‘Yes, no probs, I’m getting used to having you around, although I could do without the fourth wheel at my kitchen table. And please don’t play Truth or Dare again in my flat. I don’t even want to know what you did with the grapes.’
I hand her my phone. ‘Can you take a close-up of me and Doodle? If we’re hired as London’s problem-solving duo, we’ll need a decent headshot.’ As we pose, Doodle pushes his nose into my face, licks my eyelids and fills my nostrils with the smell of dog food. ‘Ugh, maybe I do want your owner to come and get you,’ I tell him, secretly pleased he likes me.
I answer a call from a number I don’t recognise. John Bounty, editor of theLondon Gazetteintroduces himself before cutting to the chase.
‘Thanks for sending your CV. I read your sample. It’s an interesting read but not quite what I was looking for. I was thinking something more along the lines of your Twitter feed. For example, you might suggest happiness lies in people making their bed every morning while the dog advises they retreat to their baskets for a snooze? I’d like to steer clear of subjects involving alcohol, suicide and the Inland Revenue. Make it grabby and hashtag friendly. Keep an eye on what’s going on in the news and tap into London’s zeitgeist. We’ll go with the title “Daisy and Doodle Make London Happier”. If you can, please stick to two to three hundred words. Our star columnist, Aurora, manages to expose the city’s biggest degenerates in under six hundred. There’s no fee, I’m not sure if that’s been made clear to you, but you’ll get lots of exposure. Shall we aim to publish the first one two weeks today? Oh, and I’ll need a short bio and a photo of you both to accompany the article. I assume you are OK making things up until the problems from readers roll in, although generating them might not be an issue once it goes up on our socials. We need ten tweets to accompany the article, pithy teasers please, and we will link to you in our online version of the printed article. We will also tag you into every tweet and anything we do on Instagram or Facebook. You have my email address? Great to have you on board. By the way, how old is the dog and how long have you had him for? We’ll make an announcement about the partnership at the end of this week’s column …’
So, I’m hired? Up until his final question I’ve hardly managed to get a word in. Now there’s a yawning silence. In a ninja move I call the dog and simultaneously open the fridge, rattling bottles and rustling packets. Doodle picks up his cue like a pro, bounding in and smothering me with love while sniffing at a burger I hold out. Then he starts barking like a loon.
‘Doodle the Beardoodle– how long have we been together? It feels like for ever!’ As predicted the dog goes nuts at this joint show of affection and raw meat, throwing himself at me, licking every inch of skin he can get access to before chasing his tail in a circle and dropping to the floor. Making excuses for the noise, I end the conversation feeling I’ve dodged a bullet. But how long can I keep up the deception? Doodle is a million miles from being my pet. His owner could kidnap him any day now and resume her life. But, on the other hand, isn’t the whole point of the Rent Out My Dog site that you can become an owner on demand? And who cares how many years we’ve spent together? Doodle is becoming an important part of my life and I’ll miss him when he goes.
Chapter 11
In the build-up to Halloween, exposure to theCandymanon TV and social media feeds into my year-round paranoia about cracks and ladders. For those of us who believe we’re unlucky, every topical film confirms we are targets for even more misfortune. And then there’s my costume anxiety. ‘Can I not just go as a zombie again?’ I ask Eva, as I lace up my trainers for a run around the block.
‘Banned,’ she says. ‘Vampire and werewolf OK but flesh-gobbler not allowed.’
All the talk of walkers has reminded me of my favourite exercise app and now I’m dipping back into it.Zombies, Run!is all about running through an apocalypse. It’s my job to be Runner Number Five, to listen to my instructions and leg it when I hear a zombie snapping at my heels. I downloaded it years ago, and it fuelled my passion for the undead, if not my love of exercise.
Leaving the house, I wind onto Uxbridge Road before heading down Frithville Gardens. By the time I reach Hammersmith Park a child needs saving from the flesh-eaters and I’m the one to do it. With the radio handler’s voice in my ears issuing instructions, I sprint forward, through a row of lanterns. A zombie is at my tail. He’s close enough for me to hear his diabolical breathing in my ear, sense his rotten flesh reaching out to grab my shoulders and feel he is real.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I jump a mile in the air.
‘What the …?’ I pull an earphone out.
‘Boo! Scared you.’
‘You have no idea.’
Joe’s face is open and friendly as ever, a crease on his brow quickly smoothing. ‘Out for a run?’
‘Since teatime there’s been a zombie apocalypse and I need to rescue the world with a torch, a box of matches and a tin of soup.’
‘Ah right, I always feel I can outrun the walkers if I have a packet of plasters and a spare pair of trousers.’
‘You know the app?’
He nods. ‘An old favourite, before I got hooked on Strava.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, I’m on my regular afternoon pilgrimage to stare through the window of a restaurant and imagine I’m in possession of the keys.’
‘I don’t mean to patronise you but envisioning yourself on the ladder, or better still, at the summit, is a great way of helping you achieve your dreams. You’ll make it happen because you’ve seen how good it is. Is the restaurant near here?’ I ask him.
‘You could never patronise me. It’s a ten- to fifteen-minute walk. Perhaps half that if I borrowed your app,’ he replies.
‘You said you’d show it to me. Shall we go together?’
As we approach the former BBC building, Joe briefs me on the investment he’d love to make. ‘As I’m sure you’ll know, Television Centre has now been developed into luxury flats. There are several cafés and restaurants scattered around the complex. The footfall isn’t anything like Central London, but the bars do a decent trade, and it’s only a stone’s throw from the shopping mall.’ He walks us through a corridor and out into an open space. In front of us is a deserted restaurant. Inside, there are a few scattered tables with chairs piled onto them. Although the restaurant clearly closed down a while back, it looks like the staff walked out last night– there’s still salt and pepper on the tables.
Instinctively, I reach out and take his hand. ‘Tell me more about it.’
‘Twenty-inch pizzas. Simple flavours. Cooked there, in that oven. It’s uncared for but it’ll scrub up. Imagine a community environment, a table of eight might order a pizza and all tuck in. And then they might order another, and another. They may not bother with cutlery. The food is the conversation. A starting point to get to know each other better; a flirtation with the simple things in life and each other. It will lead to connection and more sharing– this time of stories and truths. People will come with a partner. Parents will bring kids. Old friends will reunite. New friends will be made on a sharing table.’
‘You had me at “eating with your hands”.’
He squeezes my fingers and I catch our reflection in the window. He’s about three inches taller than me with my hair pulled back. But I think we suit each other.
