Waiting for Doggo (17 page)

I’ve lain low over the past month or so and it’s inevitable I’m going to be quizzed about Clara. When I am, I come clean about Wayne, the budding movie-maker from New Zealand. The news rips round the table. ‘Dan, you poor thing.’ ‘Why didn’t you say?’ ‘I can’t believe it.’ ‘I can,’ says J. I want to tell them I’m okay with it, that Clara hardly figures in my thoughts any more, but they’ll only think I’m putting on a brave face, so I field the questions, make the right noises, and the talk finally, thankfully, turns to other things.

I know I’m going to be the last to leave, although Charlie and Anna give me a run for my money. We’re well into the whisky by the time they finally stagger off. J and I blitz the washing-up while Lily plays DJ and tries to get Doggo interested in a tennis ball.

‘He doesn’t do balls,’ I explain.

‘First dog I’ve met that doesn’t.’

‘He’s in love with Jennifer Aniston.’

J shakes his head despairingly. ‘I’ve got to say it, mate—’

Lily cuts him off. ‘No you don’t.’

J ignores her. ‘This whole one-man-and-his-dog thing … it’s kind of creepy. You couldn’t stand the bloody thing when Clara first showed up with it, and now that she’s buggered off, you’re all over it.’

‘J, shut up,’ says Lily.

‘I mean, what are you doing? Holding it for her till she returns?’

‘He’s not hers any more, he’s mine.’

J turns to Lily. ‘See what I mean?’ He hands me a salad bowl to dry. ‘And another thing, he’s not going to do you any favours when it comes to attracting the ladies. Maybe if he was a black Lab or something.’

I know that look in Doggo’s eye; it’s the same one he has when he’s gazing at Megan. ‘Watch how you go. You’re about to make yourself an enemy.’

‘Jesus …’ mutters J.

‘Don’t bother, Doggo, he’s not worth it.’ I squat down beside him and scratch his snout. ‘And I know a girl who finds you just as handsome as I do.’

‘Mate, she’s lying.’

‘Who?’ asks Lily, her interest piqued. ‘Come on, out with it.’

I tell them about Edie. I tell them almost everything. It’s the reason I’ve hung around.

‘Doggo,’ says Lily, ‘I think your master’s falling in love.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Pants on fire.’

‘Well, maybe a little.’

J is a simple soul at heart – he has no trouble grasping base impulses like physical desire – so the moment he sees the photo of Edie on my phone I have his full blessing. ‘Knockout,’ he says. ‘Top drawer. Go for it.’

‘I think I might already have blown it.’

I now tell them the rest – my faux pas the other night, Tristan, everything. I need guidance, advice. I listen and watch as they sweetly attempt to agree on something for once. J is firmly of the view that women have to be fought for tooth and nail, even carried off by force if the situation requires it.

‘It’s not the rape of the bloody Sabines,’ says Lily. She turns to me. ‘Ignore him, Dan. Just be yourself.’

‘Like
that’s
going to work,’ snorts J.

I know he’s only half joking.

I
ONLY REALISE
MY
mistake when the three of us are shown into Beth’s office at the Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.

‘He still hasn’t been dealt with, I see.’

I should have left Doggo behind, or at least outside with Edie. ‘It’s in the pipeline,’ I say. Beth looks unconvinced. ‘Life’s been pretty crazy since I was last here. I started a new job. In fact, so has Doggo.’

I assume she’ll find it endearing to hear that he has become the office postman.

‘He’s even started tweeting,’ chips in Edie. It’s true. Anna on reception has set him up with an account.

It’s hard to decipher the look in Beth’s eye as she peers at Doggo, but I’d say it’s not so much one of affection as of sympathy – compassion of the kind you’d feel for an exploited child labourer in an Asian sweatshop. ‘Well, he doesn’t look too bad on it,’ she concedes grudgingly.

I kept it vague when I made the appointment because it’s information I’m after, and what organisation hands that out freely in this data-protection-obsessed age of ours? Better to spring it on Beth in person, I figured, winning it out of her with charm. Unfortunately, everything about Beth suggests she doesn’t recall our last meeting with the same fondness I do.

She listens impassively as I fill her in on Doggo’s fascination with Jennifer Aniston, and how it set me thinking about his former life, where he came from. ‘I mean, I know he wasn’t abandoned, but that’s about it.’

Beth has the file in front of her. ‘No, that’s right, he wasn’t. His owner brought him in.’

‘I’d love to have a word with them, you know, fill in some of the gaps, maybe get some tips – what he likes, that sort of thing. Who knows, maybe they’d like to follow him on Twitter, stay in touch that way.’

Beth closes the file and immediately gives away the sex of the previous owner. ‘I don’t know why he brought Doggo in. Despite what you may think, we don’t interrogate people.’ She says it with a wounded note in her voice, which is when I remember that I made an unwise reference to Nazis last time I was here. That’s obviously why she’s being so frosty. ‘Maybe he couldn’t cope with a dog any more,’ she continues. ‘Maybe it was money. It can be a big wrench for the owners too, saying goodbye. We see our fair share of tears. I’m not sure he’d want to be reminded of it.’

‘But he might,’ says Edie.

‘I can’t give out personal details even if I wanted to. We have a strict privacy policy. I’m sure you understand.’

‘And is forwarding a letter out of the question?’ I ask.

Beth thinks on it for a moment. ‘No, that might be possible … if you’re happy to keep your side of the bargain.’ Her eyes flick in Doggo’s direction. Am I wrong? The message seems to be: get him castrated and I’ll consider it. It’s a good thing that Edie’s the first of us to find her voice.

‘That’s great. Thank you. Like Dan said, it’s in the pipeline.’ She smiles sweetly at me with eyes that order: just be a good boy.

‘Absolutely. Thanks, Beth.’

I only know for sure that Edie’s up to something when she announces that she’s dead set on getting a dog too. Beth perks up, happy to do the honours. We’re all heading downstairs when I get a text from Edie:
Phone me on my signal

The kennel block is a cacophony of barks and yelps, with the odd strangled howl thrown in. Maybe Doggo has blanked the memory of his brief stay here; he seems more intrigued than disturbed by the tall cells flanking the corridor, with their barred doors and their agitated occupants. The dogs come in all shapes and sizes, and we’ve already visited a fair few of them when Edie tips me the wink. I surreptitiously call her mobile, then watch in wonderment as she goes to work.

‘Mum, hi … Not the best time, I’m in the middle of something. Can it wait? … Of course I care. How’s he doing? … Hold on a second.’ She presses the phone to her chest and turns to us, her face furrowed with apology. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve really got to take this.’ She rolls her eyes for Beth’s benefit and whispers the word ‘mothers’, before sidling off. ‘Let me find somewhere quieter … Dogs … Yes, dogs. I’ll explain later. Tell me how he is …’

Her performance is so convincing that as soon as she’s lost to view, I find myself saying to Beth, ‘Her grandad had a fall the other day.’

It’s as I guessed: Edie was after Doggo’s file. Beth left it out on her desk and we now have a name – Patrick Ellory – along with a mobile number. What exactly to do with them requires a bit of thought, and we still haven’t settled on a strategy by the time we’ve strolled through Battersea Park and over Albert Bridge. We find ourselves a table in the sun among the toytown shacks of Chelsea Farmers Market.

‘You should have been an actor.’

‘I wanted to be,’ she replies. ‘I tried for the National Youth Theatre in my last year at school. They said no.’

‘More fool them. I’m not sure I’m ever going to believe another word you say.’

‘More fool you. That was complete bullshit.’

‘Really?’

She smiles. ‘No, I tried, didn’t make the cut. I was okay, competent, but I could never really let go, lose myself.’ She sneaks a sip of her beer. ‘It’s the same with my relationships, at least that’s what my boyfriends have always told me.’

I don’t want to talk about Tristan. ‘Three years with Douglas, you must have done something right.’

‘Two years too long. That’s what he said, not me, but he was right. It just took me a while to realise it.’

I’ve always assumed that Douglas was dumped in favour of Tristan, but it seems the relationship just petered out by mutual consent. ‘We were more like brother and sister at the end. There were no hard feelings, even when he shacked up with my best friend.’

Our dilemma is this (and pleasingly it
has
become our dilemma now, not just mine): we can’t be honest with Patrick Ellory. If we are, he’s liable to react badly, shut us out, even lodge a complaint with the dogs home. Edie thinks she should phone him up pretending to be from Battersea and say that the new owner of Mikey (I still can’t get over that name) is keen to get in touch. If Ellory agrees, I’m free to phone him. If he doesn’t, we’re stymied.

Edie makes the call but hangs up when it goes to message. She’ll try again in a bit.

‘What does he sound like?’

‘Well-spoken. Friendly. Oldish.’

I’m struck by a sudden thought. Doggo is curled at our feet in the shade under the table. ‘Where’s Patrick?’ I ask. He raises a lazy eye towards me, apparently unmoved by the name. ‘Patrick!’ Still nothing, not even the slightest glimmer of recognition.

‘That’s weird for a dog so good with names,’ says Edie.

She suggests we head to the South Kensington branch of Christie’s, a short walk away, to see which auctions are viewing. ‘It worked for us last time.’ It certainly did. The breakthrough on the strapline for SWOSH! came as we wandered back to the office after viewing the Impressionist & Modern sale.

Vintage Posters isn’t quite in the same league, although many of the lots on show in the ground-floor galleries are French, as is the Vargo, the new hatchback we’re still struggling to find an angle on. We’re not the only ones. Clive and Connor claim to have hit a wall, unless the furious rows (worse than ever) have been staged to deceive.

Ralph knew exactly what he was doing when he threw the brief open to the whole creative department. For all his talk of pulling together, he was pitting us against each other. It’s pretty clear that whichever team impresses him the most on Wednesday will get the job. Megan is playing her cards very close and has obviously sworn Seth to silence. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re all coming at it the same way, though, focusing on the goodies wrapped up in the ugly package: the great fuel economy and the cool kit that comes as standard (including satnav and hands-free Bluetooth connectivity). There’s no denying you get a lot of bang for your buck; unfortunately there’s an eye-watering price to be paid in the looks department.

Edie and I get a boost of inspiration from some of the old posters, with their stylised images of long-forgotten French liqueurs, razor-bowed ocean liners, speeding locomotives and palm-fringed spa resorts on the Riviera. There’s only one problem: they are all testaments to the seductive power of style over substance, whereas substance is the only card we can logically play when it comes to promoting the decidedly unseductive, style-free Vargo.

Edie is the one to point out this unfortunate disparity. Once she has, the easy elegance of the posters begins to taunt us from the walls. It’s time to move on, anyway; Edie has a hair appointment in Marylebone.

I don’t know any women who wear their hair as short as she does. ‘Just a trim, I suppose.’

‘Depends,’ she replies. ‘How short do you think I should go?’

‘Ripley in
Alien 3
. You could get away with it.’

‘I might just do that.’

Doggo and I see her to South Kensington tube, where she tries Patrick Ellory’s number once again, and again it goes to message. She promises to call me as soon as she has spoken to him. Almost as an afterthought, she mentions that she’s meeting up for lunch tomorrow with some friends at a riverside pub out near Richmond. Annoyingly, I can’t join them; it would mean blowing out lunch with my mother, who’s over from Spain for Pat Connelly’s funeral.

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I think I might have overreacted to what Grandpa said.’

I can tell she thinks I’m trying to make light of it, but I’m really not. When Mum called on Thursday to fix a time and a place to meet, there was nothing in her voice to suggest she would be sharing anything more sinister with me tomorrow than a Sunday roast.

M
Y MOTHER IS
manically punctual. I know this, which is why I make a special effort to turn up on time, which is why I’m not as late as I usually am. Twelve minutes is about as good as it gets. It’s also time enough for Mum to sink most of her Bloody Mary, I note.

The drink has taken the edge off her sulk. She doesn’t want to be eating here, but the restaurant she and Nigel favour, the one just down the road from the hotel they always stay at when in London, doesn’t accept dogs.

‘He’s better in the flesh,’ is the most she can offer when she sets eyes on Doggo.

‘You can stroke him if you want.’

‘Do I have to, darling?’

‘He’s safe. I’ve treated him for fleas. And worms.’

‘You did that? All by yourself?’ She sounds pleasantly surprised and even gives Doggo a couple of awkward pats on the head.

‘Where’s Nigel?’ I ask.

It’s a poor excuse, something to do with a last-minute business meeting he couldn’t get out of, and it sets me wondering, thinking things I don’t want to be thinking. They’re soon forgotten in a flurry of chatter about Pat Connelly’s funeral tomorrow and the many ghosts from the past Mum is expecting (and mostly dreading) to see at the crematorium out in Hertfordshire.

‘Is Dad going to be there?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t suppose so. Pat was one of the few friends who took my side when he left me for the lesbian.’