“But you haveneverbeen somebody who abandons people.”
I gave a distressed bleat.
“Abandonsdogs,” Oliver corrected himself obligingly. “You don’t have it in you.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe himso much.Because Bridge had been right. This wasn’t about not wanting a dog. I definitely wanted a dog. Possibly more than one dog. I wanted to grow old with Oliver Blackwood and have dogs with him, and everything I’d said about looking back and regretting hadn’t only been about Oliver. Because if we didn’t get a dog, if I couldn’t even take the first step towards building the life and the family that I’d sort of never quite dared to hope for, then I could say with one hundred percent certainty that I would turn around in old age and say to myself, “Well, you fucked that up, didn’t you, you absolute bellend.”
So I took a deep breath, put on my waders, and tromped through my own bullshit until, on the other side, I was hugging Oliver way too tightly. And we stayed like that, hugging way too tightly, until a kindly nurse laid a hand on my shoulder and asked Oliver if I was all right and if there was anything he could do for us.
“It’s okay,” I sniffled, not wanting this NHS professional to think either of us had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer. “We’re just getting a dog.”
Chapter 5
Bridge had her baby just after eleven o’clock. She weighed seven pounds, and I had no idea why I knew that, or rather why I’d been told that, because while I was sure it was relevant for health reasons or whatever, I didn’t really have a metric to compare it to. It was sort of like when people wanted me to be really interested in the horsepower of their car. Because I don’t really know how powerful horses or cars are meant to be.
We all bundled in to wish a tired but happy Bridge congratulations and say things like “Oh, she’s beautiful” and “She has your eyes,” even though—to be honest—all babies looked the same to me. Sort of small, rumpled, and shouty. Maybe it felt different if it was your small, rumpled, and shouty.
Then Oliver and I dashed into the car so we could dash all the way round London to dash to the dog shelter in time for our appointment. Given the amount of paperwork, home visits, and general checking up we’d been through—none of which had in any way increased my faith in my dog-having abilities—I was pretty sure turning up late would be a dog-jeopardising move.
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding passive aggressive,” remarked Oliver, “but I do rather wish we’d had a full night’s sleep.”
He was right. He hadn’t known how to say it without soundingpassive aggressive. “Hey,” I tried, “you don’t get to play the this-is-bad-but-I-know-it’s-bad-so-it’s-okay card. That’smycard.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not wrong, though,” I told him. Because he wasn’t. “I’m seriously worried I’m just going to collapse on top of the dog and drool.”
Oliver considered this a moment. “I suppose that is at least a fairly natural dog-parenting arrangement?”
“I think thecollapsingpart might be a bit suboptimal.”
“Suboptimal?” repeated Oliver, with a tired laugh. “When did you start sayingsuboptimal?”
“You’ve been a suboptimal influence on me.”
Slightly too sleep-deprived to play the using-suboptimal-in-increasingly-suboptimal ways game, Oliver gave an affectionate if slightly distracted smile and kept his eyes on the road. I, meanwhile, took advantage of the fact I wasn’t driving and tried to get my head comfortable. Turns out, I got it so comfortable that I didn’t wake up until Oliver was gently nudging me into consciousness.
“Nnnneruurgh,” I said, rising semi-erect like a—actually I’m not going to finish that. “Where are we?”
“We’re there.”
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I think it was just a reflexiveshit.” Levering myself still more upright, I flipped down the sun visor and squinted into the vanity mirror. “Shit,” I muttered, less reflexively. “They’re never going to give us a dog. I look like a heroin addict.”
Oliver undid his seat belt and passed me a bagel he must have bought while I was sleeping the sleep of a selfish bastard. “I’ve worked with quite a lot of heroin addicts and, like most people, they’re a diverse group of individuals. I think what you mean is that you look gaunt, raddled, and interesting. Which is how you’vealways looked, and it suits you.”
“Thank you for the bagel,” I said meekly as I unwrapped the wax paper, filling the car with the scent of pickles, mustard, and pastrami. “Really, thank you. This is actually perfect.”
He blushed slightly. “Well, I do know you rather well at this point.”
To be fair, the fact I’d want to stuff my face with salt and meat the second I woke up after an impromptu all-nighter wasn’t exactly a state secret. But that didn’t make it any less thoughtful. “What about you?” I asked through a massive mouthful of cured beef.
He waved his own less-delicious-smelling parcel at me. “Hummus, tomato, and rocket.”
“Didn’t they get to number six in 1973?”
