‘Well,’ says Mum, ‘this is . . . nice.’
Introductions have been made, weapons laid down, bodies clothed. The cushions from the sofa are still scattered on the floor and it wouldn’t take Miss Marple to deduce that someone got frisky in front of the fire this evening.
‘So,’ says Dad, ‘a dentist?’
‘That’s right,’ says Henry. ‘For my . . . you know, sins. Sorry about the . . .’ He brandishes an invisible badminton racquet.
‘At least it wasn’t loaded,’ says Mum, laughing.
‘Argh!’ I say, affecting pantomime panic. ‘Please don’t shoot!’
‘Well, it was a bit of a bloody surprise, Zozo. Thought you were busy.’
I nod at Henry. ‘Busy busy,’ I say, although I’m not sure why. ‘Anyway, you’re not meant to be back until Monday.’
‘Sorry to inconvenience you,’ Mum says, but she makes it plain that she’s teasing. She puts her hands to my cheeks, staring at me intently as if trying to solve the riddle of my face. It’s not the first time she has done this; her eyes are bloodshot, as if she has been crying or drinking, and it’s vaguely unnerving.
‘More tea, anyone?’ asks Henry, tapping the pot. His shirt is mis-buttoned.
It’s almost two in the morning and we’re sitting around drinking tea like it’s Sunday morning. Which, now that I think about it, it is.
‘Thank you, Henry,’ says Mum, clearly taken by my new friend. Maybe it was the sight of him in his underpants, poised for action.
‘Had to come back for a . . .’ Dad glances at Mum.
‘A meeting,’ she finishes. ‘Monday morning. So . . .’ glancing again at Henry, ‘. . . this is nice.’
‘Sorry for not coming to Copenhagen,’ I say. ‘Henry and me—’
‘I,’ says Dad.
‘Henry and I . . . well . . . it’s . . . I was going to tell you soon, but . . .’
Mum and Dad have become rigid in their seats, their faces fixed somewhere between dread and anticipation.
‘No no no,’ I say, ‘nothing like that; I’m going . . . travelling.’
‘A holiday?’ says Dad.
‘Travelling,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘Oh.’
‘Right.’
‘Where?’
‘When?’
‘All over,’ I say. ‘September?’ as if asking if this is acceptable.
‘Zoe,’ says my mother, ‘I think that’s . . . wonderful. Just wonderful.’
Dad nods along, although the soppy old fool seems to have a tear in his eye. ‘And er . . . are you going?’ he says to Henry. ‘Travelling?’
Henry shakes his head. ‘No, I’m . . .’
‘A friend,’ I say. ‘Henry’s a . . . he’s a friend.’
Mum looks at the scattered cushions in front of the fire, to Henry and then back to me. She nods, smiles. ‘I’m glad for you,’ she says, and now she’s crying too. She wipes at her eye and winces.
‘Are you okay?’ Dad asks, a little alarmed.
Mum nods. ‘Fine.’
‘Mum? Dad? Am I . . . am I missing something?’