Dog Handling

by Clare Naylor

  “Ah, the old-shoe syndrome.”

  “Not old-shoe. It runs so deep with you and me, doesn’t it? I mean we’ve shared a hell of a lot, Tim. I’d been pretending that that didn’t count for anything and that I needed to do all this crazy stuff and that it was more important than quiet, easygoing love. But it’s not. I miss it.”

  “I’m glad. I do, too. I still love you, Liv.”

  “Thanks.” Liv held onto his hand and wished that you could choose who you loved rather than the big hairy perverted hand of fate pointing its finger in a different and stupid direction.

  After Tim was sure that Liv was not about to swallow her tongue he had to go and rescue George of the fair eyelashes from the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, where he was so bored he’d nearly had a perm in the hair salon. Liv squeezed Tim’s hand one more time for luck and went back to sleep. She slept off the whisky and she slept off her sudden churning anxiety that maybe Ben was just another example of lust and it would all go horribly wrong a week after they’d started going out together. Maybe what she had with Tim was the real thing. Something to be relied upon. Maybe Ben was a complete red herring. The glamorous-looking dessert that would be no good for her in the long run. But then she thought of how she’d feel if she were never to see him again and not be able to work things out between them. No, she was completely in love with him. Potty about him. Which was insane and painful because she’d monumentally stuffed up and may never get him back. She just couldn’t help it. She was mad about him.

  When she woke up she still felt that hollow feeling. She saw last night’s dress lying discarded on the floor and decided she was just suffering postparty blues. She tried to count her blessings—how could she not be thrilled with her lot? She was the majority shareholder in a business that, if Tim was telling the truth, was splattered across the social pages of every national, evening, and local paper today and that had even got a mention in Page Six (the breakup of Charlie Timpson’s secret engagement to the blonde in the picture) and was on excellent terms with her ex-fiancé, who had, as Alex predicted, not been able to live without her. Oh, and she got to go round to Ben’s flat this afternoon to discuss why exactly she’d been a bitch on toast and attempted to screw him over. And all that fun stuff.

  The only way forwards was to get up and do something about herself, she decided as she headed for the bathroom. As she pulled on a bathrobe and walked across the living room she glanced at the clock. Five-thirty. Couldn’t be. She wandered back into her bedroom and looked at her alarm clock. Five thirty-two. Ben was meant to be four-thirty.

  “No!” she yelled, and picked up the phone and dragged it to the end of its cord as she cleaned her teeth over the bath. “Taxi. Thirty-four Sutton Street . . . as soon as possible? . . . Thanks.” She spat out and rinsed her hair under the tap. Then rinsed herself under the tap. There wasn’t time for much else. The taxi hooted in the street outside.

  “Bugger. Bugger.” Liv leapt into the nearest handy thing, which was her nightie, and tucked it into the only pair of jeans she had left that fit her. They happened to not do up, so she had to put on a jumper to cover the gaping buttons and the nightie, which smelled strangely of Tim and just a bit of sick.

  “Coming!” Liv yelled as she slopped into some flip-flops and grabbed her bag.

  “Ben, oh my god, I’m sorry.” Liv ran down Ben’s front path towards him.

  He was standing at the front door with a bag in his hand. He looked at the demented sight before him with a frown. “So you were pretty concerned about this whole thing then, weren’t you, Liv, to get here an hour and a half late? Maybe you were hoping I’d have gone, to spare you having to explain what the hell you thought you were doing.” Ben closed the front door behind him and double-locked it. “I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my plane.”

  “The whole dog-handling thing, Ben . . . I didn’t mean it. I mean I don’t know what you heard or where you heard it from, but I never stopped liking you. Never stopped wanting you. Just because I tried to manipulate events and—”

  “Dog handling? So that wasn’t just some label that James and Dave slapped on it. You really viewed what you were doing to me as training a dog.” Ben looked at her with even more derision than he had last night. If that were possible. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and walked right past her towards the gate.

  “It’s stupid, but it wasn’t serious. It was a game, sort of. . . . I mean it was a bit serious but only because I thought you deserved it and then—”

  “What I’m really curious to know is how you could allow me to tell you how I felt and how much I cared about you and not say something about all this.” He opened the car door and threw his bag inside. “Or perhaps that was part of the plan, too, was it?”

  “Well, not exactly, but . . .”

  “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.” The car door slammed and Liv watched him speed off down the road.

  Liv sat down on his front doorstep and rested her head on her knees. She didn’t even have the energy to cry. And neither did she deserve the privilege of crying. She deserved every bit of Ben’s contempt and she deserved to feel this hopeless, because she’d brought it all on herself. Why in hell’s name had she done it? Had it been the power? Feeling desirable again? Why exactly had she not told him? Why had she believed that being deceitful was a means to any end other than misery? She pulled the Biro that was holding her matted locks in place out of her ponytail and grabbed a pizza menu from Ben’s mailbox and began to scrawl a justification, of a kind, until she realised she couldn’t justify her behaviour at all. She was a fucked-up, stupid twit and had got what was coming to her. Which she attempted to convey to Ben in a pleading note until she ran out of ink.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  You Always Get the Dog You Deserve

  Liv sprinted out of the mouth of South Kensington Tube Station and along Pelham Street, pausing for breath by the phone box. As she rounded the corner onto Fulham Road she came to a halt beside the wedding dress shop. The door trilled open and Liv stepped onto the mat. The whole place made her think of the day she and Alex had seen the sexy Frenchman and his perfect girlfriend. She’d imagined that they had the most perfect love imaginable then. Now that she was a little more worldly and less rose-tinted she thought it more likely that the decree nisi would be about to go through soon and Roger would be free to marry the waitress he’d met in Corsica and his perfect girlfriend would be moving to Milan to pursue a modelling career. Still, that didn’t necessarily make marriage a bad idea. And especially not in light of tomorrow’s hastily planned celebration.

  “Hi, I’ve come for the wedding dress.” Liv gritted her teeth and smiled at Delilah, who had lost none of her sneering Frenchness. Heaven only knows what she thought of Liv now with her nose peeling with the last of her Australian tan and her surfer physique and a leftover fake tattoo from last weekend’s trip to Byron Bay. Australia seemed a million miles away now as Liv pulled her old coat even tighter around her and reminded herself to buy some mittens.

  “Ah, yes.” Delilah pulled out a box and opened it for Liv to examine. Tulle and lace and tissue paper spilled out and all that could be seen of the dress was really the tiny embroidered rosebuds that decorated the neckline.

  “That’s the one,” Liv said, and danced impatiently from foot to foot as the assistant packed the dress away and rang up a staggering amount on the till. Liv clutched the bag close to her and pelted onto the street to deal with the next task on her list.

  Once outside the shop Liv pulled a mobile phone out of her handbag and tapped in a number.

  “Hello. Is that Big Top Tent Hire? . . . Good. My name’s Liv Elliot. . . . Yes, I know I never paid the amount in full, but I wonder if it’s still possible to have the Bedouin one. With the midnight blue stripes? . . . Oh, only green left? Does it look like a tube of Aqua-fresh? . . . Are you sure? . . . Okay, I’ll take it. . . . Yes, same date as before. This Saturday. One-thirty. . . . Thanks very much.” And she thrust her pho
ne back into her bag and crossed those two things off her list. Forget manicures and hairdos tomorrow morning. It was all Liv could do to make sure the guests had something to drink and a vicar to perform the ceremony. Now she knew why she’d been so daunted by all the preparation the first time around. It wasn’t easy.

  “Tim called.” Alex yelled from the other room where she was lying on the bed with her feet up so that her swollen ankles didn’t escape from beneath her trousers. “Said could you call him as soon as possible; he needs to firm up the plans for tomorrow morning.”

  Liv put the wedding dress down on a chair, unwrapped the layers, and wandered through into Alex’s bedroom.

  “Success?”

  “Yep.” Liv sat down on the bed and patted Alex’s protruding little tummy. “How are you feeling? You’ll be okay for tomorrow, won’t you?” Liv asked nervously.

  “Sure. Just a bit tired. Rob can carry me. If he ever comes back from the pub,” Alex sighed. Pregnancy had made her just a bit tired and emotional and occasionally homicidal, but apart from that she was coping with her expanding waistline quite joyfully.

  “So what shall we do for a hen night?” Liv looked around Alex’s flat. Only the remnants of her past life remained. Now it was all boxes and suitcases and the stuff of transitory visitors like Walkmans and baseball caps and old pizza delivery leaflets. Everything else had been shipped out to Australia in preparation for the birth of the Little Bloke, as the bump was known, and Alex and Rob’s new life in the country.

  “There’s Scrabble. Monopoly. ER. Pizzas and beer,” Alex said.

  “Yeah. Last of the party animals, eh?” Liv laughed. “Oh, and I got a message from Mum earlier. Said would it be okay if a couple of the guests crashed here tomorrow night, as our house is full. Mum’s already got camp beds up in the garden shed.”

  “Not a problem at all. So let’s start with Monopoly. Then if we feel like it we can head for Stringfellows, pick up a couple of underage lads, ply them with booze, and make them paint our toenails,” Alex suggested.

  “Our toenails?” asked Liv, wondering if this was a very sexy thing to do that she’d missed out on.

  “But I don’t think I can reach my toenails right now,” Alex lied as she patted Bump.

  “Oh, you’re right—it’s much harder to reach your toes than to do thirty Salutes to the Sun every day and half an hour of shoulder stands, isn’t it?” Liv nodded sarcastically. “In which case, let’s skip underage lads. I’ll paint your toenails, and you can hand-feed me pizza. Sound good?”

  “Like a hen night made in heaven.” Alex nodded.

  The weather on Saturday morning couldn’t have been better for a wedding. In the country Elizabeth woke up early, stepped in a half-eaten packet of biscuits, and went downstairs to defrost the chocolate cake that had been sitting in her freezer since last September.

  “Finally found a use for it. Blair,” she muttered to the cat as she removed the cake from the Tupperware container and placed it in the sun on the windowsill. “Thought I might have to give it to the old folks home at one point. Not sure they’d have wanted it, though. They’re very strict about pensioners’ diets these days. I imagine chocolate is a bit of a no-no. Though if I were old it’d be chocolate for breakfast, lunch, and supper.”

  Blair yelped for milk and Lenny put his head around the kitchen door. “Okay, well, we’ve got the tent in place. Looks a bit like a harem, but don’t think she’ll mind.” Lenny had been up since five this morning clearing old climbing frames out of the way and salvaging tennis balls so the dance floor could be laid.

  “I think that was probably the intention; then we can all be very louche and decadent. Must say I can’t wait. You don’t mind if I dance with a few of the young men, do you?” Elizabeth practised a few steps she’d learned in her ecstatic-dancing class. “You do think my blue silk dressing gown’s okay, don’t you? Only it’s such short notice. I mean I’ll wear a hat and it’ll look like it’s proper clothing, I hope?” Elizabeth asked somewhat spuriously.

  Lenny always thought she looked a million dollars. “Last word in chic, my love.” Only he pronounced it “chick.” He kissed the back of her head and made for the bathroom. Elizabeth smiled dreamily and looked out her kitchen window but could only make out the green stripes that were obscuring her view. Still it made a change from looking at last summer’s barbecue, which was full of leaves and rain and a bit of vegeburger the cats had left in disgust.

  “Mum, we’re here.” Liv came tumbling in the back door followed by Alex and an assortment of bags. They’d caught the early train from Waterloo because neither of them had been able to sleep a wink due variously to excitement, crazy pizza dreams, and kicking bumps.

  “Ah, Liv, Tim’s here already. He’s just upstairs and should be—”

  “About time, too. I thought you’d got cold feet.” Tim put his head around the kitchen door and Liv looked at him and laughed.

  “Oy, we’re not supposed to see each other today. It’s our wedding day—remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Tim gave Alex and then Liv a peck on the cheek each. “Just as well we’re not getting married then, isn’t it, or it’d be a bad omen or something.” Tim laughed as he helped himself to a handful of jammy dodgers and crammed two in at once.

  “It really is sweet of you to come and help out, you know, Tim.” Elizabeth patted him on the shoulder and handed him a mug of tea. “I do think it’s a shame you’re not going to be my son-in-law.”

  “Yeah, but this way Liv and I will always be friends. Instead of making some dumb mistake that we regret.” Tim grinned. “Not that Alex and Rob are making a mistake—I can’t believe how well you guys get on. All Rob talked about on his stag night was you. He wanted us to break into Hyde Park Barracks to nick a couple of horses and ride to South Ken and serenade you on horseback.”

  “Are you sure he’s still in one piece?” Alex asked nervously.

  “Tucked up in my spare room like a baby when I left this morning.”

  “Thanks, Tim. Thanks, both of you, in fact. Isn’t it just a bit weird having Rob and me borrow your wedding day like this? I mean it must seem odd . . . Liv wearing her wedding dress to be the bridesmaid, having the flowers that you chose together?” Alex looked at Liv and Tim as they went halves on the last garibaldi in the tin.

  “Not even slightly,” they both chimed up at the same moment.

  “See, opposites attract. Tim and I are too much like brother and sister, aren’t we?” Liv turned to Tim.

  “Sadly, angel, I think you’re right.” Since he’d arrived back from Australia six weeks ago Tim had thought a lot about Liv and really did believe that they could be happy together, and they might have been. Except that the next week he ran into, of all people, Sophie Barker, whom he’d worked with at Freuds. And if Liv hadn’t pointed out that Sophie had fabulous thighs like nutcrackers and wore stockings even in winter he might not have asked her out for a drink. But he was glad he had now, because on top of her Glamazonness she was also very sweet and surprisingly clever and had a golf handicap of eleven. Which Liv, in spite of all her wonderful qualities, was never likely to have. And besides, it was always much more fun being a guest at a wedding than having your own, or so he’d been told.

  “Now, Alex, do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” asked Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth and Alex chipped back and forth with baby banter.

  “Oh, I remember how it was with Liv. Nine pounds, seven ounces. Bigger than our turkey that year.”

  “Oh god, Mum. It’s probably a good job that I’m not getting married or any potential husband would have run for the hills with you reminding him of my heiferish beginnings.”

  “Now tell me, love, are you going back to Sydney after the wedding?” Elizabeth asked. She had no clue what Liv’s plans were as they’d only spoken briefly on the phone a few days ago when Liv had called to ask if the offer of the garden and sausage rolls for the wedding still stood. Apart from that Elizabeth was clueles
s. Still, that wasn’t an unusual state of affairs. She’d only learned about Liv’s success with Greta’s Grundies (dreadful name, she thought, reminded her of gym knickers) via a piece in Woman’s Own about what the stars wore under their frocks. It had been a proud moment and the cutting had been on the fridge door. Though it didn’t seem to be there anymore.

  “I’ll go back in a few weeks, yes. But I’ve got to go to New York next week to have a meeting with the woman from Barneys.” Liv and Alex looked at each other and burst into shrieks of excitement. They still hadn’t come to terms with the unprecedented success of GG. Thanks to the huge amount of publicity the party had attracted and then even more column inches when Amelia very loudly resigned her post as spokesmodel, things had been going really well. It had definitely set tongues wagging. And you know how these things are in fashion. One minute a cronky sewing machine in a bed-sit, the next Giorgio is asking you for a weekend in his palazzo. Not that this had happened yet exactly and Liv was paying her own airfare to New York and planning to stalk the buyer at Barneys and strew her path with bras rather than actually having an official appointment, but still . . . things were looking good.

  “But as Charlie’s said I can have the beach cottage for as long as I like, I think it would be silly not to go back. And Sydney’s so great. It’s too beautiful to leave just yet.” Liv finished her tea and thought of the colour of the sea and the sky and lunch on the seafront in Bondi and surfing in the early morning when the air was still sharp and damp and the balmy evenings and cicadas and jasmine trees. Much as she loved London, she wasn’t ready to come back just yet.

  “What about this gorgeous young man I heard about a while ago?” Elizabeth asked.