The Queen's Margarine

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Scat, I said! Go back where you belong.’

  The owner would be distraught, no doubt, but he just didn’t have the time to go wandering round the area with a bundle of damp fur in his arms, shouting ‘Have you lost a dog?’ to everyone in sight. Besides, it was freezing cold: April on the calendar, but not in terms of temperature.

  ‘Listen, pooch,’ he said, squatting down at pavement level to try to impress upon the animal that he wanted to be left in peace, ‘you’ve chosen the wrong chap. I’m not the sort who’s into throwing balls or sticks, or going walkies in the park.’

  Useless. The creature continued trotting at his heels, meticulously keeping pace with him; slowing when he slowed, and breaking into a bouncy sort of lollop if he strode ahead in an attempt to give it the slip. To tell the truth, he felt a tad ridiculous to be accompanied by such an effeminate breed. If he had to have canine company, then a boxer or Alsatian would definitely be preferable to this soppy ball of fluff. And its Hollywood-style collar was a further source of embarrassment: flamboyant scarlet leather, studded with rows of heart-shaped rhinestones, drawing glittery attention to themselves. He had assumed in his ignorance that the main point of a dog-collar was to identify its wearer’s name and address, but this particular one was patently for show.

  Once he reached his office block, he stood with his back to the door, determined to leave his pursuer firmly on the other side. ‘This is the parting of the ways, my girl. Entry verboten, OK?’

  But as he nipped inside, the dog somehow sidled in behind him, resisting his attempt to shut the door in its face. Then, having shadowed him up the stairs, it waited, expectant, outside Webster Web-Design, as if it had been accepted on to the payroll and was ready to start work.

  ‘Go home!’ he ordered, adopting a much sterner tone and stampeding down the stairs again, in the natural expectation that the hanger-on would follow suit. Perversely, though, it refused to budge, and remained sitting on the landing, with what he could have sworn was a look of mocking triumph on its face.

  ‘OK,’ he muttered, ‘you win.’ And, stomping back upstairs, he opened the door to the office and the dog went bounding through – the keenest employee in the annals of the firm.

  ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ Matthew asked, starting in surprise as the dog rushed over to lick his hand, as if greeting an old friend.

  ‘I can’t get rid of the bloody thing. It followed me back from the pub.’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t you return it? Someone there will be doing their nut.’

  ‘I tried to, for heaven’s sake, but not a soul in either of the bars knew anything about it.’

  ‘That’s an expensive piece of dog-flesh,’ Phil observed, joining in the conversation now that he’d finished on the phone. ‘My Aunt Fran used to breed them.’

  ‘What is it, then? I know nothing about dogs. I can just about tell a poodle from a Rottweiler, but that’s as far as it goes.’

  ‘A bichon frise.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Bichon frise.’

  ‘Never heard of it. Sounds like the French for beef and chips!’

  ‘Yeah,’ jeered Matthew. ‘Why not skin it and serve it up for lunch! Or, better still—’

  ‘How d’you spell it?’ Adam interrupted, keen to categorize the creature, which had now darted over from Matthew to Phil and was displaying ecstatic pleasure at having discovered yet another chum.

  ‘I’m not sure, to tell the truth. All I know is they can change hands for up to a grand.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I’m not. They’re known as yuppie puppies – all the rage with celebrities and film stars and what-have-you. Lola Loveday used to own one, and, when she won her Oscar, the dog was all dolled up in some ritzy gown, the same style as hers, and made by the same designer.’

  ‘Yuk!’ said Matthew, grimacing.

  ‘It’s a friendly little bugger, though,’ Adam mused, as he stroked the curly head.

  ‘Yeah, they’re very sociable. Great with kids, so Aunt Fran used to say.’

  ‘Look, we’re not kids,’ Howard said, suddenly appearing from his private office. ‘Though it sounds as if it’s playtime here. That’s quite enough about dogs, OK? And, anyway, it can’t stay here. We’re busy – or we should be.’

  As if to plead its case, the dog jumped up against Howard’s leg, scrabbling its dusty paws against his dove-grey trousers, only to be instantly repulsed. ‘You’d better ring the police,’ he said to Adam. ‘Report the dog as lost and let them sort it out.’

  ‘But suppose they make me go down to the station? It’ll waste a hell of a lot of time, filling in those sodding forms. As if I didn’t have enough to do.’

  ‘So why go out for lunch if you’re so busy? Some of us make do with a sandwich at our desk.’

  ‘Hardly lunch,’ Adam retorted. ‘A packet of crisps and a pint. Anyway, I needed a break.’

  ‘We all need a break.’

  ‘Look, returning to the dog,’ said Matthew. ‘It better be gone by three. Frank Foster’s coming then, and it’s not exactly conducive to our image. I mean, it looks like a bloody powder-puff, and we’re meant to be a young, thrusting business at the forefront of technology, not a beauty parlour.’

  ‘Well, what do you suggest? Chucking it out of the window? If it breaks its leg, the owner’s bound to sue. Anyway, it’s pissing down with rain.’

  ‘What, again?’ asked Adam, peering disconsolately through the smeary glass. It seemed to have been raining every day since he split up with Lynette. Not that he missed her – really. Well, apart from the sex, of course.

  ‘And suppose it starts peeing all over the place?’ Matthew persisted. ‘Or crapping?’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Adam, with more conviction than he felt. ‘It’s not a puppy, so presumably it’s house-trained.’

  ‘Well, it’s bound to yap, and we don’t want a hell of a racket when we’re trying to talk design.’

  ‘They don’t yap, they bark,’ Phil informed them, getting up a moment to fetch paper for his printer.

  ‘Worse still.’

  ‘We’ll gag it.’

  ‘Throttle it, more like.’

  ‘Look, to be fair,’ said Adam, downloading a client’s website, yet aware that his attention was still focused on the dog. It had now returned to sit by his computer, and was wagging its plumed tail, as if acknowledging him as its official rescuer. To tell the truth, he liked the sense of being regarded with affection, not to mention trust – rare these days in his personal life. ‘It hasn’t made the slightest sound so far. In fact, it appears to feel totally at home here.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the trouble. We’ll probably be stuck with it for ever.’

  ‘’Course we won’t! Some frantic owner will move heaven and earth to get it back.’ Phil was still struggling with his printer, now sorting out a paper-jam. ‘And they’re bound to offer a reward. What say we share it, Adam?’

  ‘Bloody cheek! It’s me that found it, so it’s me that gets the cash. Tell you what, though, I’ll treat you all to a pint.’

  ‘Big deal!’ said Matthew sardonically. ‘But listen, Adam, I’ve just thought of something else. It’s obviously a woman’s dog. No male would be seen dead with a poncy thing like that, let alone that god-awful collar – fake diamonds or whatever. Now, you’re in need of a new girlfriend, since you gave Lynette the push, and if dogs are meant to resemble their owners, this particular owner’s just got to be a bubbly little blonde. Imagine the scenario – gorgeous blonde is heartbroken at loss of precious dog. You return it safely, she becomes your willing slave and—’

  ‘Cut it out! Knowing my luck, the owner will be ancient, hideous and married.’

  ‘Well, grab the reward and run, then. Either way, you can’t lose.’

  ‘We’re losing, though,’ Howard remarked, raising his voice in irritation, as he strode out again to intervene. ‘Time, as well as business. Let’s forget about blondes and concentrate on deadli
nes, shall we? Adam, ring the police right now and get that thing ejected before it buggers up our deal with Frank.’

  ‘Will do,’ Adam muttered, picking up the phone. Having wanted to be rid of the dog, he now felt a certain bond with it, if only because it riled his hated boss.

  ‘Well, I have to say, you’re quite a girl.’ Settling back in his armchair, Adam stroked the soft white bundle on his lap, and was immediately rewarded with a teasing little tongue-kiss on his nose.

  Having never owned a dog, he’d been surprised, indeed relieved, at how docile this one was – no fuss, no wiles, no anguished yelps. It appeared to have accepted him as master, and clearly approved his stylish flat as a damned-near-perfect home. Nor had it complained about the menu, but devoured half a canful of Gourmet Game with gratifying relish. And now it seemed as riveted as he was by the European Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Chelsea; its dark eyes fixated on the screen with genuine curiosity. If Lynette had been as accommodating, they might never have had to part. But she hated sport – and football in particular – and, far from eating with zest, merely toyed with her food in a maddening sort of fashion (semi-anorexic, he suspected). Worst of all, she invariably messed the place up with her clutter, refusing categorically to put anything away. Nor was she blonde, petite and cute, but rather on the lanky side, with hair best described as beige.

  ‘So why did you live with her?’ the dog appeared to ask, as if tuning in to his every thought.

  ‘Because she was bloody good in bed, mate! Which makes up for a hell of a lot. But if there’s too much aggro out of bed, a bloke begins to wonder if it’s worth it, in the end.’

  As he spoke, the dog gazed at him with undisguised devotion: exactly what he wanted from a woman – wanted, but never seemed to find, alas. He needed to be master, in any form of relationship, although you couldn’t say so nowadays, of course. With Pooch, he called the tune and she obeyed. He had told her when and what to eat; made it clear that his bed was out of bounds, and that jumping up on his new black leather sofa was also overstepping the mark. And, far from making any protest, she had simply acquiesced in sweet submission. Not only that, he had company, at last, to compensate for the previous lonely weeks, yet was spared the irritation of mindless female chatter. Admittedly, the lack of sex was still a major problem, but he was coming round to Matthew’s view that a romantic outcome might just be on the cards. If Matt was right about dogs resembling their owners, then there was a sporting chance he’d meet his ideal woman: combining the darkest possible eyes with the fairest possible hair, as well as being demure and dainty and, best of all, amenable. Only once in his life had he known one – when he was an acne-ridden stripling of fifteen. Charmayne had been a fellow pupil at Thames Valley Comprehensive, although completely unobtainable; not only two years older but so ravishingly beautiful and exceptionally sweet-natured, she would never have involved herself with a plain and spotty schoolboy, in trouble as a bully.

  She had remained his model of feminine perfection throughout the years that followed, but never again had he encountered the reality, despite the fact he had changed from uncouth bully to law-abiding bloke. Blondes were two-a-penny, but they invariably had blue eyes and/or stubborn temperaments, always arguing the toss on matters big and small. Yet maybe his luck had changed, at last, and Pooch’s owner would have bewitching jet-black eyes, a mass of ash-blonde curls and – almost unbelievable – would allow him to rule the roost.

  The relief would be enormous. He was pissed off with Internet dating; had met more than enough ‘stunning’, ‘caring’ women, all with a ‘GSOH’ – which, in fact, none of them possessed. And blind dates were equally hopeless. The last two in particular had put him off for life: one a dotty vegan into star signs; the other a near-harridan, who’d spent the evening putting him right when she wasn’t putting him down. This time, he knew exactly what he wanted: a submissive, docile meat-eater, who would look at him with total adoration, as Pooch was doing now. He stroked her in sheer gratitude – picturing her owner lying naked in his bed: begging for it, wild for it, agreeing with alacrity to anything he asked, however abandoned or way-out.

  Once the match was over (a knuckle-clenching game, resulting in a draw), he gave a gigantic yawn, only now aware how long the day had been. First, the rigmarole with PC Pegg, who’d urged him to phone the RSPCA, as well as Battersea Dogs’ Home, and also suggested taking the dog to a vet, in case it had been chipped. Up ’til then, the word ‘chip’ had applied to paintwork, potatoes, casinos and golf, but not, repeat not, to dogs. However, ‘chipping’ turned out to be an identification process, in which a microchip (the size of a grain of rice and containing a special code) was inserted under the skin, thus logging the dog into a central database. Apparently, vets and rescue centres could read the code with a scanner, and so reunite lost pets with their owners. He’d had to wait an age, though, surrounded by a whining, growling bestiary, only to be told that Pooch hadn’t, in fact, been chipped.

  ‘Why not, my girl?’ he asked her now, but her ardent reply – a whole series of fluttery kisses – failed to clarify the matter. Maybe the owner was so sensitive and kind, she couldn’t bear her beloved pet to suffer even a second’s pain from the needle inserting the chip. Or perhaps she’d assumed in her innocence that the pair of them would never lose each other. He could imagine her delight at being reunited with the dog – although it wouldn’t end there, of course. The three of them would stay together; become an instant family. He had never wanted children (another bone of contention with Lynette). Kids were ruinously expensive, not to mention messy and disruptive. But two gorgeous, placid females, with him as C.E.O., would constitute the perfect threesome.

  ‘Hey, listen,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a stroll to the pub. A bit of fresh air might wake me up, and, anyway, I think we ought to celebrate.’

  Pooch didn’t need a second invitation, but sprang off his lap with touching eagerness and rushed over to the door; her whole small body quivering with excitement. Lynette would have complained about his ‘drinking problem’, or said she couldn’t be fagged, or insisted they went not to the George and Dragon (where all his mates hung out), but to some pricey, rackety club.

  Before leaving, he took off her collar and changed it for the one he’d bought: real leather, but low-key – the plainest in the shop, in fact. He also switched on the answer-phone and double-checked it was working. He couldn’t afford to take the slightest chance. Having given his number to the vet, the police, the Dogs’ Home and the RSPCA, it would be downright irresponsible to miss the owner’s call, when that very call might be the start of a whole new glorious chapter in his life.

  ‘Listen, Howard, I’m sorry to bring her in again, but I just can’t leave her shut up in the flat. It’s cruelty to animals.’

  ‘And what about cruelty to people, inflicting that thing on the rest of us?’

  ‘Come off it, Howard, the others aren’t that bothered. Ask Phil. He actually likes her.’

  ‘Well, I can’t say she’s any trouble,’ Phil conceded, as the dog rushed over to say hello, how are you?

  ‘And what do you think, Matthew?’

  ‘Well, I was dead against it at first, but I have to admit, when Angie came in yesterday, she seemed completely smitten with the creature. In fact, I doubt if we’d have persuaded her to sign up with us at all, if Pooch here hadn’t charmed her.’

  ‘See, Howard?’ Adam crowed. ‘Three against one.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll put up with it the rest of this week, but if the bloody owner hasn’t claimed her property by then, it’ll have to go to a dog-pound.’

  ‘I’d nick her, if I was you,’ said Matthew, ‘and sell her for a fortune. They say it’s a growth industry, stealing pedigree dogs. I mean, who’s to know if you just forget about the owner and make a nice fat profit?’

  ‘I’d know,’ said Howard acidly. ‘And for God’s sake, no more dog-talk! I’m off to see Megatron and I expect the rest of you to get on with some work. As
for you, Pooch, sit down and shut up!’

  ‘You can’t really call her Pooch,’ said Phil, once Howard was safely out of earshot. ‘It’s not right for a pedigree. And bichons have real class, you know. Aunt Fran was always telling me how they go back bloody centuries – well, to the 1100s, at least. She said sailors used to barter them, as they moved from place to place, so eventually they were taken all over the world. And later, so she told me, they became all the rage in Renaissance France, a sort of fashion accessory – I suppose what we’d call a must-have for the courtiers. Apparently, one of the French kings used to carry his wherever he went, in a specially made basket, tied with fancy ribbons round his neck.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t give Adam ideas! That’s all we need to put our clients off – one of our top designers with a bloody berib-boned basket round his neck!’

  ‘Shut up, Matthew! I’m loving this. I mean, it could have been a mutt that followed me out of the pub, and instead I find it’s a royal favourite.’

  ‘The Italian nobles doted on them, too,’ Phil remarked, strolling to the water-cooler. And they were painted by famous artists like Goya and—’

  ‘So what do we call her?’ Matthew interrupted. ‘Francesca de Rimini?’

  ‘How about Queenie,’ Phil suggested, sipping his water as he ambled back to his desk.

  ‘A bit plebby, don’t you think?’ Adam settled the dog snugly beside his chair before switching on his computer.

  ‘Princess, then.’

  ‘Not easy to say when you’re calling her to heel.’

  ‘Snowball?’

  ‘Twee. And far too obvious.’

  ‘Fang,’ said Matthew, grinning.

  ‘Get lost!’

  ‘Well, Fluffy, then.’

  ‘Demeaning. Phil’s just told us she’s a classy little bitch, so I don’t want names like Trixie, Flossy, Lucky and all that sort of thing.’