F O U R T E E N

H E N R Y

"I've done something stupid," Isaac said three days later. (He'd gone back to calling our helpline. I think it made him feel sentimental.)

"What?" I asked, watching Shania simultaneously file her nails and read a Charles Dickens novel.

She's quite a marvel, that one.

"I've applied for a job."

"Oh," I frowned. "Well, I don't see how that's really stupid, darling, but whatever floats your boat -"

"It's for a position as an art teacher."

I frowned again. Now I thought about it, Isaac would make the perfect art teacher. He had a (very attractive) air of patheticness about him, he loved the Smiths -

No, he seriously loved the Smiths. He'd played me 'There is a Light That Never Goes Out' about a million times since we'd been going out.

Yeah, we're going out now.

And he was always sketching, was another that I had realised. Napkins. Backs of postcards. Random scraps of paper. They were everywhere.

"Henry?"

"That's good!" I said suddenly. "No, amazing, actually. Really amazing. You should definitely go for it. Absolutely."

"Are you okay?" Isaac asked, and I swooned slightly at the nervous tone in his voice.

That's a funny word, isn't it? Swooned.

Anyway.

"I just really want you to apply for this job," I told him.

"Fine," he said. "And thanks."

"Hey, what are fr - I mean, boyfriends - for?"

He laughed, but when he spoke his voice was low. "More than this."

"Maybe I could come over and, er, help you with your cv. If you catch my drift."

"Did you just try to chat me up over a cv?"

"Sorry. Sorry. Won't happen again."

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