Pug Actually

by Matt Dunn

  “Madam, your chariot awaits,” Tom says, then he scoops me up from the floor with one hand and takes Julie’s arm in the other.

  He escorts us both to the curb, opens Julie’s door for her, then deposits me on her lap, before hurrying round to his side of the car.

  And as Tom takes us for a ride, I can only hope that’s not what Julie’s going to do to him.

  * * *

  Tom’s car is great! The equivalent of one massive open window covering the entire vehicle means we all get the benefit of effectively sticking our heads out of it. And while Julie almost loses her hat as we speed along the road, I can tell she’s enjoyed the journey too.

  As we’re parking, the mood in the car changes a little. The party’s taking place in the grounds of a local hotel that looks more like a castle, and while Tom’s got a grin on his face that looks like it’ll need to be surgically removed, Julie looks as anxious as a boxer at a weigh-in.

  “Ready?” says Tom, once we’ve made our way to the entrance.

  He holds his arm out, and Julie stares at it as if she’s never seen an arm before, then she makes an “oh, right” face, and slips her arm into his. Tom and I exchange glances, then—satisfied we’ve both got her covered—we make our way inside. And then outside, where we’re met by a cacophony of noise.

  Over in one corner, there’s a smaller, inflatable version of the hotel, where what sounds like a thousand-or-so children, given the levels of screaming and whooping, are jumping about in such a frenzy it’s as if they’ve come straight from a sampling tour of a candy factory. Dotted around the grassy area are several stalls featuring an assortment of fairground games. At the far side (and with the biggest crowd) is the bar, while in the middle sit a pair of small platforms, on which a couple of overdressed women sporting the kind of head protectors amateur boxers wear are trying to bash the living daylights out of each other with what appear to be oversize Q-tips.

  Tom surveys the scene, then widens his eyes at Julie. “Well, this looks like...”

  “A nightmare?” Julie makes a half grin, half grimace face. “Is it too late to turn around and go? If no one’s seen us yet, then perhaps we can just...”

  “Don’t be such a party pooper.” Tom fixes her with that smile of his again, and I feel her grip relax a little on my leash. “The first thing you need is a drink, and then we’re going to have some fun.”

  “Fun. Right.” Julie glances down at their linked arms. “Do we still need to...?”

  “Absolutely!” says Tom. “Remember why we’re here.”

  “Sure,” says Julie, though remembering why we’re here seems to make her even more anxious.

  “Now, where’s that... What was his name again?”

  “Luke. Though at work he insists everyone calls him Lucas.”

  “Luke. Ass. Got it.” Tom grins again, and this time, gets the briefest of smiles from Julie in return. “That’s the spirit. Try to look as if you’re having a good time, at least.”

  “Sorry.” Julie briefly lets go of his arm, but only to salute him. “Will do.”

  “And how will I recognize him?”

  “Six one, medium build, shortish dark hair...” Julie takes a breath. “Heavily pregnant wife.”

  “Right.” To his credit, Tom doesn’t say anything though I can almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain.

  I lead us over to the bar, where Tom procures a couple of glasses of something called “Pimm’s”—which I suspect isn’t especially healthy, even though it appears to have fruit floating in it—then the two of them sit down on a nearby bench.

  “Cheers,” he says, so Julie touches her glass briefly against his, then downs the majority of her drink as she anxiously scans the crowd. “Well?” he adds, as Julie stifles a burp.

  “Well what?”

  “Is he here?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. Maybe he’s chickened out.”

  “Like you nearly did?”

  Julie gives him a look. “Tom, I...” She shakes her head, then pats him on the arm. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to give you a big lecture on how you don’t understand, but I’m guessing that after what you went through you probably do, or alternatively you just don’t have any sympathy for me, so I decided against it.” She smiles sheepishly. “I know what we were doing wasn’t right. I just couldn’t see it at the time, and I so wanted it to be different. That’s all.”

  “And now?”

  Julie looks up sharply, but it’s evident Tom isn’t referring to the two of them. “Now I’m doubting myself, wondering how I got it all so wrong.”

  Tom shrugs. “It happens. I thought I’d met the love of my life. Evidently the feeling wasn’t mutual. And you can either let that eat you up, or...”

  He stares off into the distance for a moment or two, and Julie rubs his arm. “How long does it take?”

  “How long does what take?”

  “For you to stop blaming yourself.”

  Tom smiles flatly. “I’ll let you know,” he says, and Julie’s expression softens.

  “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Everything. I’ve been making it all about me, whereas...” She nudges him, then takes a deep breath, and stands up purposefully. “Shall we go and have some of that fun you mentioned?”

  Tom shrugs again, then he sets his drink down on the grass. “Sounds like a plan,” he says.

  * * *

  The next hour passes without fanfare possibly because Luke’s nowhere to be smelled, which is a shame, because giving Julie the chance to compare Luke and Tom side by side can only result in a hands-down win for Tom. To make that happen, though, I have to find him, which is why I’ve been leading us from stall to stall, sniffing the ground for any sign.

  And while I may not be excelling in the tracking department, at least this gives Tom the chance to demonstrate his prowess in the various activities; throwing beanbags into an open hole; hooking rubber ducks on the end of a pole; even punching a hanging ball so hard that the stall owner, perhaps out of fear that Tom might do the same to him, hands Julie a stuffed teddy bear. Though he refuses to take part in a game involving throwing a ping-pong ball into a fishbowl that has a live goldfish in it on professional grounds, and instead spends ten minutes lecturing the woman running the stand why she shouldn’t be keeping the fish in such small bowls as they end up swimming around in their own urine, Julie seems to find that impressive too.

  Despite me nearly embarrassing myself at the coconut shy when I try to chase every ball Tom throws and end up knocking one of the coconuts off myself in an attempt to retrieve a wayward ball, we all seem to be having a good time. Any initial forced friendliness seems to have changed into a genuine enjoyment of each other’s company, and I’m starting to think we don’t actually need Luke today. But just as I’m leading Tom and Julie back to the bar while congratulating myself on my plan coming together, a familiar smell from the direction of the Q-tip-fighting raises my hackles.

  I dig my feet into the grass and manage to bring Julie to a sudden stop. So sudden, in fact, that she drops the end of my leash.

  “Alright, Doug?” she asks, as I look up at her, feeling a little guilty about what I’m planning to do next.

  “I thought we were getting a drink?” says Tom.

  “Doug’s obviously not thirsty.” She bends down to grab the end of my leash, just as I take a step backward to pull the handle out of her reach.

  “Doug?”

  “Want me to...?” Tom takes a step forward in an attempt to stand on the loose end, but I’m too quick for him, and by the time he’s regained his balance, I’m already trotting off toward where I’ve scented Luke.

  “Doug!” calls Julie, as the two of them set off in pursuit. They’re still holding hands (and in Julie’s case, a
large stuffed bear), which means Julie’s slowing Tom down, and I reach my objective easily.

  I let out a low growl, and a wide-eyed Luke wheels round, catches sight of me, and jumps a foot or so into the air. He smells of Pimm’s—which admittedly makes a pleasant change from his usual brand of deodorant—and not only because he’s carrying a glass of what evidently isn’t his first. When he lands, he appears to be a little unsteady on his feet.

  “Doug?” he says, and then—almost in slow motion—he looks up, as if he’s just realized I can’t possibly be here on my own. “And Julie!” he announces, his features morphing into a slightly creepy grin.

  To her credit, Julie doesn’t flinch. Instead, she fixes a smile on her face, and says, coolly, “Luke,” and even though she adds the “arse” part loudly, at the sound of his name, I sense Tom stiffen.

  “Having a nice time?” he asks. He’s talking to Julie, but his eyes are on Tom, regarding him warily.

  “We were,” says Julie, curtly.

  It’s an excellent response, and it makes Luke flinch. “Right. So...” He peers at Tom as if waiting for an introduction, and when one doesn’t come, he kneels down to my level. “Doug! How are you, boy?” he says, attempting to pat me on the top of my head, but I’m too quick for him, and take a step toward Tom instead.

  Luke hauls himself unsteadily back to his feet, then he gives Julie a slow, deliberate once-over. “You look...” He seems to be reaching in the dark for the word, though it must be very dark, because he doesn’t seem to be able to find one.

  “Doesn’t she?” says Tom, after a moment, then he holds out a hand. “I’m Tom, by the way.”

  “Right.” Luke stares at Tom’s hand, then back at Tom, then down at his hand again, then finally shakes it. “And you are...?”

  “Tom?” repeats Tom.

  “No, I meant...”

  “Oh!” Tom lets out a short laugh. “I’m Julie’s...” He turns and smiles down at her. “What’s the word?”

  “Plus-one?” she suggests.

  “Though technically, that’s two words,” says Tom.

  Luke ignores him, and scowls at Julie. “You kept this quiet.”

  “Kept what quiet?”

  “About being in a...” He hesitates. “Re-la-tion-ship,” he says, making the second syllable the longest.

  It’s not a question, so it doesn’t require an answer, but Julie gives him one anyway, and it’s a goodie. “Ditto,” she says, archly.

  “Right. So...” Luke’s voice trails off, and he looks like he wants to leave but—perversely—can’t, so Julie takes the opportunity to peer exaggeratedly over his shoulder.

  “No Sarah?”

  “Sarah?” says Luke, still a second or two behind the conversation.

  “Your wife?”

  “What? Oh...” Luke shrugs. “She’s not here. I’m...”

  “In the doghouse?” says Julie.

  “No,” he says, after a moment. “She’s not here, because she’s...”

  “Pregnant?” says Julie, and Luke makes a face.

  “I was going to say tired, but the two seem to go hand in hand nowadays. Much like the two of you seem to be doing.”

  Tom looks down, as if he’s only just realized Julie’s grabbed onto him again, and he seems rather pleased.

  “So what do you do, Tom? Apart from...” Luke nods toward Julie.

  “I’m a...” Tom glances down at me. “V-E-T.”

  “A what?”

  Tom reaches down and covers my ears with his hands. “A vet,” he says.

  “A vet?” says Luke, loudly, and with no thought for my feelings. “That must come in handy. You know. For...” He points down at me, though with the hand that’s holding his Pimm’s, and splashes the remainder of it on Tom’s shoes. “Sorry.” Luke suddenly notices the large stuffed bear Julie’s holding. “Been having a bit of luck, I see?”

  “This? Tom won it.”

  Luke eyes him suspiciously. “I bet he did.”

  “Yup,” says Tom. “On the old...” He mimes a slow punch in Luke’s direction, and even Luke’s not too stupid—or drunk—to get the inference.

  “Right,” he says, followed by a mumbled, “Good for you.”

  There’s an awkward silence, though it’s suddenly punctuated by a loud cheer from behind us. One of the Q-tip-fighting women is standing on her platform, arms aloft in celebration. Luke lets out a snigger, then his face does that classic “I’ve had an idea!” thing, and his eyes narrow.

  “Fancy trying your luck on something a bit less...passive?”

  “Huh?” says Tom.

  Luke points at the Q-tip fighting. “You and me. On that!”

  Tom shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says.

  “Scared, eh?”

  “What? Why would I be...?” Tom folds his arms, as if it’s just occurred to him he’d quite like to smack Luke around the head with a large Q-tip—or possibly even something a little less padded. He glances across at Julie, who just widens her eyes in an “if you like” kind of way, then he nods. “Sure,” he says.

  Wordlessly, Luke hands his empty Pimm’s glass to Julie, and beckons for us to follow him across to where the girls have just been fighting. Then, elbowing Vinay from Accounts out of the way, he climbs purposefully onto one of the platforms. The operator hands him his protective headgear, so he slips it on, picks up the Q-tip, then beckons Tom to join him.

  With a sigh, Tom hands his jacket to Julie, and leaps nimbly up onto the adjacent platform, though he’s barely had time to fasten his headgear when Luke takes a sneaky swing, catching him a glancing blow on the temple.

  Tom just about manages to absorb the shot. “Hey,” he says, adjusting his now-lopsided protector. “No fair.”

  “Fair?” Luke sneers at him. “You’ll be telling me you weren’t ready next.”

  “I was born ready.”

  “Yeah? Well I was born...”

  “Yesterday?”

  Luke frowns at him, perhaps not sure whether that’s an insult or not, and I take the opportunity to study Julie. Something tells me she’s going to find this interesting.

  Tom turns to the operator. “So, what are the ru—oof!”

  Luke’s attacked again, with a sort of forward poking motion this time, catching Tom in the stomach.

  “Rules?” says Luke, waving away the operator’s attempt to explain, then he lets out a short laugh. “There are no rules. Except that the first person knocked from their platform loses.”

  “Right.” Tom picks his Q-tip up, tests the weight of it, then twirls it round in the manner of a drum majorette. “Well, mind you don’t hurt yourself when you fall off,” he says, and a look of rage flashes across Luke’s face.

  With a quick glance across at Julie, he suddenly switches so he’s holding the stick at one end, crouches down, and swings it at the side of Tom’s knees. Fortunately, Tom sees it coming, and with a loud “Whoa!” manages to jump over it.

  “Nothing below the waist,” warns the operator, and Luke gives him a dismissive look.

  “Anything goes, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “So I’ve heard,” says Tom, archly.

  Luke opens his mouth to answer, then perhaps conscious this is a work event, evidently thinks better of it. Quite a crowd has gathered—possibly because Luke’s employees are keen to see their regional manager get knocked on his backside.

  “Ready?” says Luke, sarcastically, as he squares up to Tom.

  “I am now,” says Tom, adopting a defensive position.

  The two of them begin a series of feints in an attempt to feel each other out, followed by a couple of tentative swings, though nothing connects. It soon becomes apparent that while Luke has the weight advantage, Tom’s more agile, and after one particularly wild swing, an off-balance Luke reels forwar
d, only for Tom to poke him full in the face with the end of his stick.

  “Hey!” Luke’s eyes are watering, and he puts a hand to his nose, as if expecting it to come away bloody.

  “Sorry,” says Tom, though he doesn’t look sorry at all.

  The two of them thrust and parry for a while, until Tom lets fly with a roundhouse swing that connects so solidly with the side of Luke’s head that—even through the protection—seems to make his head spin. He drops his stick in shock, then steps off the platform to retrieve it, only for Tom to punch the air with a celebratory “Yes!”

  “What do you mean, yes?” says Luke.

  “I won.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Yes I did.”

  “No you didn’t. You have to knock me off. I got off on purpose.”

  “Off is still off.”

  “No it isn’t. I dropped my...” Luke brandishes his stick, evidently unsure what the thing’s called. “I was vulnerable.”

  “Really?” says Tom. “I thought you’d be the last person to worry about going for someone who’s...” He glances across at Julie, making sure Luke sees. “Vulnerable?”

  “No, I just...” Luke swallows hard. “You have to win fair and square. That’s all.”

  “Fine.” Tom shakes his head, then he beckons Luke back up in an exaggerated mimicry of his earlier encouragement. “Give it your best shot. Unless you already have?”

  He holds his stick out, perhaps intending for Luke to touch the end of it with his, like boxers do at the start of a bout. Instead Luke pretends he’s about to do exactly that, then ducks down and swings the end of his stick up between Tom’s legs. Tom winces, and the onlookers groan along with him, but he doesn’t fall off his platform.

  “Above waist height,” warns the operator meekly, and Luke glares at him.

  The two of them trade blows again for a few seconds, Tom blocking or ducking Luke’s wild swings, deftly replying with accurate jabs of his own. Then as Luke pauses to catch his breath—and in a masterful move—Tom suddenly lowers his stick, half turns away, and pretends to adjust his headgear. Luke looks like he can’t believe his luck, so he launches an almighty swing, putting everything into it. But Tom leans smartly back, then—as Luke is off-balance—he pokes him on the shoulder, with just the right timing to add to Luke’s momentum. It’s not a heavy hit, but it does the trick, as Luke topples from the platform and goes sprawling onto the grass.