A Tale of Two Lovebirds
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When you leave school in Britain everyone tells you how important it is to go to university and get a degree. What they don’t tell you is that these days just about every school leaver with half a brain cell is doing the same thing. As a result, unless you study at one of the great institutions, you qualify in some very specialised field, or you’re an academic superstar, when you graduate you find yourself competing against thousands of other university leavers for a limited number of really worthwhile, well-paid jobs. With my mediocre general arts degree from a minor university, I had no chance. Of course, I could have gone back to my home town, lived with my parents and probably wangled a decent position with the large company my dad works for. But I wanted to settle in ‘swinging London’, and live the good life. That was why, for the first year after my graduation, I drifted into a couple of dead end office jobs, and did a bit of temping.
None of the jobs paid much, but it was enough to get a tiny bedsit flat above a Chinese takeaway joint in a grubby suburb on the London-Essex border, and a season ticket on the tube. The flat was a bit of a dump, but I felt comfortable there, and some powerful air fresheners and my stereo unit masked the smell of fried rice and the sound of comings and goings below — most of the time. It was through one of the assignments I got from my temp agency that I finally found a job I actually liked: an admin post in the Barbican University. It wasn’t really graduate level work, but universities are snobbish about that sort of thing, they more or less demand a degree before they’ll let you clean their toilets. More importantly, I got a half-decent salary and the work was actually interesting. It was mostly maintaining student records, but there were also elements of personnel work, a bit of financial accounting and so on. I was in a team of six, and my supervisor, Cora, was a real sweetheart in her mid-50s, the type who likes to mother her young charges. On my first day she introduced me to four of my colleagues, all females who seemed nice enough, and added ‘Zoë’s off delivering mail at the moment, you’ll meet her shortly.’
I settled down at my new desk to study the staff manual. After a few minutes I heard a female voice say, ‘Hi, you must be Adam, yeah?’ I glanced up — to see nobody standing by my desk. Then a throat was cleared, and my eyes swivelled downwards — to see the smallest woman I’d ever met. She grinned up at me, held out a pudgy hand to be shaken, and said in a chirpy Cockney accent, ‘I’m Zöe. Cora obviously didn’t tell you about me.’ She was a dwarf, less than four feet tall. It took me a moment to recover from my surprise and, embarrassed, I reached down and shook her hand. She winked at me, and added, ‘It’s all right, you’ll get used to me.’ Then she strolled to the desk opposite mine, pulled out a small set of kitchen steps, and climbed up onto her chair.
As we sat quite close together, I got to know Zöe well over the next few days. She gave the lie to my idea about universities and degrees, having taken her job straight from school at 16. She was 20 when I met her, three years younger than me. I had thought that people who were subject to dwarfism generally had distorted faces, but that certainly wasn’t true in Zöe’s case. She had a small face, of course, but a pretty one, with cornflower blue eyes, a snubby nose and pouting lips, all framed by shoulder length copper red hair. She had a sparky personality, joining in with the banter that flew around the room, nevertheless, my colleagues seemed quite protective towards her. We got on well, and after a few days, as we were on the same lunch rota, we tended to go together to the university refectory for our meal. Everyone in the place seemed to know Zöe, and she was very popular.
The end of my second week in the office was our monthly pay day, and I found that the team usually went to a nearby pub together after work. Zöe and I got there a few minutes before the others. It was quite early in the evening, and the place was quiet. As we entered, the barman, a Jamaican complete with modest dreadlocks and Bob Marley stubble, turned and called out, ‘Hello short stuff. You want your usual?’
I was briefly surprised at what I took to be an offensive remark, but Zöe grinned and replied, ‘Hi long shanks, this is my new friend, Adam.’ Clearly these were the usual greetings between the two. A couple of the regulars greeted Zöe amiably too and, having collected our drinks, we sat next two each other on a velveteen bench in an alcove by the pub window. Zöe was drinking a mix of fresh orange and lemonade, a St Clements. She explained, ‘I don’t often drink alcohol. With my size, one drink and I’m anybody’s. Ooh, I probably shouldn’t be telling you that, should I?’ She giggled into her glass as I felt my face turn red. At that point the others walked in, and within minutes all six of us were squeezed onto the two benches either side of our table, Zöe and I pressed against each other by the lack of space.
After a couple of hours, one of the other girls, Marcia, said, ‘You’re out late tonight, Zo — for you.’
Zöe replied, ‘Yeah, I can’t normally stomach too much of this stuff,’ indicating her glass, ‘but I’m enjoying myself.’
Marcia grinned and said, ‘Yeah, I can see that,’ her eyes flicking momentarily in my direction. Okay, I know it makes me sound thick in retrospect, but at the time I didn’t appreciate the significance of the remark, or the way Zöe looked daggers at Marcia.
After another half hour I thought it was time I made a move, so I started to excuse myself. Cora turned to Zöe and said, ‘Adam only lives a few stops past you on the tube. Why don’t you go with him Zöe, make sure you get home safely?’
Zöe finished her drink. ‘What’s this, ‘mother’, you trying to get rid of me? No, you’re right, I’d better get home too. D’you mind Adam? You don’t need to get off at my stop with me or anything, but the company’d be nice.’ Zöe normally took the bus home, because the London underground stations in the rush hour are like a massive rugby scrum, which would be dangerous to her. As I took the tube I’d never travelled with her before, but I was happy enough to, and she was right, having someone to chat to would be better than staring into space for a dozen stops. It was a short walk to the tube station, and as Zöe’s more than two feet shorter than me (I’m five-eleven) I had to amble along to enable her to keep pace with me. On the train we talked vaguely about work and our colleagues, and what we planned to do at the weekend. It turned out Zöe and her family were fans of the local football team, West Ham United, and had season tickets for the ground, so that was her Saturday accounted for. I had nothing arranged until Sunday, when I was meeting my sister for lunch. She also lives in London, just south of the Thames in Greenwich, a much nicer area than mine. I was slightly self-conscious on the journey, sitting next to Zöe. She attracted the odd curious stare from other travellers, but if she noticed she didn’t let on.
When we reached Zöe’s stop she started to protest as I got off the train with her, but I interrupted her. ‘I’m hot going to abandon a damsel halfway to her door. I told Cora I’d see you home and I will.’ Jokingly I did a kind of low courtly Sir Walter Raleigh bow, and she chortled with amusement.
I saw Zöe to the door of the council flat her family occupy, then prepared to lope back to the underground. As I turned, Zöe caught my sleeve. ‘Adam, would you like to come in for a few minutes, for a coffee or something?’ It was getting late, I still had a substantial journey ahead of me, and I started to make my excuses. I stopped as Zöe cast her eyes down, and mumbled, ‘Okay, of course, I’m sorry. It’s just that my folks have never met any of my friends from work and, well, they worry about me.’
I suddenly felt like a selfish turd. I had no reason to, but seeing the look of disappo
intment on my friend’s face I quickly said, ‘Sure, that’d be nice. It’s a cold night, I could do with a coffee to warm me up.’
Grinning happily, the manipulative little minx reached up and unlocked the door. As we entered, a small white bundle of fur flung itself along the narrow hallway towards us, yapping madly. It ran excitedly in small circles around my ankles, and I saw it was some kind of dog, with a red bow tied in its topknot. Zöe laughed as she reached down to stroke it, saying, ‘Calm down Twinkie, you’ll do yourself a mischief.’ The dog responded by lapping madly at her hand with a tiny pink tongue.
I could hear a popular TV soap opera blaring from a room off to the left. The door swung open and a chubby middle-aged woman appeared and kissed Zöe on the cheek. ‘Hello sweets, cor, you’re cold, come in and warm up.’ Then she turned to me, as if she’d noticed me for the first time. ‘Oh, hello, come on it, can I get you a drink?’
Walking into the room from the cool hallway was like hitting a wall of heat. A skinny man, about the same age as his wife, rose from a lumpy armchair and also kissed Zöe. ”Ello munchkin, sit down by the fire and warm yourself up. All right mate, grab a seat on the sofa.’ I did so. I hadn’t given the slightest thought to what my friend’s parents might be like, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that they weren’t also dwarves. They weren’t giants either, but both were only a few inches shorter than me. As Zöe introduced me, another family member walked in: her brother, who was the tallest of the lot, lean like his father and probably only an inch below my height. They all shared paler versions of Zöe’s colouring, and I was instructed to call them Tom, Margie and Steve.
As I sat in that cosy front room, the doings of the residents of Albert Square muted on the TV, I was glad I’d accepted Zöe’s invitation to come in. It was such a pleasant scene of warm family domesticity that I started to feel a bit nostalgic for my own folks. Zöe told her family about her day at work, they talked about the Hammers match they were off to see the following day, we chatted about a major news story…even though I was a stranger, I didn’t feel in the slightest bit as if I was left out, or intruding. Zöe sat on a small pouffe by the flame-effect gas fire, the dog’s head cradled in her lap as it stared up at her adoringly. Zöe glanced up at me occasionally, and smiled reassuringly. At one point she mouthed the word ‘Thanks’ and winked at me.
After half an hour or so I could feel my eyelids getting heavy with the sultry heat in the room, and decided I’d better make my way home before I fell asleep. Zöe’s dad, Tom, saw me to the door, placing one hand on my shoulder and pumping my hand with his other. With a huge smile, he half-whispered, ‘Thanks for seeing Zöe home Adam, it was nice to meet you. I hope we see you again before too long.’
It was only as I settled into a seat on the tube train that it dawned on me that Zöe’s parents seemed to have assumed that I was her boyfriend. I sniggered to myself: what a ridiculous idea! But as the train trundled on through the East London night I began to ask myself why I thought it was so ridiculous. After all, Zöe and I were good mates, she was a pretty girl with a nice personality and a good sense of humour, and she obviously liked me. If she was a ‘normal’ girl — whatever the hell that is – with the same face and the same personality, would I think twice about taking a chance on asking her out? By the time I reached my flat I felt thoroughly ashamed of my initial dismissal of the idea.
I spent an uncomfortable Saturday, slouching round the local supermarket, then slumped in front of the telly watching a dull rugby league match, Zöe never far from my thoughts. The more I considered it, the less the idea of asking her on a date seemed ridiculous to me: I just wasn’t sure I had the courage. It had little to do with her size. I’ve always been considered reasonable looking — regular features, chestnut coloured hair, slim — but I’ve also always been a bit shy around girls. By the time I went to bed I was totally confused. The one bright spot of the day had been hearing that West Ham had won their match 3-0. When I checked my phone that evening I grinned when I saw a text saying, ‘Three-nil, three-nil — up the Hammers. Zöe, x’.
My sister, Angie, is two years older than me. We met on Sunday at one of her favourite restaurants, a rather yuppified place just round the corner from the Royal Naval College. She lives with a City trader called Mark, who she’s known since she was 14, but he was playing for his pub football team that day so it was just the two of us. We chatted about how our respective jobs were going, about Mark’s upcoming birthday, and so on, but inevitably the conversation crept round to my love life, or complete lack thereof. There was a time when Ange was determined to play matchmaker for me. She’s given up on that, thank God, but she continues to take an unhealthy interest in that aspect of my life. Hesitantly, not really meaning to, I told her there was a girl I was sort of interested in. She beamed at me over her wine glass. ‘Oh Adam, that’s great, when can I meet her?’
I spluttered into my own glass. ‘Hang on Ange, I haven’t even asked her out yet. Anyway, it’s not that straightforward. We work together — in the same room I mean.’
Angie rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘So? For God’s sake Adam, you haven’t had a girlfriend since your second year at uni. I wouldn’t be surprised if your willy’s shrivelled up.’ I scowled at her in embarrassment at her crudeness, but she didn’t notice. ‘I’ve always thought the taboo about dating someone just because you work with them is stupid. You only have one life, and what’s better, finding the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, or not risking it because you work together, then sitting staring at them dewy-eyed for the next ten years and wondering what might have been?’
I thought about Mark, a nice enough guy but a bit wet. I chuckled, ‘So when are you going to find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with?’, then ducked as my sister threw a bread roll at me.
I went into work on the Monday determined to ask Zöe out, unfortunately my resolve failed me. I kept almost doing it, then bottling out at the last moment. On the Tuesday I happened to have a work meeting with Cora. We went into a private room, and when the meeting was finished I said there was something I wanted to ask her. Trying hard to sound casual about it, and staring over Cora’s shoulder at the wall, I said, ‘Do you, er, know if Zöe’s ever had a boyfriend?’
Cora smiled, with a gleam I her eye. ‘Not that I know of. Why, are you thinking of applying for the post?’ I shrugged awkwardly, trying to think how to reply. Cora continued, ‘I think that’d be great. She likes you — a lot.’ Intrigued, I asked what Zöe had said about me. ‘Oh, she’s always talking about you, though she tries to pretend it’s nothing. She went on and on yesterday about how much her parents liked you, how lovely they thought you were.’ Given that my desk was feet away from Zöe’s I began to wonder when all these conversations about me took place — my guess was in the ladies loo, but Cora continued. ‘Anyway, it’s not just what she says, it’s the way she looks at you too. She’s forever mooning at you when she thinks you don’t notice. She thinks you’re a real gentleman.’
I thanked Cora, and rose to leave. Then she spoke again, more seriously this time. ‘Adam, there is one thing. Don’t take this the wrong way, but…please don’t ask her out if you’re just looking for a bit of a laugh. You’re a good looking lad, and you have as much right to some fun as the rest of us, but I wouldn’t want to see Zöe hurt. She used to say she’d never get a bloke because any ‘normal’ man would be embarrassed to be seen with her, but she really does like you. She puts up a good front in the office, but she works hard at it. She really doesn’t have mu
ch self-confidence, and she’s a fragile little soul at heart. Okay love?’
I nodded and thanked Cora, turning over her words as I returned to the office. The rest of the morning I could feel Cora’s eyes boring into me, and as Zöe and I rose to go to lunch she caught my eye and gave me a vigorous nod. Zöe and I chatted amiably over our food then, just as we were finishing, I said, ‘Zo, er, I was wondering. Would you fancy coming for a drink with me after work on Friday, just you and me? I mean, don’t feel you have to say yes, or anything, I don’t want to put any pressure on you, I mean…’ Zöe’s amused grin told me I was gabbling like an idiot.
She smiled, and replied, ‘Yeah, I’d like that. Just so I’m clear, are you saying you just want a pint with a mate, or are you asking me on a date?’
The question threw me slightly, and I burbled, ‘Well, yes, a date, I mean, no pressure or anything, we’ll see how it goes…’
Zöe’s hand rested on mine on the table. ‘Adam, shut up. Yes, thank you, I’d love to go out on a date with you.’
Back in the office, her face was radiant all afternoon. At one point — after she and Cora had disappeared to the ladies’ for a few minutes — Cora sent me an e-mail: ‘Well done Adam, you’re a real sweetheart. I hope it goes well.’ Never mind Zöe feeling pressurised, by Friday I was feeling a bit under pressure! Zöe and I had agreed to leave the office separately then meet up outside. Nevertheless, whether from her or Cora, word seemed to have got round. As Zöe left, fifteen minutes before me, there were lots of sly grins from the other girls, and coy remarks telling her to have a good evening.
I hadn’t taken a change of clothing with me to work, but when I met up with Zöe I was slightly taken aback. Gone were her normal bulky jeans and sweatshirt. She was wearing shiny black shoes with small heels, smart black trousers with a silver thread running up the outside of each leg, and a baby blue sweater with a V neck which displayed a modest amount of cleavage. I hadn’t consciously noticed before that Zöe actually had rather an ample chest, as they say. She’d also curled the ends of her hair, and applied some subtle make-up, which she never bothered with in the office. In short, she looked great. She giggled with delight as my jaw dropped. I started to apologise for not having made a similar effort, but she slapped me on the hip to stop me. ‘Don’t be daft, it’s your company I want, not the contents of your wardrobe. Anyway, I want people looking at me, not at you.’
We had decided to go to a different bar to the usual office one. I was a bit unsure about how we should walk together, but Zöe seemed quite comfortable with reaching up and slipping her small hand into mine, which was fine by me. In the evening rush of City folk getting home to their weekends, we made our way against the tide to a pub a couple of streets from the uni. Zöe had her usual St Clements drink, and I opted for half a pint of shandy. Unusually, our conversation was a bit stilted. We both seemed rather awkward, and nervous. When we did speak it tended to be at exactly the same moment, which left us apologising to each other. As my weak beer began to seep into my veins, though, I started to relax a bit. Zöe turned to me, ‘Adam, thanks for this. I don’t often go out, apart from with my family or the gang at work once a month.’
Rather boldly, I slipped an arm around her shoulders. Instantly she leant in to me, her shoulder resting against my midriff. Quietly, I said, ‘So what does madam fancy doing this evening? Do you want to eat? We could go up the West End, see a movie if you like.’
Zöe had closed her eyes and, snuggling her head a bit more into my body, murmured, ‘Just doing this is nice.’ One or two of the people in the bar were casting glances in our direction, but mostly they were a cool crowd who just left us to it. After a minute or so of silence, Zöe stirred. ‘Actually, I am quite hungry. Do you like Pizza Hut?’ I replied that I liked pretty much anything but Chinese, and finishing our drinks we made our way to the nearest branch. Zöe explained she ‘hit the Hut’ quite often with her folks because she could only manage a limited amount of food, and a small pizza was perfect. While we ate, a couple of pre-school children at a neighbouring table seemed fascinated by my companion, and kept staring at her. She gave them a grin and a little finger wave. Noticing my smile, she said, ‘I get used to that. Kids always seem to find me interesting. It’s just adults staring at me that pisses me off.’
Miracle
- 21.02.2021
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