It seems that the Universe is not satisfied unless at least one woman within a five-foot radius of Henry Smith is crying at any one time. Jenny has been leaking tears for the last thirty minutes, clutching a handkerchief in one hand and a small mirror in the other. Although how she can see anything through all these tears is a mystery.
It’s taken less than two hours to fit her new smile, but it’s been a long build up to this moment. Working from the second molars to the central incisors, alternating from the top row to the bottom, a jigsaw in twenty-eight white pieces. Except there’s no guarantee all the pieces will fit until you’ve inserted the last one. They fit. They look, even if I do say so myself, beautiful.
‘Doh je, doh je, Henry.’
‘Mh sai haa hei,’ I say. You’re welcome.
The Cantonese characters for ‘thank you’ comprise a neat, almost tessellating arrangement of hard edges and sharp crescents that belie the soft grateful syllables – doh je.
In between bouts of crying and close examination of her new supernaturally white teeth, Jenny presented me with a small scroll, bound in purple ribbon. I look again at her gnarled arthritic fingers, and marvel at how something so painful and ugly could have produced this precise and elegant calligraphy.
There are two ways of saying ‘thank you’ in Cantonese, Jenny explained; one for a service, another for a gift. ‘Doh je, gift,’ she said. ‘This’ – showing me her teeth – ‘gift.’
I thought about telling her that, actually, she still owed me a couple of thousand pounds, but it would only trivialize her sentiment.
‘Can smile when scatter ashes now,’ says Jenny, making sure to maintain the flow of salt water down her cheeks.
After an emotional couple of weeks, I haven’t seen Zoe cry since we left Cornwall. We have continued to see each other every night, squeezing the days and nights until our allotted time runs out. But who knows when that will be. Zoe isn’t due to travel until mid-September, but we have the small matter of my parents’ wedding anniversary to get through first. Zoe is as excited as a kitten in a wool shop at the prospect of meeting my parents, although I have no idea why. I’ve certainly never said anything nice about them. She is nervous, too. She knows April will be there (an early labour notwithstanding, and God knows I’m praying for one), plus Brian, and various others who don’t hold me in the highest regard. I have taken every opportunity to insist it will be a lousy party with a high possibility of flung glassware, but Zoe receives this information as another expression of my dry sense of humour. I have tried explaining that I don’t have one, which Zoe takes as further proof of concept.
‘Why would your parents invite us if they thought it would cause a scene?’
‘Because they’re stupid?’
‘Honestly, Henry, you are such a card. I never realized you were such a card!’
I called my mother the second Zoe left for work on Monday morning.
‘You just needed a little nudge, babes.’
‘Mum, I don’t need you interfering. And I really don’t appreciate you stirring up drama.’
‘Really, Henry. You don’t appreciate me causing drama? Oh that’s rich.’
‘Mum . . .’
‘You seem to have a short memory, Henry Smith.’
‘Actually, Mum, I really don’t. How the hell do you think April is go—’
‘Don’t you hell me, Henry. Don’t you dare.’
‘Mum, calm d—’
‘For the record, Henry, I have talked to April.’
‘You have?’
‘What did I just say? Yes, I have.’
‘And . . .’
‘It’s over, Henry. In the past.’
‘Did you talk to George, Mum? Did you call him up and ask if he’s bringing a hod full of bricks to your little party?’
‘I don’t like your tone, Henry.’
‘Mum, listen, I—’
‘I talked to April, April will talk to George. It’s done, love.’
‘But, Mum—’
‘Henry, love, you can’t hide away forever.’
‘I know, but Zoe’s . . . it’s complicated.’
‘Newsflash, Henry, life is complicated. You deal with it, you move on.’
‘But—’
‘Henry, I want you here, your dad wants you here, and if there’s someone important in your life, well, we want them here too.’
‘. . .’
‘Henry?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good boy. And wear something red.’
But there is a part of me – a small sub-cellular part – that almost welcomes the inevitable. It will go one way or another and then – one way or another – it will be over. Eight more days.
I gently uncurl Jenny’s fingers from the mirror.
‘It’s going to be a little sensitive for a while, okay? Your teeth need to find each other, make friends with each other again, and that’s going to take a few days.’
‘Can eat?’
‘Yes, you can eat. But give it a few days before you try steak or toffee apples, okay?’ Jenny smiles with her brand new teeth, and nods that she understands. ‘I’m going to give you my phone number,’ I say. ‘So if you have any problems, any at all, you just call me, okay?’
‘Friends.’
‘That’s right, friends.’
‘Doh je,’ Jenny says, putting her hands to either side of my face, and kissing me quickly on the lips. ‘Doh je.’
‘Mh sai haa hei,’ I say, again. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ I say, nodding at the curled up scroll.
‘Learn?’
‘Calligraphy,’ I say, writing in mid-air. ‘It’s very beautiful.’
‘Hah! No calligraphy. Buy on Amazon, five pounds, very bargain, innit.’