Grabbing my phone once again, and noting no reply from Laura, I send a message instead to Conal.
Do you know what time you want to meet up yet? Daniel is giving me the wicked side-eye, desperate for a walk.
As if sensing that I’m talking about him, Daniel lets out an exasperated ‘boof’ and I look at him, laid out like Lord Muck on the sofa, completely oblivious to the very notion of an impending walk. It’s less embarrassing to blame the dog though, isn’t it?
I put my phone down because everyone knows that putting your phone down indicates to the universe that you do not care about the response, therefore the fickle gods of fate will make a speedy reply happen. A minute later, I turn my phone face down, doubling my ‘don’t care’ vibes, but that turns out to be even more of a distraction than actively watching the screen to see if and when it lights up, so I flip it back round again, disgusted at myself for being so emotionally needy.
It takes a whole five minutes for Conal to reply and tell me he will meet me at the park at half past four. That’s an hour away. I can keep my cool until then. Or at least, I can remain just on the right side of lukewarm.
12
I BLAME CARRIE BRADSHAW
Becca
Daniel may well be an older dog, but he has the capacity to behave like a puppy when we go to visit places where he knows he will have a degree of freedom to roam, sniff and pee with abandon.
Therefore, right now, he is pacing back and forth across the back seat of my car as I gather my thoughts before getting out and going for a leisurely stroll with Conal.
I say ‘leisurely’, knowing all too well there is a possibility it could be anything but. Conal might just have pulled the ultimate unaccountable-man-move and arranged to meet in a public place to protect himself from the chance of my causing a scene. Little does he know that a forty-seven-year-old woman no longer gives a flying fuck about whether or not she is witnessed making a scene. You better believe that any woman of this age is more than owed a few public crash-outs at this stage of life. We will have played the well-behaved game for long enough.
I am just practising the deep cleansing breaths that Niamhhas been drilling into me (part of her mission to convert me to the wonder of yoga), when Daniel launches into a volley of barks so loud that I swear my heart almost stops from the fright.
Or it could be that my heart almost stops because I know those barks mean only one thing. We are not alone. Conal is nearby, with Lazlo. Daniel reserves his very best, very loudest, shit-losing barks for when he sees his furry friend.
I don’t know whether I want to cry, scream or throw up, but none would be particularly dignified, so I settle for a couple more deep breaths before looking up and seeing Conal waving in the passenger window at me.
He has a strange, almost uncanny valley smile on his face. This does not bode well. Please God, I think, just let me act normal. I don’t want to look as terrified as I feel, so I’m pretty sure I echo his strange smile back at him before quickly turning away to get out of the car and releasing the hound from the back seat before he wears a hole in it.
The country park is empty except for our two cars, so having unclipped Daniel’s lead, he bounds out of my car, barrels at speed towards a now-also-free Lazlo and the pair of them bolt across the grass, yelping excitedly. When I smile at their joy, it is deeply felt, not just because I am seeing Daniel run with the vigour he used to when he was a pup but also because there is such an innocence to it. It must feel really amazing to get such an incredible buzz from running across a field with a friend.
Of course, there’s nothing stopping me running across a field, except my slightly banty knees and my aversion to running. I’d love to be one of the lithe lovelies in a running club pounding the pavements every Saturday morning, but no – I was built for more sedate practices than that. Like the gentle stroll I am doing towards Conal right now, wondering if he’s just going to get right down to it and rip the proverbial plaster off. I hopethat he will, but also there’s a big part of me that really hopes he will not. I’m not ready.
‘Hey,’ he says with a smile as he kisses me on the cheek.
The ‘hey’ sounded warm and affectionate, much like it always does. The kiss was soft, but quick. There was no passionate embrace. But then again, we don’t normally go in for passionate embraces while we are in the park with the dogs.
I look at him, trying to scan his expression for any clues whatsoever but I can’t see anything there that wasn’t there before. When he opens his mouth to speak, I brace myself. It will be fine. I have survived worse. I can survive this. If Britney can get through 2007, then I, Rebecca Louise Burnside, can make it through 2024
‘Poo bag,’ he says, reaching into his pocket. For a moment, I am frozen in a very surreal place. I was expecting a big announcement. A dumping, perhaps. A revelation for sure. I was not expecting ‘poo bag’ – which in hindsight was rather foolish of me because of course, when we are walking dogs, poo bags do tend to have their uses.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a roll of orange plastic bags before marching off in the direction of our dogs, who are, in an act of solidarity with each other, taking a big synchronised shite.
Not wanting to be the woman who leaves her man – if he is my man – to deal with the poo all the time, I follow, ready to scoop Daniel’s offering and dispose of it.
Once the necessities are done, Conal sets off walking in the same direction we normally do and starts rambling on about his day. Work is busy. His son – the younger of his two children – seems to have morphed into the teenager from hell overnight. Ryan is sixteen and has been the most placid teenager in the world until now. I’ve met him, and can confirm that he is, or was,a delight. However, I remember my own boys going through a particularly tricky stage at around the same age – trying it on and acting like they knew everything, pushing their boundaries. I tell Conal it’s probably just that.
‘Or drugs,’ Conal says with a shrug.
‘Ryan wouldn’t. He’s too sensible.’
‘Or he was, but is now deciding to rebel because the world is a bin-fire and teenagers are disgusted with the damage us oldies have done to civilisation?’ He’s doing his best to retain a jokey tone, but I can tell he is worried.
‘I can get Adam to chat with him? Or Saul, next time he’s home? He might relate to them?’ I’m not sure what else to say.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Conal says. ‘One thing for sure is that he does not want to talk to his old dad about it. We used to be so close…’
‘You will be again,’ I reply with a confidence I’m not sure I feel, but I’m keenly aware that what he needs now is reassurance that everything is going to be okay.
