Waiting for Doggo (21 page)

It’s a strange line, not up to Seth’s usual high standards. Something sheepish in his look tells me that he might not have had much of a hand in it, or the concept for that matter, which Tristan now endorses with a hearty ‘Bravo.’ Whatever he thinks of our idea, I know he’s going to grind it into the dirt with his heel.

We also have an attractive young couple, although in our scenario the woman is driving (Edie’s idea). Cut to a close-up of her hands on the steering wheel: ‘Leather Steering Wheel as Standard.’ He punches their destination into the satnav: ‘Satnav as Standard.’ She flicks a switch: ‘Heated Front Seats as Standard.’ And so on – parking sensors, low emissions, stunning fuel economy, all as standard – until the final frame, which reads: ‘Vargo. Because It’s Good to Have Standards.’

Predictably, Tristan looks underwhelmed. He even manages to produce a slightly puzzled frown. Ralph kicks off the discussion with some words of encouragement and congratulation for all of us, although something tells me he’s disappointed. Tristan is quick to say that for him the standout concept is Megan and Seth’s, with its high-energy buzz and glamorous message.

‘“Why Settle for Less?”’ says Ralph, doubtfully. ‘It lacks the punch of the visuals.’

‘A little, maybe,’ concedes Tristan. ‘What about: “Why Settle for Water When You Can Have Wine?”’

Ralph gives a sudden loud laugh and turns to the rest of us. ‘What do you reckon, guys? Alcohol and cars? Think we can get that one past the ASA?’ He turns back to Tristan. ‘That’s the Advertising Standards Authority, by the way.’

Tristan knows full well what the ASA is, just as he knows he should have stopped to think before offering his opinion. ‘Something like that,’ he replies defensively.

‘Orange juice,’ suggests Ralph. ‘“Why Settle for Orange Juice When You Can Have Water?”’ A brief pause. ‘Nah, it doesn’t have the right ring.’ It’s not just the heavy dose of sarcasm, it’s the look of challenge in Ralph’s eye. There’s something serious in the air, and I’m not sure Tristan has any idea what it is. I do.

While Tristan bristles, Ralph drives the discussion forward. We’re all missing something, something essential, and he can’t quite put his finger on it. He’s intrigued by the dream-like quality of Clive and Connor’s approach, but ultimately it’s just too mysterious, too vague and elusive. And although he likes the archness of our line – ‘Because It’s Good to Have Standards’ – he’s not sure that flogging a car on its gadgets and gizmos is the way to go. As for Megan and Seth, when you pin a product to a type of person through a lifestyle narrative, you run the risk of alienating whole swathes of the population.

‘There’s a danger they’ll ask themselves “Why would I want to buy a car that’s driven by arseholes like that?”’

‘Arseholes?’ says Megan, as if she’s not quite sure whether she heard him right.

‘Not to you, maybe.’

Condescending smiles come easily to Megan. She has also known Ralph for ever, which I suppose is why she feels entitled to say, ‘Ralphy, you’re more than twice the age of the people we’re targeting.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ he replies. ‘But I can still spot a smug, loft-dwelling prat at fifty paces …
Brute
.’

You don’t need to be an expert on Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
to get the gist of what he’s saying.
Et tu, Brute?
She has betrayed him, and he wants her to know that he knows.

I’m not sure what triggers it – maybe it’s the crackle of barely contained aggression in the air, the sense of something about to turn seriously nasty – but I have a sudden vision of the shaven-headed thug in Athlone Gardens insulting me (‘you doughnut’) and Doggo (‘Quasimodo’) from his perch on the brick balcony. That’s when the line pops into my head.

‘Give me a minute,’ I say, leaping to my feet.

There’s relief around the table, because anything is better than what’s about to kick off.

‘Huh?’ says Ralph.

‘Not even. I’ll be right back. Talk amongst yourselves.’

The last thing I’m aware of before leaving the room is Edie’s pleading look.
Don’t leave me here alone
, it says.

What with Doggo still feeling out of sorts, I’ve left him with Anna in reception. She has him on her lap and is guiding his paws around her computer keyboard.

‘Finished already?’ she asks.

‘Not quite. I need him.’

‘But he’s tweeting.’

‘Later,’ I say, scooping him up.

I’ve been gone no more than thirty seconds, and if they’ve been talking amongst themselves during my absence, you wouldn’t know it from the leaden silence that greets me when I return with Doggo in my arms. I place him in the middle of the conference table.

‘What do you see?’ I ask.

‘A dog eating our biscuits,’ says Connor. (A man committing career suicide, says Ralph’s tight smile.)

I remove the plate of biscuits and hand it to Edie. Doggo looks seriously annoyed.

‘Honestly. What do you see?’

‘Doggo,’ offers Seth.

‘No. What you see is a small and very ugly dog … possibly the least attractive dog you’ve ever seen.’

‘Possibly?’ enquires Megan with an arched eyebrow.

‘Shut up, will you?’ says Ralph. ‘I think I know where he’s heading with this.’

I drum my fingers lightly on the tabletop. Doggo pads over to me and I scratch his head and fiddle with his ears, and he’s in heaven.

‘Ugly can be lovable.’ I look up at them all. ‘Clive and Connor are selling a dream. Megan and Seth are selling a lifestyle. Edie and I, well, we’re selling a bunch of bells and whistles. None of is us selling the car. We’re embarrassed of it. But we don’t need to be, because—’

‘Ugly can be lovable,’ says Ralph, intrigued. ‘Got anything more concrete?’

‘Only a line. It just came to me.’ I hesitate, uncertain.

‘Well?’

‘The Hatchback of Notre-Dame.’

Seth laughs and slaps the table. ‘Damn! And the French angle!’ This earns him a withering look from Megan.

‘It’s just an idea.’

‘No, it’s not,’ growls Tristan. ‘It’s a shit idea.’

‘It’s brave, it’s risky, it’s bloody genius.’ Ralph turns to Tristan. ‘It’s everything this agency stands for, whether you like it or not.’

‘Yeah, well me no likey.’

‘Yeah, well we need talky.’ Ralph turns to the rest of us. ‘Go and grab lunch. Come to think of it, take the rest of the day off.’ We’re all getting to our feet when he adds, ‘Not you, Megan – you stay.’ I’ve seen Megan look a lot of different things since I arrived at Indology, but I’ve never seen her look worried before.

The door has hardly swung shut behind us when Connor hisses in his heavy Irish brogue, ‘Does one of yous want to tell me what the fuck was going on in there?’

I shrug. ‘Anyone’s guess.’

Back in our office, I tell Edie that it’s just politics, that it’ll play itself out. I also ask her what she wants to do.

‘Go home,’ she replies.

‘Okay.’

‘Your home.’

The weather has changed its mind in the past few hours; the sun has burned off the clouds and there’s now a warm breeze blowing through the streets of Soho. We take a cab to the Dock Kitchen at the top end of Ladbroke Grove. Edie has never eaten there. Doggo and I have, many times; it’s sort of our canteen. The converted wharf building overlooks the Grand Union Canal and has a large raised terrace where you can eat lunch beneath white sunshades. We both opt for the grilled mackerel. The glass of white wine hits home, reminding me just how little I slept last night. It’s a short stroll back to the bed we both know is waiting for us.

I think at first that I must have forgotten to double-lock the door to my flat when I left it two days ago, but then I see the suitcase in the hall and my heart lurches.

She has been checking her emails at the desk in the corner of the living room, but now she stands and turns.

‘Daniel.’

‘Clara.’

I can tell from the clothes and the deft touches of make-up that she has made an effort to look her best. She’s moving rapidly towards me when she spots Edie over my shoulder and stops in her tracks.

‘This is Edie. Edie, Clara.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ says Edie.

Clara’s eyes slide down to Doggo. ‘Doggo …’ she coos, crouching and extending her arms towards him. There’s something hesitant in the wag of his tail as he trots over; yes, he recognises her, but he’s also wary. ‘Look at you, little man.’ I see him dart a nervous glance at Edie as Clara smothers him. ‘I can’t believe you kept him. Is he still Doggo? Did you find a name for him?’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Edie.

Yes, do that
, say Clara’s eyes.

‘At least have a coffee or something,’ I suggest feebly.

‘No, you two have a lot to talk about.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

‘It’s okay.’

But I do, accompanying her downstairs. ‘Nice surprise,’ she says in the stairwell.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Edie, you don’t have to worry.’

‘I’m not worried. Why would I be worried? Your girlfriend of four years just turned up looking like she’s stepped off a bloody catwalk.’ She stops at the front door. ‘She wants you back, Dan.’

‘You don’t know that.’

A shadow of disappointment falls across her face. ‘Wrong answer. You were supposed to say you don’t want her back.’

I want to say it, but the words won’t come. ‘Edie …’

But she’s gone, down the front steps and along the street. I know Clara will be watching from the window and I can’t face putting on a public spectacle for her.

I’m not too surprised by Clara’s opening gambit when I return upstairs. ‘She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?’

‘We work together. She’s my new partner at the agency.’ Why am I making excuses? I don’t need to make excuses.

‘Working from home today? Hot-desking?’

‘Trouble at t’mill. Afternoon off.’

‘Daniel, I’m a woman, she’s a woman. I know that look in her eyes. It’s okay.’ She steps towards me. ‘Hold me.’

Just one more time, I tell myself, because I didn’t get a chance to when she left. I wish it felt worse, but it’s like slipping on an old glove, or a shoe that’s been shaped by years of wear. ‘I came straight here from the airport,’ she whispers into my neck. ‘I’m sorry, I really messed up.’ And now she’s clinging to me, sobbing softly. ‘You have to forgive me. Please forgive me.’

The little devil crouched on my shoulder is telling me that four years can’t be wiped out just like that, but all the pain and hurt she has caused me can be. There’s no angel on the other shoulder, but there is Doggo.

He’s not just watching from across the room, he’s looking me hard in the eye, and although it’s a flat stare, tough to interpret, there’s something distinctly coiled, almost menacing, in the set of his shoulders. I smile feebly. He’s having none of it. He stands there inert, as if carved from stone, my conscience, my guide … my guardian angel.

How can it have taken me so long to understand?

I see myself, steeped in a lazy cynicism, playfully ribbing Clara about Kamael. I see Fran, cute and caustic, taking me to task at my sister Emma’s lunch party:
Maybe you’re looking for halos and wings when you should be looking for other things
. And I see Zsa Zsa, bone-gaunt in her bed at the hospital, content at last to give up the fight and let herself go.

I gently release Clara and run my fingers through her hair, my thumbs beneath her eyes, smearing away the tears. I feel purged, stripped of all ill-will towards her. I’m free to love her again, just not like before.

‘It’s me,’ I say into my phone.

‘I can see that,’ replies Edie.

‘I thought you’d want an update.’

‘Not particularly. Not after the way you behaved.’

‘Remind me, what did I do wrong?’

‘You should have kicked her out for breaking and entering.’

‘Entering,’ I correct her. ‘She had keys.’

‘You should have changed the locks.’

‘You’re right, I should have, but I really didn’t think she was coming back.’

‘And now she has.’

‘And now she’s gone again.’

‘Where?’ asks Edie tentatively.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear what she said to the cab driver.’

There’s a brief silence. ‘Where are you?’

‘Sitting on your doorstep with Doggo and wishing you were here.’

‘Don’t move,’ she replies, killing the call.

She’s wearing denim shorts and a Pink Floyd T-shirt that’s so threadbare it can only have been her father’s. I can tell from her eyes that she’s been crying.

‘What happened?’

My hand goes to my cheek. ‘This? Oh, she slapped me.’

‘Good, it means I don’t have to.’

‘Go ahead if you want. It’s still so numb I won’t feel it.’

Edie peers closer. ‘God, she really caught you. Has she got a ring on her middle finger?’

‘She was pretty furious. She even tried to walk off with Doggo, said technically he was still hers.’

‘What happened?’

I look down at Doggo. ‘Tell her what you did, Doggo.’

He peers up at us, shamefaced.

‘He didn’t!’ gasps Edie. ‘He bit her?’

‘More of a warning shot. No blood. Well, not much.’

Edie scoops Doggo up into her arms. ‘Oh Doggo, my hero.’

He licks her face, as happy as I’ve ever seen him.

I
COULDN’T SAY
HOW
many times I’ve changed my clothes since Edie first woke me with a kiss and a cup of tea. I’ve done the full-blown suit (borrowed from J), the casual jacket (bought especially from Selfridges) and the V-neck jumper; I’ve done them all with collared shirts and ties, collared shirts without ties, and with any number of different T-shirts underneath. I finally settled for a button-down shirt and crew-neck jumper combination, only to change my mind as I was leaving the flat.

That’s why Doggo now finds me walking beside him in jeans, suede chukka boots and a navy blue polo shirt. ‘Eurotrash banker in weekend mufti’ is how J described the look. It’ll have to do, because he then shut the door of my flat in my face and locked it. Only Edie waved us off from the balcony. She mouthed something that looked suspiciously like ‘I love you,’ although I know she’ll deny it later.