Waiting for Doggo (22 page)

We should probably have jumped in a cab, but it’s not so far on foot and I fancy a walk through Holland Park. I don’t suppose it really matters if we’re fifteen minutes late.

I never used to walk anywhere. It’s another thing I’ve got from Doggo. He loves it more than ever, trotting along at the end of his lead, soaking up the sights and smells of the city. For me it’s an opportunity to daydream or, like today, gather my thoughts.

I can’t help feeling I should be more upset by yesterday’s news that we didn’t win the Vargo account. According to Ralph, they wavered, vacillated, almost took the plunge, but in the end the notion of selling a car by actively embracing its unfortunate appearance proved to be a step too far. We still don’t know who they went with. Whoever it is, Tristan will no doubt be delighted, wherever he is. The last I heard, he tried and failed to get his old job back at
Campaign
. I can’t imagine he cares too much. He’s like a cat – he’ll always land on his feet. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next I hear of him his book is a massive best-seller and he’s making a mint from speaking engagements. In some ways, I hope that happens. Given how he’s put together, success is very likely to slake any thirst for revenge.

I still feel the odd stab of guilt about the part I played in his downfall, but that’s probably because Ralph can’t stop thanking me for alerting him to Tristan’s master plan. I don’t know the exact details of what Ralph did with the information, but it was clearly enough to head Tristan off at the pass with the board of directors, and ultimately see him ousted in a counter-coup. Megan, Ralph’s longest-standing employee, also fell victim to the purge, having sold her soul to the young pretender.
Et tu, Brute
.

Indology is a far happier ship with both of them gone; that was clear to me even before I left. It didn’t feel like leaving. I’d hardly been there any time at all. Besides, Doggo and I are always poking our heads in. Edie sometimes insists on taking him to work, and the office gets its postman back for a day. He likes a captive audience, which is slightly concerning given how much more attention is about to come his way.

The cartoon strip is up and running, beginning to make waves, well, ripples anyway. Josh and I struggled to find a title for it, and it still rankles slightly that he nailed it ahead of me, the supposed wordsmith. It’s called ‘Waiting for Doggo’.

One cartoon every other week can hardly be described as full-time work – even less so for Josh, who hasn’t given up the day job at Indology – but when I’m not toying with ideas, building up a storehouse for the future, I’m working on my novel. Money will become an issue if the book doesn’t find a home. At worst, I have an open offer from Ralph for a part-time consultancy role.

Edie, meanwhile, is flying high with her new copywriter partner. Seth has blossomed since Megan was forced out. Even he didn’t realise just how close he’d come to total psychological collapse after nine months in a confined space with her. I worry less about the torch he has always carried for Edie since he struck up a relationship with Anna on reception.

Doggo stops to irrigate a small sapling on the south side of Holland Park. I’d follow suit if I thought I could get away with it; that’s how nervous I am. We cross Kensington High Street and take the narrow lane leading to Edwardes Square.

I’ve only been here a couple of times before, to meet friends at the pub in the south-east corner, but I know exactly what to expect because I’ve checked out the house on Google Street View. It has four floors – the first two stuccoed, the top two of brick – and the iron balcony serving the long windows of the third floor is threaded with an ancient wisteria (dripping with purple flowers like bunches of grapes on Street View, but no longer in bloom).

I ease open the gate, cross the tiny patch of flagged front garden and mount the steps.

My heart is beating the most ridiculous tattoo in my chest as I look down at Doggo.

‘Ready to meet my real father?’ I ask.

He appears intrigued, even eager, and if he’s up for it, then so am I.

My finger reaches for the brass doorbell.