Dog Handling

by Clare Naylor

  “Okay, I know that you were only trying to be honest with me and I know that Charlie has so much more to offer you than me, but I love [kind of came out as “lubb,” but everyone knew what he was getting at] you, Alex.”

  “What’s going on, mate? You all right?” Charlie had approached Rob now and was trying to placate him. Liv looked for Alex, but she was attempting to crawl behind a Paris in the Springtime mural.

  “Fucking oath I’m all right. Just that I love [again, “lubb”] your woman here and she won’t have me. She’s having our baby, you know?” Rob said as Alex disappeared completely behind the Seine. Charlie nodded calmly, for which Liv thought he deserved a few brownie points, or was he simply about to erupt like a dormant World War I bomb discovered in a garden in Streatham?

  “Listen, mate, why don’t we just go outside and talk this through.” Charlie put his arm out towards Rob, but he shook it off.

  “Come out here!” Rob yelled to Alex.

  A foot appeared, then a chandelier-type earring emerged, and then a shamed-looking Alex. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Oh, this is bloody ridiculous,” Charlie said, and Alex slid her glance down to the floor to avoid his eyes, “Do you love Rob?” Alex looked petrified as he asked this. Liv gulped down more air like a goldfish out of water and even the dance music was having a bit of quiet time. Then Liv remembered. Hadn’t Amelia said something about Rob not being a stable hand at all? Liv cast her mind back to her rival’s earlier hilarity. Then she remembered. Rob was rich; he was loaded.

  In fact, it suddenly dawned on Liv that Rob was the catch of the decade that everyone had been nattering on about for ages. Jesus, she really should tell Alex before she went any further and stuffed up her whole life monumentally by choosing Charlie because she thought he was the rich one who could help her support her brothers. Liv twitched her arm towards the back of the scenery, hoping to be able to take Alex to one side and explain so that she could be fully informed before she made this decision, which would affect the rest of her life. Alex barely noticed Liv. What else could Liv do to attract her attention? She pondered a rugby-scrum-type head-to-head but was too attached to her earrings to risk them. Instead Liv just opened and shut her mouth some more à la goldfish.

  Alex looked soberly from one man to the other. She took in Rob, all strapping six-foot-two with mud on his boots and beer on his breath, and she took in Charlie, swish shirt, calm and in control and promising all she could want for the future of her child and family if he’d still have her after this embarrassing scene.

  “Well, Alex, are you in love with him?” Charlie asked again, more gently this time.

  “Yes,” Alex said as she took in the oafishness of the father of her child.

  Liv nearly leapt in the air and yelled, “Correct! That is the correct answer! Yippee! Score one, pink team.” But only nearly.

  “All right. And, Rob, you’re in love with her, right, mate?” Charlie continued as Liv watched his steely eyes for the moment when he banged their heads together like a livid schoolteacher.

  “Guess so,” Rob said, breaking the mates’ code of honour and risking eternal exile from the horsy set. But still Liv felt thrilled. Except for poor Charlie. His girlfriend was in love with someone else. And poor Rob, even though he was rich, he still thought Alex had preferred Charlie to him, and poor Alex, in fact, most poor Alex. Because Alex was now looking at Charlie with the fear of God etched across her face and her head filled with thoughts of her future in penury with penniless Rob.

  “But what about you, Charlie? I’m so sorry,” she said as she remained frozen to the spot. The dance music was now no longer as James was perched high on Dave’s shoulders at the back of the crowd, his Shirley Bassey makeup petrified into a look of expectation along with the rest of the crowd.

  “Me? Oh, sweetheart, I’m all right. I don’t deserve someone as clever as you—you’re wasted on me—and I’m certainly not ready for a kid yet. No, you and Robbie go off and make sure I’m godfather to the little bloke, won’t you?” He went over and put a reassuring arm around Alex, who gave him a huge and grateful hug. “Anyway, I’ve been rooting this weathergirl for a while now, so don’t worry too much about it.” He laughed lecherously and all was returned to normal.

  Well, not exactly normal. Alex and Rob hugged and snogged and patted the baby bump and the fashion crowd turned back to their complimentary bags of knickers and it occurred to Liv that maybe they should launch a perfume to go with the knickers. She was about to tap Alex on the shoulder to remind her to remind Liv tomorrow she should tell her about the great idea she’d had.

  “Alex, just a quickie,” she said but couldn’t be heard. She tapped again.

  “The thing is, I love you even though we’re going to have to struggle through. I love you even though I’m going to have to sell my flat in London to pay for my brother’s college fees. Because I do. I just bloody well love you, Rob, and I love our baby and I’m so glad it’s not going to be spoiled rotten and given silver rattles from Tiffany for its christening and have a nanny and stuff because, well, I didn’t and you didn’t and look at us. We’re great. We’re dirt-poor and we’re wonderful and we know the value of love.” Alex was clearly on a roll and Liv thought it rude to interrupt her. Instead she scribbled the perfume idea on the back of her hand in lip liner and tiptoed away, thinking that very soon indeed Alex would be finding out the value of true love and it was around the billion-dollar mark.

  “Liv, we need to talk.” Ben tapped Liv on the shoulder and she whipped around.

  “Ben, sweetheart . . . do you think we should be—?”

  “Sweetheart?” Amelia screeched. “What the bloody hell is going on here? Since when has my boyfriend been your sweetheart?”

  The music, now accustomed to such excitement, was trained to turn itself down automatically and the crowd resumed their places and faces of expectation as the promise of another scene beckoned. And they thought this was just some little launch party and that they’d all leave at seven-thirty and go to dinner. No way, this was better than de la Guarda. In fact, the editor of Vogue vowed that she’d sponsor Greta’s Grundies’ next party if it was going to be this entertaining. Liv looked at Amelia, who was looking at Ben, who was inspecting his shoes.

  “Well?”

  “Millie, I think we should go outside and discuss this one,” Ben said as he shifted uncomfortably and shot Liv perhaps the filthiest look she’d ever received. What on earth was going on? Was he suddenly blaming her for all this? Oh hell, why had she let slip that “sweetheart”? How could she have been so slack?

  “What, and disappoint our audience?” Amelia shimmered again. But with rage this time. “We’d all really like to know what you and thingy have been getting up to. Wouldn’t we?”

  Liv took “thingy” to be her. Each audience member stared at the dandruff on the shoulders of the person in front of him or her—the well-bred equivalent of baying for blood. Liv wondered if she were about to be lynched.

  She contemplated crawling under the legs of the crowd, between the sea of stilettos, the mass of Gina mules, beneath the Christa Davis skirts and bias-cut hemlines. But then she looked up and realised that she was being watched. Not by the masses who were much more curious to see the beautiful ones arguing than to gaze at the cause of the tiff, i.e., Liv in the borrowed dress and now-wilting hair. She was being watched by Tim. And she suddenly felt very embarrassed to be in this situation. Here she was, reduced to playing the Other Woman, in what amounted to a barroom brawl. So she looked away quickly and ducked down low, taking her first option and crawling under the legs towards the door.

  As she stood up by the door and rubbed her aching knees she came face-to-face with—hell, how did he get here first—Tim.

  “Ha,” she said.

  “Ha?” Tim asked.

  “Ha. Interesting evening.” Liv looked nervously over her shoulder in case the crowd were about to drag her bodily into the stocks.

  �
��Interesting choice of boyfriend.” Tim smiled enigmatically.

  “You know I don’t really have time for this right now, Tim. I may be about to die.” Liv moved into an alcove in the church porch, out of harm’s way.

  “You didn’t tell me you were seeing somebody.” He looked offended.

  “And neither did you.” Liv wondered what Tim had done with the Glamazon this evening. Was she all alone in her hotel room watching Debbie Does Dallas on cable?

  “That’s because I’m not.”

  “Oh, and who was the ‘we’ who were here?” Liv asked. “And who was the girl you were seen with in Sainsbury’s by Alex’s hairdresser?”

  “I’m not seeing anyone. I may have had the odd miserable one-night stand here and there and may have popped to the supermarket with one of them to buy the Sunday papers and a carton of orange juice, but nothing more serious than that. I told you, Liv, I’ve missed you. There’s nobody else.”

  “Oh, come on; you said you were here with someone from Freuds. Was it that Sophie Barker with the nutcracker thighs who wore stockings and suspenders even in winter? Had you swapped phone numbers with her in case you ever managed to lose me? You know: ‘Sophie Barker, why don’t you keep in touch with me in case one day I leave Liv behind on a bus or something?’ Like an umbrella.”

  “I came over with George from Freuds. The guy with the pale eyelashes.”

  “George George?” Liv asked. Her hair now matched her spirits and was leaning, Marge Simpson–like, in Tim’s direction.

  “George George,” Tim confirmed.

  Liv winced. “I’m sorry. I just assumed.”

  “S’okay. So what happened with that guy? He was giving you some pretty dark looks. You in trouble?”

  “With Ben?” Liv peered back to see how the drama was unfolding in the hall. “No. But I wasn’t completely honest with you when we were out on the beach the other day. You see—”

  “Being dishonest’s a bit of a habit then, is it?” Ben had appeared from nowhere and was now standing in front of her. And if she wasn’t mistaken he was shaking.

  “Ben, what on earth’s going on? Did I really land you in it? God, I’m so sorry to leave you in there, but I thought that it was probably for the best and—”

  “So when were you going to break it to me, Liv?”

  “What?” Liv looked at Ben, then at Tim. “Oh, you mean Tim. I should have introduced you. Tim’s just my ex-fiancé. He’s here on holiday. Ben, meet Tim.” Liv smiled.

  “Liv, cut the bullshit.” Ben was deathly pale as he stood in the doorway. “I know what you were playing at. I know about your game.”

  “Ben, what on earth are you talking about?” Liv asked, but of course deep down she knew exactly what he was talking about. There was only one game. He had to mean the dog handling. She had no idea how he knew, but she suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

  “Jesus, and I thought Amelia was immoral and shallow.” He looked at her with undisguised contempt and walked down the path away from the party.

  “Ben!” Liv called. “Wait a minute. I can explain. Please.” Liv ran after him. “Please let me—oh shit—please just listen to me.”

  “Leave it,” he snapped at her, and she stopped running.

  “I listened to you!” she called out after him. “When I thought you’d been a shit and didn’t understand the truth I heard you out. That’s the least you owe me.”

  “I’ve had enough.” He carried on walking.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll come and see you. Explain. You have to let me. Please, Ben.”

  He stopped, turned around, and looked at her with a coldness that made her feel so small and ashamed she could have cried.

  “Four-thirty at mine. Then I’m going on a dig for six weeks. Thank god I won’t so much as have to look at you again. And whatever you have to say better be an awesome reason or don’t bother coming,” he spat, and walked away.

  Had Liv had a G-string handy at that moment she just might have hanged herself from the church doorway. The fashion editors and fractious couples would have had to bend under her dangling shoes and floppy body in order to leave the party. And let them look up her skirt if they wanted. She had nothing left to lose. Least of all dignity. No. There was no hiding place from the wretchedness that was her life.

  “Been looking for you everywhere. You’re a bit of a star, aren’t you? Causing all that trouble. Wooh, baby. Go.” It was James. He came equipped with a bottle of neatest, purest, most inviting whisky.

  Liv looked at it and felt a longing in her heart. Here was a solution to her problems. “I can’t tell you how much I need this right now.” She yanked the bottle from James’s grasp. “Ben knows everything, you know. How in hell’s name did he find out is what I want to know? Do you think Amelia knew somehow and told him? I mean absolutely nobody knows apart from me and Alex and you and Dave . . .” Liv took a swig from the bottle. “What do you think? Where do you think he could have heard about it?” Liv looked at James with bewilderment and shock. Ben had just walked away and god knows whether he was ever going to forgive her. She should have told him about all this when she had the chance. At the house. Now she wondered if he’d ever believe her. “What am I going to do, James?” she pleaded. But James was gone. Scotch mist.

  “Tim, I’m sorry. I should have told you about Ben the other day. I guess I just didn’t quite find the moment. Story of my bloody life.” Liv banged her head in frustration. How many people could she alienate in one day? She slid, followed by a concerned-looking Tim, out of the porch into the vestry. Well, what had been the vestry. It was now the resting place of a few down-and-outs, a lot of rats, and what looked suspiciously like a dead fashion editor but turned out on closer inspection to be a pile of clerical robes in lurid purple.

  “Oh, it’s fine. I forgive you. Now do you want to tell me all about it, my love?” asked Tim as he put his arm around her shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty

  It’ll Take More Than a Triple Espresso

  from Starbucks . . .

  The morning after. None of those eighties horror fables about nuclear war could possibly come close to the devastation that was Liv’s life the next morning. It didn’t take Einstein to work out that Liv was throwing up at eight o’clock because she’d been far too familiar with a bottle last night. God, what happened to high hopes and aspirations? Did they get flushed away down the loo with the rest of Liv’s regrets and stomach contents? She had wanted so badly to be splendid last night. To be not merely a human sequin but a diamond among girls. And now her life was not a little train wreck but a seventeen-car pileup on the M25 complete with jackknifed trucks spilling kerosene.

  “Bleugh . . . oh, help. Oh no.” Liv puked again and sat back against the cool side of the bath. And as she remembered the look on Amelia’s face she felt terrible. Truly horrible. Liv had been quite surprised, in fact, to find that Amelia didn’t just laugh off the idea of Ben and Liv as a riotous joke in bad taste. Which was usually her favourite kind of joke. She actually looked shocked and hurt. Liv had somehow imagined that Amelia didn’t really belong with Ben at all. She sort of thought it a case of first come, first served, and since she’d baggsied him at eighteen all latecomers could shove off. She’d overlooked the small matter of an engagement ring and a looming wedding. Dismissed them as inconsequential.

  “Just because you’re a shallow cow who doesn’t recognise the value of commitment,” Liv mumbled to herself. Then she remembered the episode on the porch. The bottle. Thank god Tim had been there to . . . “Oh god, and what about Tim?” Liv murmured as she flushed the chain.

  “What about Tim?” Standing in the doorway of her bathroom wearing the boxer shorts she’d bought him three Christmasses ago was Tim. Smiling.

  “Aghhhh.” Liv knew it was a rude reaction but couldn’t help herself. “What are you still doing here? Oh my god, we didn’t . . .”

  “Have sex? No, we didn’t.” Of course they didn’t, she realised. I mean, look at the stat
e I’m in. Liv ran her hands through her hair and contemplated another dash to the basin.

  “This reminds me of the time you had bad cod in Brighton.” He knelt down and looked at her closely. “Poor you.” Obviously last night hadn’t taken its toll quite so badly on Tim as it had on Liv. She couldn’t imagine how she looked. He smelled like a shower gel commercial. Zing Man.

  “Thanks, Tim.”

  “My pleasure.” He smiled and handed her a wad of tissue.

  “Oh sure, some philosopher must have said that the meaning of pleasure was your ex-girlfriend on a bathroom floor with whisky breath and a dry tongue and last night’s earring all matted up in her hair. But it’s only pleasurable because you’re ecstatic to be rid of her and know that she’s your ex.”

  “Oh, come on, Liv. You always get depressed when you’ve been drinking. How about you go back to bed for a few hours?”

  “Okay,” Liv conceded, and allowed herself to be picked up like a scrunched-up tissue and tucked back in bed to feel sorry for herself for a while.

  An hour or so later Liv rolled over and the earring that had become a hairball skewered her neck. She yelled out in pain and flung the pillow out onto the balcony. Tim was sitting next to her reading the sports section but on call should she turn green or lose a limb to gout or something. And it was nice having him there. Not the sick to your stomach, can’t touch food, grinning like a lunatic nice of having Ben around, but then her Ben situation wasn’t so nice now that he thought she was the spawn of Satan.

  Liv rolled over and looked up at Tim. “Do you think I’ve made a total mess of my life?” she asked dramatically.

  “I think that’s the bottle talking.” Tim laughed and stroked her forehead.

  “It’s nice to have you around, you know. I’d forgotten how comforting it was.”