Wednesday, Zoe was an hour into a chick-flick and had expected him
to be loud, smelly, kissy, irritating, but he’d come in quietly, whispered an apology then kissed her on the cheek before going through to the kitchen and micro-waving a bowl of leftovers.
Zoe had turned up the volume on the TV, but Alex had eaten quietly on the opposite end of the sofa, checking his phone periodically, but going out of his way, it seemed, not to distract her.
Ironically, Zoe found this more distracting than the anticipated barrage of interruptions, questions and snide commentary on the film. Before the film finished, Alex had washed the dishes and gone
upstairs to brush his teeth. When Zoe went up after him, she found him in bed, reading. They talked for five minutes, and while Alex wasn’t exactly remote, neither was he overly forthcoming.
He answered her questions and enquired after her day, but he was just . . .
off
. In the dark of the room, with Alex sleeping beside her, Zoe recalled a scene from the movie, in which the
heroine discovers her reliable, faithful – boring, even – boyfriend had been cheating on her for almost a year. The thought presented itself, like an unwelcome guest at a party, and Zoe
had found herself holding her breath as she studiously ignored it.
Because that was a film and this is her life and Alex would never do that.
Do what, Zoe?
She looks at her reflection in the compact mirror.
Is Alex cheating on me?
Zoe doesn’t believe he is, but of course it’s possible. More likely is that after nearly a year of living together, he has simply become complacent. Or bored. He could be; after all,
hasn’t Zoe been guilty of complacency, too?
And we all know what bored men do
, says the unwelcome guest.
And what if he was cheating on her? How would she feel about that? The truth is, Zoe isn’t entirely sure. Of course she would feel betrayed, embarrassed, angry . . . But – and maybe
this is why she has been reluctant to address the idea – maybe she would be relieved. Because there would be no second chances. Her brain – independently of its owner, it seems –
presents the consequences and logistics: the mortgage; the dishwasher; the sofa; the cushions; the Scrabble-print mugs, a single A and a solitary Z. The details move freely through her
consciousness, rapid and scattered and unushered.
He left his girlfriend for you. Not true: he left her for himself. But he cheated on her for you, didn’t he?
She considers the wine
decanter, a moving-in present from her parents – surely she has the claim on this item, even though it’s Alex not her who ever bothers to use it. The bedding – someone has to take
it; to sleep alone under the covers they bought together. Whereas the other will have to spend ninety quid on a new set of linen. And what of the bricks and mortar? Could Alex afford the mortgage
on his own? Maybe; but Zoe certainly couldn’t. Would he buy her out, or would they sell, and can she force the issue if he resists?
So what is this,
Zoe? Is it cold feet, or something more significant? She doesn’t know, and worse than that, she doesn’t know
how
to know.
And why now?
Why now
and not before you signed up to a twenty-five-year, six-figure mortgage?
When Alex had first suggested buying a house together, she had been in her new job for over a year. And again, she reminds herself that it was Alex who supported her – in
pocket and morale – through this frightening transition. She was riding high on the excitement of seeing her first picture book in print. The author had even taken on board one of Zoe’s
suggestions and given the bumblebee a pair of love-heart sunglasses. While they were promoting the book, the author had given several readings at bookshops and book fairs, and they had given away
pairs of love-heart sunglasses to the children in attendance. Seeing these delighted, fat-faced children sit, fidget, giggle and cry through these events had made Zoe incredibly
to be loud, smelly, kissy, irritating, but he’d come in quietly, whispered an apology then kissed her on the cheek before going through to the kitchen and micro-waving a bowl of leftovers.
Zoe had turned up the volume on the TV, but Alex had eaten quietly on the opposite end of the sofa, checking his phone periodically, but going out of his way, it seemed, not to distract her.
Ironically, Zoe found this more distracting than the anticipated barrage of interruptions, questions and snide commentary on the film. Before the film finished, Alex had washed the dishes and gone
upstairs to brush his teeth. When Zoe went up after him, she found him in bed, reading. They talked for five minutes, and while Alex wasn’t exactly remote, neither was he overly forthcoming.
He answered her questions and enquired after her day, but he was just . . .
off
. In the dark of the room, with Alex sleeping beside her, Zoe recalled a scene from the movie, in which the
heroine discovers her reliable, faithful – boring, even – boyfriend had been cheating on her for almost a year. The thought presented itself, like an unwelcome guest at a party, and Zoe
had found herself holding her breath as she studiously ignored it.
Because that was a film and this is her life and Alex would never do that.
Do what, Zoe?
She looks at her reflection in the compact mirror.
Is Alex cheating on me?
Zoe doesn’t believe he is, but of course it’s possible. More likely is that after nearly a year of living together, he has simply become complacent. Or bored. He could be; after all,
hasn’t Zoe been guilty of complacency, too?
And we all know what bored men do
, says the unwelcome guest.
And what if he was cheating on her? How would she feel about that? The truth is, Zoe isn’t entirely sure. Of course she would feel betrayed, embarrassed, angry . . . But – and maybe
this is why she has been reluctant to address the idea – maybe she would be relieved. Because there would be no second chances. Her brain – independently of its owner, it seems –
presents the consequences and logistics: the mortgage; the dishwasher; the sofa; the cushions; the Scrabble-print mugs, a single A and a solitary Z. The details move freely through her
consciousness, rapid and scattered and unushered.
He left his girlfriend for you. Not true: he left her for himself. But he cheated on her for you, didn’t he?
She considers the wine
decanter, a moving-in present from her parents – surely she has the claim on this item, even though it’s Alex not her who ever bothers to use it. The bedding – someone has to take
it; to sleep alone under the covers they bought together. Whereas the other will have to spend ninety quid on a new set of linen. And what of the bricks and mortar? Could Alex afford the mortgage
on his own? Maybe; but Zoe certainly couldn’t. Would he buy her out, or would they sell, and can she force the issue if he resists?
So what is this,
Zoe? Is it cold feet, or something more significant? She doesn’t know, and worse than that, she doesn’t know
how
to know.
And why now?
Why now
and not before you signed up to a twenty-five-year, six-figure mortgage?
When Alex had first suggested buying a house together, she had been in her new job for over a year. And again, she reminds herself that it was Alex who supported her – in
pocket and morale – through this frightening transition. She was riding high on the excitement of seeing her first picture book in print. The author had even taken on board one of Zoe’s
suggestions and given the bumblebee a pair of love-heart sunglasses. While they were promoting the book, the author had given several readings at bookshops and book fairs, and they had given away
pairs of love-heart sunglasses to the children in attendance. Seeing these delighted, fat-faced children sit, fidget, giggle and cry through these events had made Zoe incredibly
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