happy, they told each other; you only live once, they confided across the table, lapsing into
cliché, but embracing its truth without self-consciousness. Yes, they agreed, absolutely, life is way too short to waste a moment with the wrong person, in the wrong job, in the wrong place.
And so, when Alex told Zoe she had a beautiful laugh, a sexy smile, and – yes – a cute nose, she chose to believe him. They kissed in the pub, her initiating by leaning across the table
and – she felt it would be wrong to ignore the impulse – putting her lips against his as he talked with infectious enthusiasm about his love of music. They kissed again outside, less
inhibited now in the glow of the streetlights; each pushing hard against this other body and whispering statements of desire and intent; they kissed against the glass façade of Blackfriars
Underground station where anyone might see them. Their teeth clashed and she could feel the physical proof of Alex’s muttered frustrations pressed hard against her as the city filed past them
out of the rain and into the station for the last train home. They laughed when a gang of drunk men heckled and jeered and told them
to get in there
. They ran down the escalators, Zoe
precarious in her heels, and then – the guard warning
stand clear of the closing doors
– one more kiss before she jumped onto her tube, travelling north to the flat she shared
with Vicky; leaving Alex to make his way west to the bed he shared with Ines.
There were more dates, more kisses, more last trains home. Arguments, too, when the promises and pledges went unfulfilled. ‘Complications,’ Alex said. He did broach the subject of
moving out, but Ines cried, refused food, threw things, threatened to swallow a bottle of pills. And what do you say to that:
Let her; She’s lying; She’s manipulating you
? What
if Ines were telling the truth? What if Alex left her and the German bitch jumped off Waterloo Bridge? ‘Do what you need to do,’ was all Zoe could say; neither condoning, nor making any
demands of her own. ‘It’s your life, your call.’ They continued to meet in the same dingy pub, but the energy changed. There was still a physical attraction, still flirting and
revealing and laughing and sometimes kissing, but there was drama, too. Exciting in a way, but exhausting, and eroding the candour and empathy that had seemed on their first meeting to be so
special. Zoe came to feel foolish, like a distraction, a fling, while Alex agonized and beat his breast and lamented his life before going home to rent-free Chelsea and the beautiful Ines. Zoe
stopped answering texts and emails. Not all but some. She made excuses when Alex suggested meeting, she went on a date with another guy and – instant regret – screwed him because, well,
he had no German to go home to and it was easy. She never told Alex about this distraction (and to this day doesn’t intend to); not his business while he had a woman at home. They sent emails
at Christmas; polite, succinct and, probably, final. And then, midway through January, Alex sent a text:
Single guy seeks disgruntled lawyer for bad wine, public snogging, naughty talk and snorty laughter. Beautiful smile
preferable. Germans need not apply.
Two years and nine months ago now.
Zoe sits on the edge of the bed in her underwear (a matching set, peachy pink, no loose threads) applying make-up. She glances at the clock and sees that it is past eleven.
Whatever time Alex left, he’s been gone for more than an hour, maybe as long as two. Zoe experiences the mental equivalent of a flinch, pulling back from a thought she doesn’t want to
acknowledge.
Alex has been . . . what? . . . off, lately. Not himself. He’s been quiet, distracted and . . . uncharacteristically attentive, is how it feels – volunteering to cook, clean, fetch
(‘let me bring you breakfast in bed’). Almost as if he feels guilty for something. When he came in from the pub last
cliché, but embracing its truth without self-consciousness. Yes, they agreed, absolutely, life is way too short to waste a moment with the wrong person, in the wrong job, in the wrong place.
And so, when Alex told Zoe she had a beautiful laugh, a sexy smile, and – yes – a cute nose, she chose to believe him. They kissed in the pub, her initiating by leaning across the table
and – she felt it would be wrong to ignore the impulse – putting her lips against his as he talked with infectious enthusiasm about his love of music. They kissed again outside, less
inhibited now in the glow of the streetlights; each pushing hard against this other body and whispering statements of desire and intent; they kissed against the glass façade of Blackfriars
Underground station where anyone might see them. Their teeth clashed and she could feel the physical proof of Alex’s muttered frustrations pressed hard against her as the city filed past them
out of the rain and into the station for the last train home. They laughed when a gang of drunk men heckled and jeered and told them
to get in there
. They ran down the escalators, Zoe
precarious in her heels, and then – the guard warning
stand clear of the closing doors
– one more kiss before she jumped onto her tube, travelling north to the flat she shared
with Vicky; leaving Alex to make his way west to the bed he shared with Ines.
There were more dates, more kisses, more last trains home. Arguments, too, when the promises and pledges went unfulfilled. ‘Complications,’ Alex said. He did broach the subject of
moving out, but Ines cried, refused food, threw things, threatened to swallow a bottle of pills. And what do you say to that:
Let her; She’s lying; She’s manipulating you
? What
if Ines were telling the truth? What if Alex left her and the German bitch jumped off Waterloo Bridge? ‘Do what you need to do,’ was all Zoe could say; neither condoning, nor making any
demands of her own. ‘It’s your life, your call.’ They continued to meet in the same dingy pub, but the energy changed. There was still a physical attraction, still flirting and
revealing and laughing and sometimes kissing, but there was drama, too. Exciting in a way, but exhausting, and eroding the candour and empathy that had seemed on their first meeting to be so
special. Zoe came to feel foolish, like a distraction, a fling, while Alex agonized and beat his breast and lamented his life before going home to rent-free Chelsea and the beautiful Ines. Zoe
stopped answering texts and emails. Not all but some. She made excuses when Alex suggested meeting, she went on a date with another guy and – instant regret – screwed him because, well,
he had no German to go home to and it was easy. She never told Alex about this distraction (and to this day doesn’t intend to); not his business while he had a woman at home. They sent emails
at Christmas; polite, succinct and, probably, final. And then, midway through January, Alex sent a text:
Single guy seeks disgruntled lawyer for bad wine, public snogging, naughty talk and snorty laughter. Beautiful smile
preferable. Germans need not apply.
Two years and nine months ago now.
Zoe sits on the edge of the bed in her underwear (a matching set, peachy pink, no loose threads) applying make-up. She glances at the clock and sees that it is past eleven.
Whatever time Alex left, he’s been gone for more than an hour, maybe as long as two. Zoe experiences the mental equivalent of a flinch, pulling back from a thought she doesn’t want to
acknowledge.
Alex has been . . . what? . . . off, lately. Not himself. He’s been quiet, distracted and . . . uncharacteristically attentive, is how it feels – volunteering to cook, clean, fetch
(‘let me bring you breakfast in bed’). Almost as if he feels guilty for something. When he came in from the pub last
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