THIS MESSAGE HAS BEENDELETED
THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED
My heart is in my mouth once again. There are a few messages from this morning.
Shit, sorry about last night. I was cooked. I hope you’re okay. What happened to you? Did you hook up with Orlando? I have some news to tell you, but you might not like it. If you’re in Bath later, meet me at Alexandra Park by the museum cafe at 4.
Nooooooooo.No, I don’t want to go, but I draw myself a bath, lob a seven quid Lush bubble bar into it—not one of the glittery ones my sister bought me—and stew in my own filth for a few hours.
Pi’s brought his dog, a white and tan whippet named Trekkie. Technically, Trekkie’s full name is Star Trek: The Next Generation—with the colon and everything—but no one’s gonna yell out that entire thing in the middle of the night when the dog goes out to pee and won’t come back in.
Pi’s sitting on a metal cafe chair, smiling and waving, and when Trekkie spots me, his tail flicks left and right while he pulls on his lead to greet me.
I say hello to Trekkie before I say hello to my best friend, dropping to my knees and roughhousing the fur on his head, neck, and haunches. He licks my face, and it’s disgusting, and also the best thing ever. I’d love to get a dog, but I live on my own in a one-bedroomed third-floor central Bath flat with no garden. Maybe someday, when I don’t train away from home fifty hours a week, I’ll get one.
“How ya going?” Pi says, getting to his feet. “Do you want the bad news or the good news first? Bad news is all you, good news is mine.”
“That’s fucking unfair.”
We walk up the steps away from the museum entrance and back into the park area. Once we hit open grass, Pi unclips Trekkie’s lead and the dog becomes a blur on the horizon.
“Right, rip this plaster off. Hit me with the bad news,” I say.
“Well . . .” Pi says, staring off into the distance. I realise he won’t look at me, won’t make eye contact. When I step a little closer to him, he angles his body away just that bit more.
Fuck, it must be bad.
“Dan was smashed last night. Off his fucking tits drunk, and apparently told Gadget they’re gonna make him the new captain. Said that it’s basically in the bag. That it doesn’t matter what anyone else does, they’ve already made up their minds, and that they’re just pretending to open it up to everyone as a formality. But Gadget is already their guy. Sorry, man.”
I can’t quite place the emotions brewing in my gut. There’s disappointment obviously, and vindication because I fucking knew this was always going to be the way. There’s also anger because I’m pretty sure some rules are being broken here, even if they are only rules of moral conduct, and quite possibly . . . there’s some relief.
Now that I know for definite Mathias has the captaincy, I can stop wasting every shred of my energy on snatching it from under his nose.
“Dan said this?” I ask. I just need to double, triple check before I throw in the towel.
“Apparently,” Pi says.
“You heard him?”
“Nah, mate. I was spewing my guts up by this point. I was even more maggoted than Dan. Eggo told me on the drive home. You could speak to Eggs. He was sober.”
“Okay,” I say, though I know deep down every word is the truth. I felt it to be the truth last week when they announced the bloody thing. “Shit. Fucking shit. I really wanted that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pi cradles my tricep in his hand. “It’s not off the table forever, though. Like . . . Gadget’s getting old. He has to retire at some point.”
“Gadget’s thirty-one. Snatch is thirty-six, and he’s still playing. Am I supposed to fucking wait five more years?”
Trekkie, having finished sniffing every tree, every rubbish bin, and every anus belonging to another dog, rushes back over. He applies his brakes too late and ploughs his long wet snout into my thigh. Pi slots a tennis ball into a long blue plastic tube-like contraption and yeets it to the other side of the park. Trekkie zooms after it.
“Mate, I know it sucks, but it’s just the way it is.”
“Fine,” I say. I’m sulking like a teenager, but I know Pi’s not bothered by my attitude. He’s been my closest friend for about three years now. He wouldn’t stick around if he minded it too much.
Well, closest friend if you discount Orlando. Which I do because . . . fuck that guy.
“What’s the good news, then?” A distraction right about now would be nice.
“Georgia and I are breaking up.” He’s not looking at me again.
