The Trouble with Henry and Zoe Read Free

manoeuvre (aside from feeling a bit silly, she wasn’t that flexible and it could get quite painful down her hamstring), but Alex
had been gentle this morning, and it felt somehow that . . . she’s not sure how to put it . . . like he
meant it
, she supposes. At least he hadn’t attempted
the lockdown
;
last time he’d done that she’d had to turn her face into the pillow to smother her laughter. No, this morning was nice, and then – after a respectable interval with cuddling and
nuzzling – he’d jumped out of bed and said he was going to the shops to get some ‘stuff’. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he’d said, ‘I’ll bring you
breakfast in bed.’ And who is she to argue with that?
    Sex, she thinks. Tremendous fun, but it doesn’t bear overthinking. Because if you think about it, isn’t the whole thing a bit daft? She knows Al’s routine almost by heart, the
sequence of hands, lips, fingers across her body.
Like a pilot preparing for take-off . . .
    A part of her knows that once you start to scrutinize a thing,
a person
, the tiny flaws can begin to occlude the larger picture.
Just like these walls
, she thinks.
    There is enough light in the room that Zoe can just make out the messy patches of darker paint showing through two coats of Dawn Mist. Alex claims he can’t see the imperfections; says Zoe
is imagining them. He insists on this with such conviction that Zoe wonders if he isn’t right.
Focus on the positives
, she says to herself.
    And the positives are what? Alex is cool, handsome, has a nice if somewhat softer than when they met body, and he’s good ( . . .
or is he just okay?
) in bed.
    Zoe has slept with eleven men. Six boyfriends and a smattering of flings ranging from one to a few nights. She has never ranked these men and boys in terms of their bedroom prowess, but she
knows without hesitation who tops the list: Ken Coleman, a third-year Maths student she dated for two terms in her second year. ‘Ken Wood’ someone – Vicky, more than likely
– had nicknamed him. The worst, too, is a no brainer (Jacob Kentish, Philosophy, small penis, bad breath, funny noises), but the remaining nine are more difficult to order. As her mind begins
sorting these men of its own accord, Zoe shies away from the exercise –
what if Alex falls in the wrong half of the group?
If he does, she certainly doesn’t want to confirm the
fact. They share a mortgage now – the modern equivalent of marriage – so it doesn’t do to be making these schoolgirlish comparisons. Alex is a good lover: he is considerate most
of the time, clean most of the time, and she has a pleasant little orgasm most of the time. Not the bone-marrow boiling, eye-crossing, narcotic wobblers she had at the hands of Ken, granted, but
there’s only so much of that a girl can take.
    Although – and this is a new thing – about a week before her period is due, she has found herself . . .
craving
is the best word she can think of . . .
craving
sex. Not
lovemaking, but primal, vigorous sex. Zoe wonders if her body clock is sending out its stalk on a spring. She won’t be thirty for another eleven months, so it seems early. Maybe it’s
because she and Alex have bought a house, set up a nest.
Who told my bloody ovaries
, she thinks.
    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