“Something has happened between you.”
“No –”
“Let me guess, he said or did something insensitive, and whatever it was went straight for the jugular.”
Scott bristled. “Something like that…”
“And you’re on the warpath, or your version of it at least.” He twitched his nose. “Which is dressing to seduce and smelling divine.”
“Black opium actually.”
Tim shook his head. “He’s been at us all before, once told me the hedge was on the wonk, told Carly her bolognese tasted too salty and rated Jay’s banana and chocolate chip crumble only nine out of ten.”
“Eeek.”
Tim ignored the sound that had crept out of Scott and continued. “He told Janice she missed the dust on the back of the TV and left smears on the mirrors, and she swore she’d wrap the vacuum cord around his neck and throttle him if he was ever rude to her again.”
“He’s always rude.”
“It’s a different kind of rude. I think it’s a defence mechanism. When people try to get close to him, he strikes, you feel it.” Tim touched his chest. “In here.”
“Why, though?”
Tim smiled. “It’s only you that can answer why it hurts like that.”
“No.” Scott squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean, why does he strike?”
“He’s been let down by those who should care about him the most.” Tim shrugged. “If he keeps everyone away, that can’t happen again.” He turned on his heels and began trudging away. “I’ll fetch your net.”
“I never said I would –”
“You enjoy it. You find it therapeutic, I think.”
Scott followed him. “That’s kind of depressing, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That I find fishing dead things out of the pond good therapy. That’s my hobby. That’s what I find peace in doing.”
Tim rubbed his head, considering. “I trim, shape, prune, cut, saw, slice, and bend to make these gardens look nice…all therapeutic, but to a plant, I’m a vegetation torturer. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“A vegetation torturer…”
Tim paused in his stride. He crowded close to Scott and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Sometimes I breed them toeatthem. Think how unhinged I must seem to a plant.”
Scott leaned away from him. “Only to a plant?”
Tim elbowed him. “See, that’s the Scott I know and love.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of secateurs.
“Clearly, not a net…” Scott murmured.
“Nope, but they’re for you to use when you’re sick of those skintight jeans… They’resolast decade anyway.”
“Fashion tips from you? I’m willing to bet my life on that jacket of yours being at least twenty years old.”
“And you’d be right about that, and my boxers are even older, almost half a century.” He pulled at the waistband of his trousers, flashing the top of his burgundy shorts.
