Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)

by Nick Spalding

  'Well, it's not up to you to interrupt him,' I reply, acutely aware that everyone in the room is now staring at the back of my head.

  Poppy pouts.

  I'm about to order her to move away from the spotlight again, when all the lights suddenly come back up. Mrs Carmoody, being held up by a couple of other teachers, shuffles painfully onto the stage and looks daggers at me.

  This is my queue to fuck off back to my seat as quickly as my legs will carry me. I point to Poppy and gesture for her to move backwards, before turning smartly on one foot and scampering back to Jamie. As I reach him and sit back down, he leans over. 'You're paying for the therapy sessions,' he says in a low voice.

  'Apologies to everyone!' Mrs Carmoody says to us all. 'A slight technical hitch!' She can't help but quickly glance at Poppy as she says this. 'We will now continue with the show... as it is meant to be performed.' Another look at Poppy, this time more obvious. She then stares at Noah. 'Go on Mahir! Get on with it!'

  Mahir Noah doesn't need to be told twice. You can see he's just as eager to end this living hell as we are. He steps forward again. 'Praise be to God for bringing us to this place! We will sing you a song of thanks for your help!'

  So, it turns out that Poppy had a better grasp of the storyline than I thought. She managed to pre-empt the finale all by herself. That's my girl.

  To be honest, I think I preferred her twerking to the droning rendition of He's Got The Whole World In His Hands we get delivered to us now by a group of hot, tired and frazzled infant school children.

  Except Poppy of course, she's looking at Jake Potter with deep suspicion and isn't even trying to sing.

  The song comes to a weary close and the God of Mumbles steps forward into the spotlight that has now reappeared. 'And so the righteous have been saved.' He is joined by Noah. 'Now let us feast and be merry!'

  Really?

  After all that, Noah thinks it's a good idea to kick back, open up a few brewskis and slap some steaks on the barbecue? If he does, he'll drive at least one farmyard animal extinct before they've had so much as a chance to eat the nearest palm tree.

  All the children (except Poppy) bow, and the curtain squeaks its way closed again, mercifully ending the story of Noah And His Ark, and Poppy And Her Entitlement.

  'I'm going to sit in the car, you go and collect Poppy,' Jamie says.

  'No fucking chance, sunshine. You're just as much at fault for this as I am.'

  Jamie effects a pained expression. 'But I've got a headache.'

  'I don't care if your head is about to fall off, you're still collecting our daughter with me,' I order, and we move towards the stage. I'm making a point of not having eye contact with any of the other parents as we do so.

  As we stand there for the next five minutes waiting for Poppy to come out, we are forced to endure a lot of comments about how awful that chicken girl was. One particularly loud Northern man is the most critical. 'She bloody well tripped him up on purpose!' he says.

  'Our Jake's a lovely lad. Wouldn't say boo to a goose,' a woman standing next to him adds. These are obviously Jake Potter's parents.

  This is, of course, the perfect moment for Poppy to emerge from behind the stage curtain, her face like thunder. I feel a hundred sets of eyes swivel to greet her arrival. 'I want to go home, Mum,' she says, lip trembling.

  I grab her from down off the stage. As I turn with her in my arms, I see Potter's parents sneer at me. 'Maybe if you'd raised a son who could resist the urge to pick his fuc – fudging nose in public so much, my daughter wouldn't have had to trip him up,' I tell them. 'Come on Jamie, we're leaving.' I sound imperious, and I storm off in an imperious manner. If any of the crowd were in any doubt as to 'where she gets it from' then I have now provided them with all the evidence they need.

  I frankly don't care. I get to admonish Poppy for her behaviour tonight. Nobody else does.

  The car ride home is mainly conducted in silence.

  The silence ends later that evening when I confiscate Poppy's TV and blu ray player. I also put a parental lock on the Sky box so she can't watch MTV anymore.

  The ensuing tantrum is apocalyptic.

  'When she's older,' I say to Jamie in an exhausted voice, having finally put her to bed. 'Old enough to get married, I mean. I'm going to pull the poor boy to one side and say one thing to him.'

  'What's that?'

  'Run.'

  I do hope I wasn't quite that bad when I was seven, Mum. If I was, I apologise, and can almost understand why Dad buggered off.

  Love you and miss you,

  Your newly disciplinary daughter, Laura.

  XX

  Jamie's Diary

  Friday 13 August

  So now I've got a fucking dog.

  Oh no, I'm sorry, did I say dog? That's not an accurate description in the slightest. When you think of the word 'dog' you tend to picture a furry animal of between a foot and four feet high that likes to run after balls and bark at the postman when he comes past in the morning. You do not think of a bulgy eyed rat creature that shivers ninety five percent of the time and, despite its miniature proportions, seems to take up more room in your house than a pack of Great Danes.

  Interesting fact: the word 'Chihuahua', when translated from its native Mexican, means 'Go on, kick me, I fucking dare you.'

  I could have cheerfully throttled Terry when he turned up at the door with his present for my moody daughter. Just because your first night treading the boards ends in total disaster, it doesn't necessarily follow that you should be given a small yapping twat as a consolation prize.

  And yet, here it is. All twelve inches of it. A small, shaking, bad tempered monstrosity that Poppy has decided to name Winklehoven.

  Yes.

  Winklehoven.

  Not Choco, Chico, Chippy, Chappy - or other such suitable names for a dog of its type. No, my daughter has chosen to give her new best friend the name Winklehoven.

  Where the hell she got Winklehoven from, I have no idea.

  I even asked her.

  'I don't know Dad, it just sounds nice,' she replied, with a twinkle in her eye.

  Oh, nice to you, young lady, but you're not the one who will have to take this idiot for a walk every day are you? You're not the one that will have to call its name in public, are you?

  If Terry was in my bad books for leaving my wife when she was a young girl, then he now has multiple entries in bold writing for giving Poppy this dog thing.

  Laura should never have told him about Poppy's dismal performance at the school play. Nor should she have told him how miserable our daughter had been for the two weeks afterwards. This is exactly the kind of situation a man of Terry's stripe can take advantage of - and with one swift stroke he manages to ingratiate himself on Poppy forever.

  'I don't think she should have that,' I warn Laura's father, as he produces the Chihuahua pup and hands it over to Poppy. I have to shout to make my voice carry over her loud squeals of delight.

  'Where did you get it Dad?' Laura asks in some distress, as she watches Poppy instantly bond with the twitchy mutt.

  'An old friend of mine. His daughter breeds them. She had a new litter, and offered me one for free.'

  'And you thought the best thing to do would be to give it to Poppy without consulting us first?' I say to him, trying my best to keep out of the way of child and pup as they bound around the living room together.

  Terry blinks a couple of times in surprise. 'I just thought she'd love it, and it would cheer her up.'

  Laura grits her teeth. 'Well, if you had told us you were going to do this, we'd have asked you not to,' she says. 'Poppy is still being punished for her behaviour.'

  'Yes,' I agree. 'And we wouldn't have wanted a dog anyway, would we Laura?' I look at my wife. 'Would we Laura?' I repeat, seeing the way she's looking down at the stupid little rat creature with misty eyes.

  'I'll just take it back then,' Terry says with a sigh.

  'No!' Laura stops him. 'You can'
t do that now, can you? Look at them! It'd break her heart.'

  'Er... he could you know, Laura,' I say cautiously. 'I mean, Poppy would get over it eventually.'

  Laura bends down and picks up the tiny dog, which wriggles uncontrollably in her hands. 'No she wouldn't, Jamie. It would be too cruel to them both,' she tells me, and laughs out loud with delight as the toothy pipsqueak licks the end of her nose.

  I put my head in my hands for a moment and try to hold back the tears, before looking up and giving Terry a look of unconcealed loathing.

  So now I've got a fucking dog.

  And boy, is it a turd factory. It may be little, but the bloody animal seems to shit every thirty eight seconds.

  Half the time this takes place wherever I'm likely to put my feet five minutes later.

  Do you know what the worst experience of my life has been?

  No, it's not getting food poisoning from a Mexican snack.

  No, it's not nearly being eaten by a crocodile.

  No, it's not nearly dying of exposure in The Maldives.

  The worst thing that has ever happened to me was treading my bare foot into the lump of shit that Winklehoven left on the kitchen lino this morning.

  It was squishy.

  So very, very squishy.

  One second I'm yawning my way past the dishwasher to make a nice hot cup of tea, the next I'm screaming in horror as the brown nastiness sinks its way between my toes.

  'Aaaargggh!'

  'What's the matter Jamie?!' Laura demands from where she's sat at the breakfast bar.

  'Fucking poo!' I holler.

  'What?!'

  'Fucking dog poo!' I repeat, holding up my foot and pointing at the mess on the end of it.

  'Jesus Christ!' Laura wails and covers her mouth. 'I'm eating bran flakes here, you psychopath!'

  'Oh, I'm so sorry, Laura. Are you distressed by the sight of Winklehoven's shit on my bare, naked foot? Well, maybe you shouldn't have agreed to keep the trembling arsehole then!'

  'Just go and clean it off!' she orders.

  'Where? Where exactly would you like me to scrape these animal faeces from my body part, Laura? The bathroom perhaps? I could tread some into the hallway carpet as I go, to add to the stain the little skipping twat left there last night!'

  'Use the hose outside!'

  So, there you have it.

  We've had the dog less than two weeks, and I'm already out in the garden hosing myself down like an animal. By the time the crapping monstrosity reaches adulthood I'll be washing myself down in the local creek, shouting at strangers as they go past.

  I hate that dog!

  Sadly, both Poppy and Laura love it to pieces. Not a day goes by without me having to resist the urge to upchuck the contents of my stomach every time they ooh and aah over something cute the big-eared pillock does.

  The day Poppy got it to give her its paw to receive a treat, the volume of female squealing reached such a crescendo that I had to get my hearing checked the next day.

  If I hate Winklehoven, then Winklehoven absolutely detests me.

  It's almost as if it knows I'm not happy about its presence in my house, and it intends to make sure that presence is as uncomfortable for me as is doggedly possible. First we have the aforementioned shitting where I'm about to step.

  By the time I limped back into the house this morning, one foot dripping wet, I could see the little shitbag sat next to Laura's leg, grinning at me.

  Yes, you heard me right! The dog was grinning at me.

  I am not insane.

  Winklehoven also likes to bite me. Those Chihuahua teeth may be small, but they are razor sharp. I only went to move it off the couch last week so I could sit down and watch the Grand Prix, and the tiny bastard nearly had my middle finger off.

  'Oww! You little sod!' I exclaimed at the time, putting the finger in my mouth and tasting blood.

  'You have to do it nicely, Dad!' Poppy informs me in a disapproving tone.

  'I was doing it nicely!' I snap back at her. 'Shoo!' I order the dog, waving my copy of this month's GQ at it. This finally gets it to move, but not without a growl, and a look that tells me I'm going to get my face ripped off at about 3am.

  Even when the dog is not directly trying to injure me, the little blighter is making my life a misery in other inventive ways. I used to very much enjoy sitting out in the garden with my Kindle, reading whatever the latest bestseller is that I'm insanely jealous of. Ours is a nice, secluded back garden, with high walls covered in ivy that block out the sights and sounds of the surrounding suburban area. It's like a small oasis. At least it was until Winklehoven happened. These days, no sooner have I plonked myself down in the warm summer sun, than out trots the pesky creature to cause havoc. It then proceeds to stand at the back wall of the garden and bark at everything it hears. It doesn't matter if it's a car going past in the distance, or a small inoffensive bug minding its own business near the busy lizzies, Winklehoven will fucking bark at it until it's happy the offender is gone. Poppy usually runs out into the garden to see what all the fuss is about, which just sends Winklehoven off into an excited doggy fit that, if anything, is even more annoying. I end up having to go back in the house and sit upstairs just to get a bit of peace and quiet.

  If reading is bad with the yapping gobshite around, then writing is a thousand times worse.

  It's very hard to write broad comedy when there's a small bug-eyed dog squinting at you permanently from the study doorway. One minute I'll be happily composing a sentence of such witty genius that I have to wonder where I get it from, the next I'll feel the gaze from those bulgy eyes resting on the back of my neck, and the hairs on it will start to rise. I'll try to ignore the dog for a good ten minutes and concentrate on what I'm doing, but I suddenly find it very hard to even string a sentence together.

  'Fuck off Winklehoven,' I'll mutter under my breath, in the hopes that it will do the trick. It never does though. The dog is implacable.

  It now becomes a battle between man and beast. I try my level best to ignore its presence and get on with my work, in an attempt to prove that it has no effect on me whatsoever. Winklehoven is intent on proving the exact opposite.

  There are times when I think I've won. A good half an hour will pass, and I'll be convinced that the stupid mutt has fucked off to annoy Laura, or gone to bark at the traffic again. But just at that moment, the sodding thing will yawn, or move slightly, just to let me know that it's still there - watching me and planning the best way to run up the back of the chair and plunge its little Chihuahua teeth into the back of my defenceless head.

  'Poppy! Come and get Winklehoven!' I'll eventually scream downstairs, signalling the dog's complete victory over me.

  Ha! You're so pathetic that you have to get a seven-year-old to come save you, the dog is no doubt thinking in the vaults of its tiny canine brain. I'm in your head bitch, and it's some mighty fine real estate I'm taking up in here. Why don't you just accept your fate, and admit I am the boss of you? Once you do, I'll leave you alone to your wretched scrawlings. Maybe you can write a book about me? It'll be better than that crap you churn out.

  And here I am! Writing all about bloody Winklehoven!

  The dog has won.

  Pity me.

  If I seem a little overboard with my Chihuahua prejudice, and you're not behind all this Winklehoven hate, allow me to regale a story to you that will firmly put you in my camp, and assure you that we are in fact dealing with a creature spat from the very depths of the underworld.

  It is Saturday morning. One of the really good ones you get now and again in August. The air is calm, the sun is shining, the temperature is five degrees above the average.

  It is 8.45am and I am lying in bed, dozing lightly, and contemplating a day of doing not very much in particular. I might give the old car a nice wash in the gentle summer sun this morning. Maybe a trip to the local garden centre is in order for later in the afternoon - and maybe, just maybe - there's potential for a Chines
e takeaway around seven o'clock, if Laura thinks my waistline will take it, while we all watch Doctor Who and I try not to think about pedalos.

  All in all, it sounds like a fabulous Saturday in the Newman household.

  'The dog needs a walk,' Laura mumbles from beside me.

  Damn!

  For a brief, shining moment I'd forgotten that Winklehoven was now part of our lives. In my doze, my brain had gratefully removed the shivering bell end from existence.

  I groan out loud. Then Laura says something even worse, if that were possible. 'It's your turn to do the walk, remember? We agreed you would if I did the answers to that questionnaire Woman's Own sent us.'

  I groan again. She's right. I detest completing the email questionnaires we often get from journalists. Not because they ask anything annoying, but just because I've done so many of them, and the questions are always pretty much the same. If I have to write another paragraph about how it felt to get a publishing deal, I might have to commit messy suicide.

  Last night then, I agreed with Laura that she would write the email, and I would take Winklehoven for its morning trot around the leafier sections of our immediate suburban area. This would mark the first time that I would be walking the dog on my own, as getting Poppy out of bed before 9am on a Saturday is roughly akin to trying to remove a King Cobra from its basket.

  Last night the idea of a nice sunny walk sounded preferable to being hunched over a keyboard, writing about how it felt to write a best seller for the umpteenth time.

  What a fucking idiot I truly am.

  'You want to swap jobs?' I gamble, hoping that Laura would enjoy the prospect of a sunny walk just as much as I stupidly thought I would twelve hours ago.

  'Not a chance,' she replies. 'I'm warm, comfy and don't intend to get dressed until at least midday. Get your arse out of bed and go make sure Winky doesn't crap in the kitchen again.'

  I sigh. She's an awful, cruel woman sometimes. But she also makes a good point. If I don't get up and take the twat for a walk now, I will inevitably be stepping in its warm faeces at some point during the day - probably as I'm walking through the kitchen holding my plate of chicken chow mein and sweet and sour pork balls.