ten more minutes in bed. Five at least. The boiler has obviously decided to go on strike again. It needs
replacing, but there is little cash and less flow; so they’ll just have to cross their cold blue fingers that it has one more winter in its pipes before dying quietly or exploding.

Bad word choice
, Zoe thinks, feeling a twinge in her bladder. She looks at the clock – 10.15 – and wonders how long she has been dozing. Ten minutes? An hour? She listens to
the house and it is silent – no sounds of cooking, no boiling kettle. She calls Alex but he doesn’t answer, leading Zoe to believe she can’t have been sleeping for long. She
throws back the duvet and tiptoes to the loo.

Looking at her dancing feet as she relieves herself, Zoe notices a constellation of dried splash marks on the tiles. Why is it, she wonders, men seem incapable of weeing
inside
the bowl?
Or is she generalizing? Alex is the first man she’s lived with, so she has nothing to compare him to. Well, except for her father, but her parents have their own en suite and a cleaner who
comes twice a week. Maybe Alex is just a splasher. It’s not as if the bowl isn’t big enough; surely an elephant could manage to pee in that thing without getting it all over the rim and
on the tiles. She smiles at the image of an elephant taking a pee in her bathroom and thinks it might make a good premise for a kids’ picture book. Maybe she’ll tell her boss on Monday,
see if one of their authors can do something with it. Or maybe she’ll do it herself – after all, how hard can it be to write eight hundred words about the bathroom antics of animals?
She’ll call it
The Loo at the Zoo
; maybe spend an hour or two kicking it about this weekend.

Zoe wipes the splash marks with some damp tissue, which she drops into the bowl before flushing. When she sees her reflection in the bathroom mirror (toothpaste spatters like freeze-framed snow)
she catches herself scowling, her brow pulled into ugly furrows that might become permanent if she isn’t careful.

‘So what’s it to be?’ she says to her reflection.

She has three choices: clean the bathroom mirror, get in the shower, or go back to bed.

Zoe’s reflection pulls a face that says,
Are you mad?

‘Well, I’m talking to you, aren’t I?’

Get back into bed and let the boy make your breakfast. God knows he’s not going to help you clean the house.

‘Fair point,’ says Zoe.

Her reflection nods:
I know
.

Walking back to the bedroom Zoe steps on the creaky floorboard in the hallway and experiences a twang of annoyance. Two weeks ago, she had stepped on a proud nail, ripping a hole in a new pair
of twelve-quid tights. It was the second time this had happened, so Zoe had attempted to pry the nail out of the floorboard with a pair of scissors, which she knew was the wrong tool for the job,
but the right tool was somewhere in their small and cluttered shed and it was raining. But instead of laughing at Zoe for her endearing, feminine ways, Alex had barked at her for breaking the
scissors and told her to ask him if something needed fixing. He had apologized quickly enough, but she was nettled by this flash of temper. And despite it all, he still hasn’t got around to
fixing the fucking thing. And it’s not just this one board; there is another creaker in the spare room and a third under the table in the living room. Zoe is tempted to fetch the hammer and
take care of it herself, but she is worried it will cause an argument. And this – this apprehension in her own hallway – annoys her more than the floorboard.

Too alert now to sleep, Zoe opens the bedroom curtains and looks out of the window into the rows of back gardens all squashed together on their terraced street. It’s a beautiful day and
Zoe thinks they should go for a ride down to the Thames where they can drink a bottle of wine and watch the rowers glide past. The bicycles are wedged into the cobweb-strewn shed, snuggled together
under a pile of collapsed cardboard boxes on top of which are balanced several paint cans. It’s almost too much effort, but Zoe thinks the ride will be good for them in more ways than
one.

When they moved into this house everything needed fixing: from carpets to wallpaper and bathroom to kitchen. All of it. But the deposit, stamp duty, legal fees, appliances and basic Ikea
furniture have emptied both of their bank accounts. They must have received five hundred pounds’ worth of flowers and champagne as moving-in presents, but, churlish as it sounds, Zoe would
rather have had John Lewis vouchers. At least that way they could have bought some nice glasses and a new doorknocker.

Last month, Zoe had suggested doing at least some of the improvements on a credit card, but Alex refused. Refused, ultimately, even to discuss the matter. ‘Forget it, Zo,’ and there
was a sharpness to his voice – an assumption of control – that made Zoe’s stomach knot.

‘The repayments aren’t that bad,’ Zoe had said, keeping her tone neutral.

‘They’re a damn sight worse than nothing, Zo. That’s exactly how people end up financially fucked. It’s a fucking trap.’ She hadn’t liked that – the
‘fucked’, the ‘fucking’ – but she forced herself to remain reasonable. ‘Our salaries are only going to go up, Alex.’

‘Mine is, you mean,’ staring at Zoe, defying her to contradict him. A low blow, Zoe thought, holding his eyes with equal defiance, breathing through her nose because her teeth were
so tightly clamped. Worse than that, it was a betrayal. After all, wasn’t it him who encouraged her to quit her high-paying job?

‘Fine,’ she had said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll get a card.’

‘No,’ Alex had shot back. ‘No, you will not. We’re in this together, Zo.’

‘So let’s discuss it together.’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’m already late.’

And that was that. Alex went out to play football, and the minute the front door closed – not a slam, but harder than necessary – Zoe had taken hold of a loose corner of wallpaper
and pulled. The first strip had come away easily, but the next was stuck to the bedroom wall as firmly as a bad idea sticks to an angry mind. After she chipped her second nail, Zoe went downstairs
and gathered up the fish slice, a sharp knife, a sponge and a bowl full of soapy water. Three hours later the floorboards were as slick as the deck of a ship at high sea, Zoe had two more broken
nails, a painful blister on her hand and it was apparent that whoever had decorated this room had made up for their poor taste in wallpaper with unrivalled skill at hanging the stuff. Zoe had so
far removed four strips of tatty paisley. There were eight strips remaining, and for the first time since they moved in, Zoe was glad the bedroom was as small as it was. Estimating that it was
going to take another six hours to complete the job, Zoe jumped in the shower and then headed into town to spend some of the money they didn’t have.

It was dark when Zoe returned, and she slid her key into the front door with a sense of guilty trepidation. She had transferred all her purchases (two hundred pounds she didn’t have on
shoes and jeans she didn’t need) into a single bag from the least exclusive store, but even so, she could do without the inquisition. Creeping into the living room, she was relieved to find
Alex asleep on the sofa; an old war movie on the TV, a bottle of half-drunk beer precariously close to his feet. Avoiding the creaky steps, Zoe tiptoed upstairs, and quickly unpacked her shopping
into the wardrobe, folding and hiding the bag beneath a pile of shoes.

It wasn’t until she closed her wardrobe door that she noticed the walls. All four were bare plaster; not a scrap of paisley wallpaper or welded-on backing paper. The debris had been
cleared away, the floor cleaned and mopped, even the bed had been made with pillows on top of the duvet the way Zoe liked them.

‘Surprise,’ said a quiet voice close behind her left shoulder.

Remembering this now, Zoe feels petty for letting the bad eclipse the good. She places her hand on the wall and slides it over the places where Alex claims the paint underneath doesn’t
show through.

The day after Alex had stripped the walls they drove to B&Q and bought paintbrushes and a half dozen sample-sized pots of paint. When Alex had suggested Fresh Sage, Aubergine Dream and
– to Zoe’s eye –
Suffocating Blue
, her instinct was to ask was he joking, but he clearly wasn’t and she didn’t want to ruin his fun after he had made such a
gallant and romantic gesture the day before. So Zoe let him pick various shades of bruise, while she selected samplers of Cold Pebble, Dawn Mist and Quite White.

Wearing unloved jeans and forgotten t-shirts, they had applied the samples to the walls. While Zoe painted neat swatches in the corner, below eye level, Alex daubed the wall with a conspicuous
aubergine love heart. He was trying to make this fun, she knew – wacky, romantic, anecdotal – but all he was making was a mess.

‘Try something more discreet,’ she suggested. ‘In case we go for something lighter.’

‘Chill out, Goblin,’ Alex said, pulling the stupid face he invariably made to go with the stupid epithet.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Just . . . you know . . . in case.’

Alex came for her then with the paintbrush. ‘Maybe you could use a bit of retouching.’

Zoe had watched this set-piece in numerous films and sit-coms. Funny once, perhaps, it was cliched now; and instead of being amused, she was simply irritated.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said to Alex.

‘A bit of purple would suit you,’ he said, raising his brush.

‘Seriously, don’t.’

‘Bring out the colour of your eyes,’ he said, flicking the brush at Zoe.

Zoe felt the cool gobs of Aubergine Dream hit her forehead, cheek and chin. ‘Jesus, Alex!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve just washed my hair!’

‘Christ, someone really is a goblin today.’

And he looked so hurt.

‘I’m sorry,’ Zoe said. ‘Tired.’

‘I’m sorry, too,’ Alex said. ‘But, well, it does kind of suit you.’

The laughter had salvaged the moment, and also given Zoe an easy segue into their paint selection.

‘Maybe so, mister, but I don’t think it suits the wall.’

‘I know, something more discreet, right?’

They made a second trip to the DIY superstore, this time coming back with litres of paint, rollers, trays and all the other decorating paraphernalia. Zoe had attempted to clean the walls before
they began painting in earnest, managing to remove most of the aubergine love heart, but enough had remained to show through three coats of Dawn Mist. When they ran out of paint (and Alex was
running out of patience) Zoe had suggested driving back to the store to buy a few pots of something darker.

‘I thought you wanted Dawn Fucking Fog.’

‘Mist. And do you have to? There’s no need to swear at me.’

Alex took a deep breath. As if the effort of being reasonable required it. ‘Zo, I stripped the walls, we went with your choice of colour and’ – laughing – ‘my arm
is hanging off.’

‘But—’

‘Zo, you’re imagining it. I can’t see shit.’

‘That’s because it’s getting dark.’

‘It’s a f—’ Another calming breath. ‘It’s a bedroom, Zo. It’s going to be dark pretty much every minute we spend in it.’

Zoe backed off before they ended up turning full circle into another argument.

Standing in the bedroom three weeks later, it isn’t dark and Zoe thinks that if she stares at the wall a moment longer she might punch it. So she walks out of the room
and runs a bath.

Applying shampoo, Zoe twists a long hank of hair into a tight rope-like coil and begins to pull. As the flesh of her scalp is stretched into hundreds of hot peaks, the old familiar pain is
worryingly enjoyable . . .
How long has it been
?

Not since she changed careers from law to publishing, so almost three years now.

Maybe I should buy myself a badge, she thinks
.

She remembers sitting in the bath on a Sunday evening, heavy with depression and anxiety at another week in a job she hated. Pulling handfuls of hair until it felt like her skin would tear if
her hair didn’t come loose. Twice, in fact, Zoe had pulled too hard and found herself holding a fistful of long black strands. An online search told Zoe that this compulsion was called
trichotillomania; the fast alliterative syllables made her scalp itch, and the accompanying images of plucked shame-faced women, staring out of the screen like abandoned doll-heads, proved to be
fast and effective therapy.
Went cold turkey, before I ended up looking like a plucked chicken
, Zoe thinks, relaxing her grip on her hair and reaching for the conditioner.

As the conditioner soaks in, Zoe shaves her legs with Alex’s razor. He hates her using it on her legs, but she hates him leaving it out on the sink, so that makes them even. When
he’d hooked his hands under her leg this morning, Zoe cringed, knowing he would have felt the wild stubble scratching against his soft hands. She inspects her shins for patches of eczema and
sees none.