‘Well, give her a proper woman’s name – something upper-crust like Olivia or Chloe.’
‘Why not Lady Muck, and be done with it.’ Matthew slurped his coffee with a complete lack of finesse.
‘I know!’ said Adam suddenly.
‘What?’ the others asked, all looking up from their screens.
‘Charmayne.’
‘That’s just as plebeian as Queenie. Who ever heard of a royal called Charmayne?’
‘And difficult to call.’
‘And doesn’t suit her any better than Pooch.’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Adam, smiling to himself. ‘It’s actually the perfect name.’ He gave the dog a congratulatory pat, murmuring to her sotto voce, ‘I hereby christen you Charmayne. And when your owner comes to fetch you, let’s hope she’ll be a clone of the first sensational Charmayne!’
‘Shit! Who’s that?’ Adam muttered to himself, jumping as the doorbell pealed. No one called this early on a Saturday, unless – God forbid – Lynette had come storming round to collect her bloody lamp, as she’d been threatening for some time. It was his lamp, in point of fact, and he had no intention of handing it over without a showdown, if not fisticuffs.
He strode to the door in annoyance (first turning down the gas beneath his still raw scrambled eggs), flung it open, and was thrown to see a stranger on the step: a small, slack-jawed man, with piggy eyes, pouty lips and bleached-blond hair curling in a halo round his head. The guy’s clothes were emphatically camp: blinding-white trousers; flamboyant shirt the colour of crushed strawberries, and a soft white leather jacket, studded along each sleeve with a row of glittery hearts. Oh, my God! he thought.
‘So very sorry to turn up unannounced.’ The voice was breathless, girly. ‘But I dared not waste a second trying to reach you on the phone. The minute I heard you had my dog, I just had to race right round here to make sure that it was true. Please say it is. Oh, please!’
The man’s words barely registered. Adam was otherwise engaged – recalling Matthew’s contention that dogs resembled their owners. Yes, absolutely right. Here, standing just outside his flat was a curly blond, short in stature, small in size, whose eyes, though barely visible, were undeniably dark. He held on to the door-frame for support, as his new gorgeous, docile female, his new loving, doting family, crumbled into dust.
‘Where is she? Can you fetch her?’ The guy clutched his arm with plump, perspiring fingers, his voice rising higher still.
Adam’s own voice seemed hoarse and croaky, as if it had rusted up. He cleared his throat; paused for what seemed aeons, before finally blurting out, ‘She ran away.’
‘Oh, no!’ The cry was so anguished, so close to black despair, Adam all but relented – almost, but not quite.
‘Yeah. Last night. She vanished – just like that. I searched the whole damned area, stayed out for hours, got soaked to the skin, in fact. But not a sign of her.’
The man drew himself up to his full height – a pathetic five-foot-four. ‘How could you be so careless? That’s criminal neglect! You must have left the door ajar, or a window open somewhere, or—’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Adam shouted. ‘I’ve put up with her for two sodding weeks, fed her on the fat of the land, taken her for endless walks, practically killed myself looking after her, and then you have the nerve to …’ He broke off with a twinge of guilt. The only walks Charmayne had had were from the bus-stop to the office, and to and fro to the pub. And her diet never varied now from basic beef or rabbit chunks (half the price of the Gourmet range). Too bad. This man still had a bloody cheek to start accusing him.
‘You’re the one who’s careless,’ he yelled, returning to the fray, ‘for having lost her in the first place. Why the hell did you let her out of your sight? And why leave it almost a fortnight before trying to get her back? That’s asking for trouble, isn’t it? My place obviously seemed strange to her, so she was bound to escape and try to find her real home.’
The man appeared to collapse, his voice chastened now and whispery. ‘Yes, you’re right – I’m sorry. She ran away from my mother’s house for just that very reason – must have felt unsettled there and become desperate to track me down. But I’ve been in Tenerife – a little break from this dismal English weather, although now I curse the day I ever went. My silly cow of a mother didn’t dare to tell me that Frou-Frou had sneaked off. She knew I’d go berserk, you see, and probably take it out on her. But if only I’d known, I’d have flown back straight away, of course.’ Strangling a sob, he continued in a wail, ‘When I think that I’ve been lying on a beach, sunning my stupid self, while my darling dog was wandering the streets.’
Adam opened his mouth to object, when suddenly the fellow seemed to totter on the step.
‘Oh, Lord!’ he whimpered. ‘I’m feeling awfully faint. It’s the shock, I’m sure – first the huge relief, then this crushing blow. May I come in a moment? My heart’s not all that brilliant and I think I’m—’
Adam pulled him hastily inside, closed the door and steered him towards the nearest seat. He didn’t want the blame for a cardiac arrest, on top of all his other problems.
‘My name’s Tyrone,’ the fellow said, appearing to recover suspiciously fast, once he was ensconced in an armchair, sipping a cup of coffee and munching a ginger-nut.
‘I’m Adam.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Adam. I just wish we could have met in less tragic circumstances. But, look, I want to hear every single detail of how you found my Frou-Frou – where she was, what state she was in, how long it took before—’
‘Sorry,’ Adam said, ‘but we can’t waste time on that. What you need to do – and do this very instant – is get down to the police station and tell them she’s gone missing again.’
‘You mean, you haven’t told them yourself? But that’s completely irresponsible! Where’s your conscience, your basic sense of duty?’ Tyrone sprang to his feet, knocking over his cup of coffee, which spread in a dark stain across the immaculate cream carpet.
‘Fucking hell!’ Adam ran to fetch a cloth and began scrubbing at the stain with the same anger as he berated his accuser. ‘For Christ’s sake, stop insulting me! I was out all hours last night, looking for your bloody dog, and as for this morning, I haven’t had a minute to myself.’
Too true. He’d been up since the bloody crack of dawn, for his 8 a.m. appointment at the poodle-parlour. OK, he was to blame for not having groomed the dog. Its complicated double-coat needed daily brushing and, if neglected, became matted and unkempt. Phil had examined all the knots with obvious disapproval; finally advising him to seek help from the professionals.
‘Look, I’m sorry about the coffee,’ Tyrone had the grace to say, although the concession was short-lived, since in seconds he was back on the offensive. ‘But I still think you’ve been extraordinarily selfish, not to mention heartless. In fact, I don’t know how you slept a wink last night, knowing—’
‘Get out of my flat – this minute!’ Adam interrupted, raising a clenched fist. It had the desired effect, since the lily-livered fellow rocketed out of his chair and charged headlong through the door. Adam watched from the window, as he went panting down the street to his monstrosity of a car: a long, low, vulgar limo, the exact colour of his shirt.
Once he’d scorched away, Adam stormed back to the sitting-room and gave the carpet a second vigorous drubbing, before dumping his ruined breakfast in the bin. His mind was churning with a nauseous mixture of anger, guilt, self-doubt and indecision. Why, in God’s name, had he told that string of lies, instead of simply returning the dog? Tyrone must be loaded, judging by his car, and would have shelled out a fat reward – maybe even doubled it when he heard his precious animal was being pampered at Posh Pets. Did he really want to keep her, now that all hope of a romance with an entrancing female owner had blown up in his face? Besides, the creature had outstayed her welcome. There were claw-marks on his best new leather sofa, scratches on the paintwork, muddy footprints rig
ht here on the kitchen floor. OK, he enjoyed her company, but was she worth the mess she caused, not to mention the increasing cost? Just today’s session at Posh Pets would set him back a cool £50.
In fact, it was almost time to fetch her. They’d given him the earliest slot – the only one available – which meant he’d had to sacrifice his usual Saturday lie-in. Not that weekend lie-ins were likely when you were saddled with a dog – another reason he should have told Tyrone exactly where she was, and let him collect her and pay the bloody bill. Maybe he could hare down to the police station, nab the bloke before he left, and report the news that Frou-Frou had returned. It would mean another lie, of course: she’d come back in such a bedraggled state, his only option had been to take her to a dog-groomer.
Would Tyrone believe it? He didn’t really care. What bothered him far more was the thought of actually parting with Charmayne. Whatever the hassle and the aggro, they had in truth developed a close bond; spent almost every minute together; working as a duo in the office; watching sport in the evenings, before trotting down to the pub for a pint and a game of darts, then back to the pub at weekends. Indeed, the dog was quite a star among his drinking pals, and he’d noticed several dishy women observing him with interest (which they’d never done before), simply because he owned a cutesy dog.
So what now? Did he fetch Charmayne himself, or go straight to the police station in the hope he’d catch Tyrone? Even if he arrived too late, they’d have the fellow’s details on computer, so he could simply phone or email, and arrange to reunite him with his pet. Then, free again, unburdened, he could return to his simple, pre-dog life.
Simple, maybe, but lonely. He reached for the packet of bran-flakes, shook some into a bowl, and tried to force himself to come to some decision – not easy, when such contradictory feelings were clashing in his mind. On the one hand, there was no denying that Charmayne was more difficult to handle than when she first showed up; on the other hand, she worshipped him – the only person who ever had in his thirty years to date. There was also the moral issue of depriving Tyrone of his rightful property, not to mention breaking the poor guy’s heart – a heart already dodgy, judging by the recent little episode. And supposing he popped round again, to check if the dog had come back? He might see her this time and bust a gut in fury. Should he dye the creature black? Go into hiding? Leave the country? Top himself?
All at once, he tipped the branflakes down the sink, grabbed his wallet, coat and door-keys and swept out of the flat. He wasn’t collecting Charmayne. Posh Pets would have to keep her longer – all day, if necessary. He was catching a train to Reading, to watch them play Tottenham Hotspur, and refused to spend another minute even thinking about dogs.
‘So where’s your pal?’ asked Phil, as Adam slouched into the office, on his own, for once.
‘In disgrace.’
‘Why, what’s the little bugger done?’
‘Don’t ask.’ He threw himself into his chair and stared moodily at the blank computer screen. Bloody females! They always messed things up. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Charmayne and Lynette had certain things in common; both bossy and demanding, untidy and unreasonable. And both had started out as paragons, impossible to fault, but gradually deteriorated until they were more or less insufferable. Phil had told him it was his fault for failing to exercise the dog or look after it responsibly. But who was bloody Phil to take that sanctimonious tone, just because his aunt knew a bit about the breed? Besides, even Phil would take his side when he heard about last night. The little bitch had actually jumped up on to the table, grabbed the pizza off his plate, dashed into the bedroom with it and dropped it upside-down on the counterpane, where it left a big, red, greasy stain from the tomato and the cheese. And when he shouted at her, she simply barked in defiance, and continued barking frantically all evening, until he’d had furious complaints from both his neighbours.
‘No Charmayne?’ said Matthew, sauntering in with mug of tea in one hand and a doughnut in the other.
He shook his head.
‘You haven’t lost her, I hope?’
‘No such luck.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Listen, mate,’ Phil remarked, interfering, as usual, ‘you can’t leave her in the flat all day. Bichons need a lot of toilet-breaks.’
‘You’re telling me!’
‘Small bladders, I suppose. So what do you plan to do? If you go back every couple of hours, Howard will do his nut!’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘OK, OK, keep your hair on! You’re very grouchy these days, you know.’
Adam said nothing. Of course he was grouchy. It was only natural, now he’d come to see that there was no such thing as love. It was always cupboard love, he’d realized, and thus a total con. Charmayne only loved him for the perks he provided: a knob of his breakfast sausage, a bite of doughnut in the office, a saucerful of lager in the pub. And Lynette had been the same. In fact, she had moved in with him originally because his snazzy flat was a definite advance on her own grotty basement bed-sit. And since he earned far more than she did, he was the one who paid for dinners out or trips abroad. Neither she nor Charmayne really gave a shit. And they had both destroyed his property, with no trace of shame or guilt. Lynette had broken his iPod and smashed half his best Heal’s china, while Charmayne had chewed two cushions into shreds.
Even now, he was risking the sack. If he went home before the lunch-hour, to let the creature out, Howard might explode. His boss was increasingly miffed about the dog, so would welcome an excuse to rid himself of the pair of them. At present, he was out, thank Christ, seeing a client in Kilburn, but if he returned at noon and found him gone, all hell was bound to break loose.
Well, he wasn’t going anywhere. Charmayne would have to wait. His salary, his job, his workmates, meant infinitely more than some unruly, boisterous dog.
‘Fucking bloody hell!’ Adam barged from room to room, horrified at the sights that met his eyes: a pile of stinking dog-shit on the carpet; a puddle of piss in the kitchen; the new bedspread ripped to pieces; his rubber plant a shattered wreck, knocked over on its side, the ceramic pot broken into shards and earth spilling everywhere. And the cause of this destruction was actually rushing up to greet him with effusion, tail wagging in delight.
He beat the dog. Without the slightest compunction. In fact, it was lucky to escape with its life. And, the minute he’d cleared the carnage, he intended to take the brute straight to Battersea Dog’s Home. They could find bloody Tyrone and restore his precious dog to him. He’d had more than he could take. Besides, if that mincing queen started accusing him again, he couldn’t trust himself not to overreact.
For now, he shut the dog in a cupboard and ignored its piteous howls while he got to work with detergent, disinfectant and half-a-dozen cleaning cloths. However, even after his labours, the carpet was still stained, the bedspread quite beyond repair, and the rubber plant fit only for the dump. And a smell of disinfectant and dog-poo still lingered in the air, mingled in one stomach-curdling reek.
He sank on to the sofa, although when he closed his eyes to shut out all the chaos, an image of his seventh birthday party suddenly swooped into his mind, for no reason he could fathom. Yet, there he was, an only child and self-sufficient little lad who preferred his own company to that of other boys, trying to tell his bossy mother that he didn’t want a party. His mother overruled him, of course, laying down the law in her usual dictatorial fashion, despite the fact he was right, as it turned out. The party guests had broken his best toys; opened presents meant for him (and even nicked a few); grabbed the nicest sandwiches, and gobbled so much birthday cake, he’d been left with only crumbs.
He had realized, at that early stage, that other people invariably spelled trouble, and now, as he sat contemplating, it dawned on him with startling force that it was best to be an only child for ever. If you had to share your space
or your possessions, disaster would ensue. He’d seen it with his contemporaries: their elegant houses cluttered up with baby paraphernalia; their once tranquil lives ruined by the demands of wilful kids and nagging wives; their futures compromised by acrimonious ex-wives, dunning them for every cent they earned. And he himself had blithely risked the same appalling fate by trying to find a partner. He had always told his girlfriends that children weren’t an option, made that clear at the start of all relationships, but it had still been quite a gamble, it struck him only now. A condom might have broken, or some crafty little female pretended she was on the Pill, then presented him with a pregnancy and asked him to foot the bills. He’d avoided that, thank God, but he was now stuck with worse than a baby – a dog without a nappy.
He jumped to his feet, determined not to waste a second more. Once he’d delivered Charmayne to the Dogs’ Home, he’d come straight back here and revel in his solitude, his privacy and peace. It was Saturday tomorrow, so he’d go out and replace the bedspread; buy another plant; even look at carpet shops and decide if such a major expense was feasible or not.
Such a decision was trifling compared with the all-important one he was making at this instant – the most significant decision of his life: from this day forward he would settle for lifelong bachelorhood; remain single till he died. Never again would he let woman, child or animal come so perilously and shatteringly close.
Christmas Stocking
‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ Brigit had to raise her voice above the insistent music throbbing through the pub, and the guffaws of the group at the next table.
Hannah played for time. The question was like ‘How are you?’ in that, unless you were in radiant health, no one wanted an honest answer. ‘I’m … still making up my mind,’ she said, faking a casual smile, yet uneasily aware that the correct response should be something more conventional and cosy: ‘I’ll be with all the family in the country,’ or ‘at home with the kids, of course.’
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