by Natalie Cox
“Fiancée. The problem is that it’s wrong. And infidelity is always a bad launchpad for a relationship.”
“OK, so persuade him to break up with her first.”
I frown. Constance isn’t the only reason, I think. As nice as Hugo is, his kiss was only barely a six. I suspect Bovine Cal would score much higher. But I definitely can’t go there. “Actually, I think Hugo’s still in love with his childhood sweetheart,” I say.
“Really?”
I tell Sian about Hugo and Bonnie and the Band of the Household Cavalry.
“No way!” she says. “Owen and I adore that band! We just went to see them play Christmas carols on the Mall.”
“I thought you hated the monarchy.”
“I do. But I still like the trappings. Anyway, what’s not to love about horses and horns? And the uniforms are fabulous! They wear shiny black, thigh-high boots, and gold jackets. Owen has been begging me for a trumpet for Christmas.”
“Good luck with that.”
“It’s way cheaper than a pony.”
“True.” Sian is nothing if not pragmatic.
“So . . . are there really no decent prospects for romance in the West Country?” she asks. “What happened to the brooding vet?”
Something inside me curls with shame. “He’s taken, apparently. Plus, he thinks I’m reckless.”
“Ah.” An awkward silence follows.
“Sian, this is the point where you’re supposed to reassure me that I’m not.”
“Right,” she says. “You’re not. Most of the time.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“What happened to the Star Trek guy?” she asks.
“What Star Trek guy?”
“You know, the one who helps you with the dogs. The Vulcan.”
“Valko?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing really. He’s perfectly nice. If a bit . . . odd.”
“So? Odd can be good.”
“He’s not really my type.”
“In what way.”
“Um . . . physically.”
“Don’t be so shallow! You two could be Beauty and the Beast.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because he lives in a caravan. Not a castle. And I can’t sing.”
“That film has a very important message. Don’t overlook what’s in front of you.”
“The dogs are in front of me. Or, at least, beside me.”
“I’m serious. Beauty and the Beast is our top-fave film ever. Owen and I must have watched it like nine million times. Except now Owen thinks there’s a little man with a French accent living inside our alarm clock.”
“Anyway, I’m pretty sure Valko’s already got something going with the local pig farmer.”
“Wow,” she muses. “You can’t even compete with a pig farmer?”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Sounds like you’ve only got one option left.”
“What’s that?”
“The dogs.”
I look over at Judd and Hulk, who are gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. Even they are already taken. But there’s always Slab.
“Yep,” I say.
“You could do worse,” says Sian.
* * *
After I hang up, I remain glued to the sofa, overwhelmed by the crapness of my life. I realize now that dog days do not only occur in late summer. The fact is, life can paralyze you at any time. All the resolution I felt upon waking seems to have ebbed away, like someone reached in and pulled the plug on my spirit.
Slab leans up against me, snoring, and I fondle his ears absentmindedly. Apart from his smell, he really is rather sweet. He has a gently imploring way about him, as if to say: please don’t give up on me. I look down at him. Perhaps his life, too, has not gone quite according to plan. Perhaps he would not have chosen to be institutionalized in his final years. Perhaps he misses his former owners, or perhaps he would have preferred a livelier household. One with children, say. Or cats. Or maybe he would have loved to spend his days by the sea, to be a beach dog, chasing rocks, biting at seaweed, jumping in and out of waves. But he didn’t get to choose. Slab has had to make the best of things. He has persevered. And so must I.
Outside the sky is leaden, and the temperature has plummeted even lower. I drag myself off the sofa and pull on three quilted jackets, one atop the other, as well as two scarves, a woolly hat, and two odd mittens, because I cannot find a matching pair. When I’m finished I look like a West Country version of the Michelin Man in random shades of hunter green mixed with country plaids. My plum puddings will definitely be toasty.
I commandeer all five dogs and frog-march them out to the paddock in a rough formation, where they sniff halfheartedly at the frost before squatting gingerly in the face of the biting wind. Malcolm stands facing east, his pale pink nostrils quivering, as if he can smell Hugo from afar, and I think again about what Hugo said last night. Maybe he and I are both serial failures. Having watched my mother navigate a long string of disastrous marriages, and my father use the jump seat after only one, it occurs to me that serial failure might even be an inherited trait: perhaps I am genetically programmed to fail at relationships.
When we get back inside, the phone is ringing. “Good morning,” says Gerry cheerily when I answer.
“I was just going to call you,” I say, which might even be true. “To thank you for the drink the other evening.”
“No thanks needed. We were delighted to have you along.”
We, I think. Gerry is part of a we. And I am part of an I. That is my genetic destiny. I’d better face up to it.
“I was just ringing to say that a very large parcel has arrived,” she says. “In fact, it’s more like a shipping container.”
“Really?” All at once I brighten. I’d virtually given up on the TV delivery before the holiday, but maybe Father Christmas really does exist. “That’s fantastic,” I say. “I’ll be right over.”
Simple pleasures, I think, as I jump into the Škoda. I may be terminally single, but I can still be a cultural slag.
Maybe the dogs and I will watch Beauty and the Beast.
* * *
When I pull up to the post office, the first thing I see is Cal’s old blue Volvo parked outside. Damn. I assumed he’d be at the surgery. I really do not want to come face-to-face with him so soon after last night’s unfortunate episode. But I really do want the TV, so I park the Škoda and go inside. When I enter, Gerry is behind the counter sorting out the post, and a massive wooden crate sits in front of the counter off to one side. Fortunately, Cal is nowhere to be seen, and I feel a little flare of relief. With any luck I can be in and out in a trice. Gerry looks up and smiles.
“There you are,” she says, nodding to the crate propped against the wall. “Good thing you warned me it was coming. I might have refused delivery.” She laughs.
“Wow.” I turn to the crate. It is far, far bigger than I expected, rising almost to my chest and taking up half the wall in width. Surely it can’t be twenty-two inches? I peer at a label on the side and buried among the fine print I see that, in fact, it is sixty-two inches! How did I manage to order a sixty-two-inch television without realizing? And what on earth did it cost? On top of that, the crate has been trussed up like a small-arms shipment, with a wooden frame and miles of tightly wrapped cellophane, which will no doubt require a small army of ninjas to open. I’m not sure it will even fit in the Škoda. “OK, well, I’ll just see if I can . . .” I try lifting one end and realize that there is absolutely no way I will be able to move it on my own. And it is much too heavy for Gerry to help.
“Why don’t I call Cal?” she offers. “He’s in the back.”
“Oh no,” I say quickly. “I’m sure I can manag
e.”
But she has already walked to the back of the shop and is bellowing his name loudly while I cringe. After a moment, Cal appears. Once again he is color coordinated: this time it’s a royal blue crewneck sweater that makes his eyes look like they are lit from inside. I swear the man practically glows blue: like a tall, handsome Smurf. When he sees me he stops short and his gaze suddenly darkens like a mood ring.
“Oh,” he says. He does not smile.
“She can’t possibly move that carton on her own,” says Gerry, completely oblivious to Cal’s reaction. “Be a darling and help her take it out, won’t you?”
Cal looks from me to the crate, drawing a breath through his nostrils. His jaw is clenched tight. I can just make out a tiny pulse throbbing on one side. He nods once, and without a word crosses around to the front of the counter, positioning himself on the other side of the box. Together we lift it and stagger toward the door, which Gerry quickly opens for us.
“What the hell is in here, anyway?” he mutters as we descend the steps.
“Um . . . just something for the house,” I say, grunting with effort. Technically, this is not a lie. Every home should have one.
“Like a new boiler?”
Ah. Well that would have been a good idea. But if the dogs and I sit close enough to the screen, it might just keep us warm. I do not answer him because, really, it is none of his business. We set the carton down beside the Škoda and I open the back door. He looks at me as if I’m mad.
Because it is blindingly obvious that the crate will not fit in the Škoda.
“Um . . . It won’t fit,” I say.
“No kidding.” There is no mistaking the hostility in his tone. He is obviously furious about last night, although he has no right to be. I glare at him and take a step forward.
“What is your problem?” I hiss quietly, aware that Gerry is just inside.
“My problem? I’m not the one who—” He stops himself.
“Look, I don’t judge you for your ch-choices,” I stammer.
“Oh! Is that what you were doing last night?” he interjects. “Choosing?”
I stare at him uncertainly. What exactly is he getting at?
“Maybe that’s because my choices aren’t so stupid,” he continues, practically spitting the words at me. “And what do you know about my choices, anyway? You know nothing about me.”
Gerry has come to the door and is watching us through the glass. I glance over and see her frown. She opens the door and calls out. “Cal! You’ll have to take it over for her in the Volvo!”
He turns to me expectantly but says nothing.
No. Absolutely not.
I will not grovel to this man.
Cal crosses his arms over his chest and waits.
I breathe in. He is sure to offer. If I can just hold on.
But he doesn’t. I wait another long moment.
Truly, he is rudeness incarnate.
Gerry leans out again from the doorway. “Cal?” she calls, a little puzzled.
Cal fixes me resolutely with his stormy blue gaze.
I exhale. Really, it is more like a snort.
“Would. You. Mind.” I say. Though I do not form it as a question.
He jerks his head toward the Volvo, then bends down to lift the box. When we finish loading it into the back of the car, he slams the door.
“I’ll have to drop it off later,” he says curtly. “I’m due at the surgery now.”
“Fine,” I snap. I start to turn away but hesitate. He is doing me a favor, after all. “Thanks,” I add. But I needn’t have bothered.
Because he climbs into the car and drives off without a word.
I return to the shop, where Gerry has gone back to sorting the post. “Thanks very much for your help,” I say.
She turns and smiles. “A pleasure,” she says.
I laugh uneasily. “I’m afraid he didn’t seem very pleased.”
“Who? Cal?” She waves a hand. “Don’t mind him. Mornings aren’t his best.”
I really do not want to hear what Cal is like in the mornings.
“He’s always been that way,” she continues. “Ever since he was a little boy. He used to eat his breakfast cereal under the table, so he wouldn’t have to speak to us.” She laughs. I stare at her.
Oh my God.
Not only am I stupid. But I’m a world-class idiot.
Gerry is Cal’s mum.
* * *
Harold and Maude! What was I thinking? As I barrel down the road I run through the reasons that led me astray. First, there was the fact that they have different surnames. Second, there was the gift of the poinsettia, not to mention Cal’s embarrassment when he gave it. Then the deliberately chaste kiss of thanks. Deliberately chaste because she is his mother.
Crap. What must he think of me?
All at once I understand what he meant by choosing. Cal thinks that I have chosen Hugo over him. Hugo, who is already engaged to Constance. And who is barely a six. I really am genetically programmed to fail.
chapter
17
By the time I get home I’m feeling low. Maybe not stick-your-head-in-the-oven low, but definitely eat-your-way-through-an-entire-pint-of-Ben-and-Jerry’s-Karamel-Sutra low. Which I do. But afterward, I only feel worse. So I do what I should have done in the first place: I call my father on Skype.
When he answers, he looks at me dubiously. “Charlie, what’s that you’re wearing?” he asks. I instantly fold my arms over my chest. I’d completely forgotten about my plum puddings.
“Just something I found in Jez’s wardrobe,” I say, coloring. But then I peer at him, because he, too, is dressed in seasonally strange garb. My father is not exactly fashion-forward. His preferred look is a plain white business shirt, and on a day when he’s feeling especially daring, he might don a pale blue version. But today he appears to be dressed in a bright red tunic with silver embroidery around the collar. He looks like a skinny Russian version of Kris Kringle. “I might as well ask you the same,” I say.
He sighs and dabs at the shirt with his fingertips. “It’s some sort of traditional Russian garb. My colleagues gave it to me last night. We had a small departmental celebration, so I thought it would be diplomatic to wear it today.” He pulls at the collar uncomfortably. “It’s meant to be linen. But I have a feeling it’s something less . . . benign.”
“I’m not sure it’s you.”
“I’m not sure it’s anyone,” he says. “Are you OK?” His forehead creases with concern. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until Christmas Day.”
I sigh. “OK is a relative construct.”
“You’re not still suffering headaches, are you?”
“No. My head is fine. But I think my heart might be concussed.”
“Oh, Charlie.” His voice is so full of sympathy it makes me want to cry.
Instead, I tell him about Hugo and Cal, and my theory that I am genetically programmed to fail.
“I’m not sure genetics enters into it,” he says gently. “I think when it comes to relationships, nurture wins over nature. But you haven’t exactly had the best models in your mother and me. And for that I can only apologize.”
“I blame Mum more than you,” I say grudgingly.
“She seems very happily settled now,” he points out.
“Fifth time lucky,” I reply, my voice laced with sarcasm.
“It took her a long time to decide what she wanted in a partner,” he says equably.
“It took her a long time to find a partner who could tolerate her.”
“Don’t be so harsh, Charlie.”
“What about you, Dad? When will you find someone you can settle down with?” My voice is laced with desperation, as if my happiness is somehow pinned to his.
He shrugs. “It’s not somethin
g I dwell on. Believe it or not, I’m very content on my own. Besides, I have you.”
“I know.” Funnily enough, I do believe him. I also know that I do not want to be like him. Which feels disloyal, somehow.
“Kant said that in order to be happy, we must first make ourselves worthy of happiness,” he says. “He wanted us to live honorable lives. To live each day as if our every action counted for something.”
I frown. “So you think I haven’t earned my happiness?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you must strive to be the best person you can be. And happiness will follow.”
Great. Last night when I kissed Hugo, I was definitely not being the best person I could be.
“He also said that we must never use each other as a means to an end.”
Noted. Guilty as charged. Almost certainly. My father frowns.
“I sometimes think I violated that rule when I met your mother,” he says thoughtfully.
“Really? Why?”
“Because I got you.”
* * *
The idea that my father used my mother as a means to an end stays with me long after we end the call. I’d always assumed it was the other way round. But it is true that parenthood seems to have tethered him to the world in some vitally important way. Although he didn’t raise me, I know from speaking to his colleagues and friends that being my father is an enormous part of his identity. The fact of my existence has enriched and deepened him, has given him a reason for being. Ironically, it has enabled him to remain alone. The same is true of Sian and Owen. This thought lifts me a little. We all need love, but maybe love itself is infinitely mutable, able to spread itself thinly and wrap itself around all manner of beings.
I look down at Slab, who has nestled his body up against mine on the sofa and is snoring contentedly. Behind us, Malcolm keeps vigil over Peggy, his head on his paws, his eyes alert. Over in the corner, Hulk and Judd have retreated to one of the dog beds, where they are curled around each other in a tight canine whorl. I sigh and give Slab a little pat. Perhaps when it comes to love I should heed Sian’s advice. Don’t overlook what’s in front of you.