by Matt Dunn
“Doug!” she scolds, hurrying over to us, as Arthur leaps to his feet.
“Hey, no harm done,” he says, reaching down and righting his coffee cup to prevent any further spillage.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No need. Doug, you said?”
Julie nods. “My dad,” she says, giving me a look as I sit at Arthur’s feet.
In truth, I don’t normally like to do this with people I don’t know, but duty calls, and all that.
“As in your dad came up with it, rather than Doug’s actually named after, you know, your...?” Arthur smiles hesitantly. “Well, the name suits him. If only because it rhymes. He is a pug, right?”
“Right,” says Julie. So far, she’s not looking all that impressed at Arthur’s attempts at conversation. “Sorry about your coffee. He doesn’t normally do that.”
“More of a tea dog, is he?”
It’s a good line, but even though Arthur is being particularly charming—and very good about the fact that I’ve interrupted his day and spilled his coffee—Julie doesn’t seem to be responding.
“Mmm,” she says, which is difficult to decode, then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of loose change. “Can I get you another?”
“Get me?”
Arthur’s frowning, as if he’s trying to work out whether Julie means she’ll get him one, or whether they’ll get one together, but it’s clear to me from the way Julie’s counting out a few pound coins she’s meant “give you the money for” as opposed to any accompanied replacement.
“Don’t worry,” says Arthur, quickly. “I’d pretty much finished it. And what was left had gone cold.”
A bit like the mood here, I think.
I know he’s probably said that to spare Julie’s feelings, but it’s mine that are hurting. My plan had been that she’d have to buy him another, maybe they’d have gone to the café together, where he’d have insisted she join him, they’d get chatting over a couple of Dot’s cappuccinos, and... Zing!
But either Julie’s too wrapped up in the Luke situation to have remembered Priya’s advice on the phone last night, or—and it’s probably more likely given her recent mood and yesterday’s admission—she can’t countenance that someone might find her attractive enough to flirt with her.
“I’m Arthur, by the way,” says Arthur, after a silence so awkward it occurs to me to just drag Julie away to put him out of his misery. “And you are...?”
“Sorry Doug spilled your coffee. Aren’t we, Doug?”
At the mention of my name, I look up again. Unless I do something, things are going to be over very quickly. I reach a paw up and—checking it isn’t too muddy—paw at Arthur’s shin. All I’m trying to do is encourage him, but in the face of Julie’s standoffishness, I wouldn’t blame him for walking away right now, something he seems to be actively considering given the look on his face.
But while I’m feeling sorry for him, I feel even more badly for Julie: I’ve sat on her lap often enough while she’s been watching these staged “reality” programs on television to have a basic idea of what flirting is, and I’d presumed all I had to do to make sure Julie got over Luke was to get her in front of someone else who’d find her attractive. But the other flaw in my plan seems to be that Julie needs to find them attractive too.
Up close, it’s easy to see that in terms of human attractiveness, Arthur’s no Luke. Judging by the park’s clientele, not many people are. And if Tom doesn’t turn out to be either, this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
“Right, well...” Julie retracts my leash to its shortest, and nods curtly at Arthur, who’s looking a little mystified, perhaps wondering what he’s done wrong. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him.
As she pulls me away along the path, I look back over my shoulder, and see a more-than-a-little bewildered-looking Arthur sit back down on a dry part of the bench. As he shrugs, makes a face, and returns to his book, I slow my pace, wondering if it’s worth another go. But Julie evidently has other ideas, as she quickens hers.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says, as we hurry past the pond.
And I wish I could ask her the exact same question.
* * *
We’re walking past the café when I hear Dot whistle loudly. She’s standing beneath a large sign that reads Park Café, which—although it’s possibly not the most original of names—to quote another of Julie’s dad’s favorite phrases, “it does what it says on the tin.”
Suspecting this is part of Dot’s grand plan, I change direction smartly, give a little tug on my leash, and guide Julie across to where Dot’s waiting.
“Hello, love,” she says. “How’s it hanging?”
“Oh, you know,” says Julie, the slightest notch up from miserably. “You?”
“Lower and lower the older I get, unfortunately.” Dot cackles a little, then says, “Listen, love, have you got a moment?”
Julie looks at her like someone who’s got a lot more than a moment. “Sure,” she says, as cheerfully as she can muster, which admittedly isn’t very. “What’s up?”
“Well... This is a bit awkward, but...” Dot lowers her voice, even though there’s no one within earshot. “You know how I’ve been trying to get your dad to ask me out for ages, but despite me dropping hint after hint, no joy. So I was thinking... I’m having a little ‘do’ at my house this evening. A barbecue. Nothing fancy. But if you and Doug wanted to come, perhaps you could bring along...” Dot lets her voice tail off, and looks expectantly at the two of us, waiting for Julie to finish the sentence for her.
“A bottle?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a certain piece of meat?”
“I’m sorry, Dot, I don’t?”
“Prime aged steak. Of sorts,” says Dot, then she breaks into a grin. “You know exactly what—or rather, who—I mean.”
I let out a short bark, then hope Julie assumes it was at the mention of steak. This is a brilliant plan. However miserable she might be feeling, I know she’s desperate for her dad to bounce back. And by Dot shifting the focus to his happiness, Julie can’t possibly refuse.
As I wonder whether that’s something I can possibly exploit in the future, Julie’s eyes widen in understanding. “Sorry, Dot. I’m not with it today. You mean my dad?”
“I do. Do you think he’ll come?”
Julie gives Dot’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll do my best. You know what he’s like, though.”
“Thanks, love. Maybe tell him you’d feel awkward coming on your own. That sort of thing.”
“Good plan. I’ll see what I can do. What time do you want us?”
“Sixish?”
“Address?”
Dot doesn’t repeat her “wear what you like” joke. “Church Street,” she says instead. “Number seven.”
“Okay,” says Julie. “And, apart from my dad, what can I bring?”
“Just yourselves,” says Dot, then she smiles down at me and adds, “and a healthy appetite.”
And for a number of reasons, I can’t help but snort approvingly.
* * *
Julie’s dad just happens to conveniently pop over for a visit that afternoon. He has obviously missed his vocation as an actor, because when Julie suggests to him that he accompany her to Dot’s barbecue, his reluctance sounds pretty plausible.
“Tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“Dot’s house. Well, strictly speaking, her garden.”
“Right. Ha. Yes.” Julie’s dad sighs melodramatically. “I’m not sure, love.”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty short notice.”
“And you’ve got something else planned, have you?”
“Maybe.”
“Such as?”
&nb
sp; “It’s the weekend. I’ve got loads to do before Monday.”
“Such as?”
“Well, things.”
“You’re retired. You can do ‘things’ any day.”
“Yes, but, a barbecue...”
“Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian all of a sudden?”
“Okay, okay. But...”
“But what?” says Julie, exasperatedly.
“You’re sure this isn’t some kind of setup?” says Julie’s dad, employing a classic case of double bluff, like when I run for a ball Luke’s cruelly pretended to throw.
“Dot actually invited me,” says Julie. “I’m only asking you because I’d feel awkward going on my own—no offense, Doug. Plus you’re the one who suggested I needed to get out more, Dad.”
“So you’re going?”
“If that’s okay?” says Julie, sarcastically. “Though I promise not to play the chaperone.”
Julie’s dad mock-glares at her, and then, with all the gravitas of someone agreeing to donate a kidney, he nods. “Okay,” he says, winking down at me so Julie can’t see. “It’s a date.”
And I can’t help but wag my tail. Because it is.
7
Dot’s house is a neat, white-painted terrace just off the High Street, with the most aromatic lamppost just outside that on any other day I’d like to spend longer sniffing. We’ve stopped by and picked Julie’s dad up on the way—he went home to take a little rest—and he’s dressed up for the occasion, which means he’s wearing what are according to him his best shorts. When Julie points out they’re his only shorts, his retort “doesn’t mean they’re not my best ones, does it?” makes her roll her eyes.
Julie’s wearing a pair of jeans with lots of rips in them as if they’re really old, despite the fact she only bought them last week, and that I overheard her tell Priya they were very expensive.
Julie’s brought a bottle of sparkling wine, which is apparently a level up from the regular variety, and her dad’s brought some lager, because “it’s a barbecue,” a choice Julie’s tutted at even though there are six bottles to her one. They’re both behaving a little strangely, although they’re also doing their best to act normal, possibly because they each think the other one’s being set up. And while only one of them is technically correct, I’m hoping they’ll both get more than just some char-grilled meat from this evening.
We’re dead on time (thanks to Julie’s dad making us stand round the corner for four minutes so as not to be early), and at almost the precise moment he rings the doorbell, Dot throws the door open. She’s got sooty hands, and a smudge of something black on her cheek, but it doesn’t stop her embracing Julie, and then—perhaps a little awkwardly—Julie’s dad.
“You made it,” she says, as if we’ve just crossed the finish line at the end of a marathon, rather than walked less than half a mile to get here.
“We did!” announces Julie, in the same manner.
“We’re not early, are we?” says Julie’s dad, which is a little strange, given that he’s made sure we aren’t.
“Right on time!”
Julie’s dad beams, as if he’s just been awarded a medal. “Great. We brought...”
“Oh, how sweet.” Dot takes the carrier bag he’s holding out. “My favorite!”
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“It’s a bag that contains alcohol. So my favorite!” Dot grins at him, then stands back to let us pass. “Come on through.”
We troop inside, Dot stooping to give me a welcome chuck under the chin as I trot by, then she escorts us through the house and out into the back garden, where a tall, relatively-regular-looking-from-the-rear-for-a-human man around Julie’s age is dressed in an apron, poking at the barbecue with a long, metal fork.
I must admit, I’m a little nervous—Tom’s a V-E-T, after all—but this isn’t about me.
“Something smells nice,” says Julie’s dad.
“Thanks. It’s my new aftershave.” The man at the barbecue spins round, smiling, and takes the three of us in, perhaps spending a second or two longer on Julie. “Sauvage,” he adds, elongating the second syllable, pronouncing it in the proper French way.
I look up at Julie as she unclips my leash, willing her to make some flirty response, to no avail. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised given her earlier encounter with Arthur in the park. Though on closer inspection, it appears that her lack of response is because she appears to be having trouble speaking.
Dot eyes Julie’s dad surreptitiously, as if to say told you. Then Tom makes a “duh!” face. “Oh, you meant the barbecue,” he says, and Julie lets out a rather over-the-top laugh.
“Julie, Jim, this is Tom. My boy.”
I peer intently at Tom, wondering whether he’s of the good variety. Despite the friendly welcome, it’s a little early to tell, and like I said, he’s a V-E-T. Besides, Luke can be charming when it suits him.
“Jim,” says Tom, shaking Julie’s dad’s hand. Then he leans in to kiss Julie hello, though he goes for one of those continental, double-cheek-kiss greetings. Julie’s had the same idea, though unfortunately she’s turned the opposite side cheek to the one Tom’s gone for, which means they end up kissing each other briefly on the lips. And then, embarrassingly, each of them tries to correct their mistake by going for the other cheek, which means they end up doing exactly the same thing again.
“Sorry,” says Tom, just as Julie says, “Sorry” too, though neither of them actually look sorry.
“No... That’s...” Julie’s cheeks darken, then she takes a step backward and nearly trips over me. “And by the way, you do. Smell. Nice, I mean.”
“Thanks.” Now Tom’s cheeks are matching hers. “Like I said. It’s...”
“Savage,” says Julie, in the English way.
“And this is Doug,” says Dot, nodding down at me.
“Hey, Doug,” Tom says, and I immediately like the fact he doesn’t make a silly comment about my name, so as he kneels down to pet me hello, I snort encouragingly, and take the opportunity to study him from close up. True to Dot’s description, he appears to have both hair and teeth. I lick his hand, and when he doesn’t recoil, take that as a good sign, and go in for another, a bit like Julie’s “double-kiss” greeting, though for some reason, Julie seems just as embarrassed by my reaction.
“Doug!” she scolds, but Tom laughs it off.
“No, that’s fine,” he says. “You know, the reason dogs lick us is because they know we’ve got bones inside?”
Julie widens her eyes. “Really?”
“Er, not really, no,” says Tom, with a grin. “That was a joke. My, um, only one.”
“Good one, though,” says Julie’s dad.
“Bedside manner,” says Tom, then he answers Julie’s frown with: “I’m a V-E-T.”
“Oh,” says Julie, tilting her head like I often do. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.” Tom scratches the back of my head. “He’s a healthy-looking chap. What is he? Four?”
“Nearly five,” says Julie. “We think.”
“Oh. Right. Did you adopt him, or...?”
“What, as opposed to Doug being my biological dog?” says Julie, then she lets out a loud (and somewhat superfluous) peal of laughter to underline the fact that this scientific impossibility is, in fact, a joke. “He’s a rescue,” she says, somewhat unnecessarily.
Tom raises both eyebrows, and nods in an “impressed” way. “Good for you,” he says, leaping nimbly back to his feet, then the four of them stand there awkwardly.
“Can I help you with that?” says Julie’s dad, nodding at the barbecue.
“With what?” says Tom, as if he’s forgotten all about the delicious meaty smells emanating from the contraption behind him.
“Only you look like you’ve run out of charcoal.”
�
��Oh. No.” Tom clangs his knuckles on the bright orange cylinder underneath the grill. “I’ve got gas.”
“Hence the aftershave,” says Julie, fanning her nose with her hand, before letting out another identical peal of laughter.
Tom starts to splutter. “No, I didn’t mean...”
“I’m teasing,” Julie says, punching him lightly on the shoulder, then her eyes flick awkwardly between her dad and Dot, as if she’s suddenly remembered they’re here too.
“Can I get anyone a drink?” says Dot, quickly.
“Let me help you,” says Julie’s dad, but Dot waves him away.
“No need,” she says, indicating the garden corner to the right of the kitchen door. A large, inflatable paddling pool full of iced water is there, in which are immersed enough bottles of beer and wine to satisfy the whole street’s thirst. “In fact, why don’t you all just help yourselves? I spend enough time serving drinks in my day job.”
Julie bursts out laughing again—a bit overenthusiastically, perhaps, but that’s probably as a result of the weird effect Tom seems to be having on her. Despite Dot’s encouragement, no one seems to want to be the first to get themselves a drink. I’m thirsty, so—taking advantage of the fact that Julie’s let me off my leash—I trot over and start lapping at the icy water, though I’ve hardly had any before I hear Julie’s plaintive “Doug!” I stop what I’m doing and look round at her with my best “what?” face.
“Don’t worry,” says Dot, laughing again. “I did say help yourselves.”
“So, Tom.” Julie’s dad chinks his beer bottle against Tom’s. “Dot tells me you’ve just moved back here?”
“Yeah.” Tom jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. “Back in my old bedroom. You know, it still has the Chelsea Football Club duvet cover I had when I was fifteen?”
“That’s depressing.”
