The Trouble with Henry and Zoe by Andy Jones

desperate for space and silence. I changed the sheets the minute my parents drove away, waving and blowing sad kisses through the Land
Rover’s window. I cleaned all day and all night and well into the morning, dusting every square inch of the house, vaguely aware that dust was human skin; mine, my parents’ and my dead
boyfriend’s. For reasons I’m not sure I understand – momentum, perhaps – I emptied every item of food from the fridge and then the cupboards. Vegetables, milk, packets and
cans and jars of condiments. Every consumable item, with the exception of a single bottle of champagne, consigned to bin bags. I vacuumed the carpets, cleaned the windows, the mirrors, toilet,
sinks and the tiles on the bathroom floor. I pulled the cushions from the sofa and the armchair, vacuuming up the dust and crumbs and pennies and pen tops. I polished door handles, light switches,
the banister and every lampshade in the house before falling asleep on the sofa sometime in the early hours of the morning.
    On Saturday, the night before we flew to France, Alex’s London friends met for drinks in his memory. No one used the word ‘wake’, but that’s what it was. I realized early
on that my presence was killing the atmosphere, so stayed as long as was decent before making my excuses and calling a taxi. Besides which, I had to leave for the airport at eight the next morning.
So this was not Zoe the magnanimous, this was Zoe the knackered with half a pizza and an entire bar of chocolate in the fridge.
    As I opened the door to the taxi, a voice called my name. One of Alex’s closest friends, Tom.
    ‘Tom, hey.’
    ‘Zo, I . . . I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk. It’s a bit . . . you know.’
    I noticed Tom had his coat on. ‘Are you not staying?’
    Tom shook his head. ‘Hugh’s doing my head in, to be honest. The whole overdone grief thing. “To Al!”’ he said, raising an invisible pint, mocking Hugh’s loud
and repeated toasts. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘It’s fine,’ I said, smiling, then, despite myself, laughing. I know how close Tom and Alex were, and I don’t doubt his grief. ‘I don’t think Alex liked him
all that much.’
    ‘Well,’ said Tom, rubbing a hand over his stubble, ‘I’m afraid that if I stay much longer I might twat him.’
    ‘Share a cab,’ I said, and I knew exactly what I was doing.
    ‘It’s not really on your way, Zo.’
    ‘I know. I . . . I don’t feel like being on my own tonight. Watch a movie with me?’
    We didn’t even turn the TV on. Instead, we opened a bottle of wine and sat at opposite ends of the sofa with the bar of chocolate sitting on a cushion between us like a gradually
diminishing barrier. When we started kissing, with instant and urgent intensity, I stood up from the sofa, taking Tom’s hand and motioning for him to come with me.
    He shook his head, ‘Let’s stay down here,’ and pulled me back onto the seat beside him. Maybe it made him feel less guilty; fucking me on the sofa instead of his best
friend’s bed. But Alex and I had made love on those three cushions more than once, so there was no such leniency for my conscience.
    ‘We can’t sleep on here,’ I said afterwards, the wine, the chocolate and the urgency finished.
    ‘I’ll take the bed, you take the sofa,’ Tom said, laughing. And I was grateful for that; that he chose not to give the guilt any oxygen. That he didn’t call a cab and
leave me on my own like a coward.
    ‘I’ll get you a blanket,’ I said, throwing a cushion at him.
    We ate breakfast together the next morning, the final wisps of whatever had happened in the night lingering (an overlong good-morning kiss), before dispersing gradually over coffee (a touching
of hands) and toast (a complicit, apologetic smile). We were embarrassed enough to satisfy decency, and both understood – I think – that this one time was forgivable and understandable
and possibly even natural, but that it would never happen