“I’m a bum-face,” he said slowly, “but not a real bum-face?”
I should have just gone withis too. It was a classic for a reason. As it was, I had no option but to double down on Schrödinger’s bum-face. “Yes.”
“Dickhead.”
“You can’t just keep sayingdickhead.”
“Dickhead.”
“Why are you like this?” I asked.
Next Door’s Kid sneered over the fence. “Why are you likethat?”
“Years of trauma. What’s your excuse?”
“Adickheadsayswhat?”
“What?” I replied, fatally.
He had a laugh like a machine gun. A really annoying machine gun.
“One of these days”—I actually wagged my actual finger—“I’m going to tell your parents exactly what a slimy, vicious, obnoxious little piece of—oh my God. Spud.” My voice went up into that range that people use for talking to dogs and children who aren’t arseholes. “Look at you. Who’s a good boy? Who’s the best boy?” I reached into my jacket pocket and produced a small rain of treats. “What a wonderful…um. Bowel movement?”
“You’re weird,” declared Next Door’s Kid.
“Yeah, well. I’d rather be weird than…than”—I gestured—“you. Come on, Spud.”
A singsong ofdickheadfollowed us back inside. I wouldn’t say it had become my life’s ambition to one day win an argument with that particular eleven-year-old, but it was creeping onto my bucket list, bringing the total number of items on it to one.
I threw myself back into my computer chair, letting Spud scrabble onto my lap. To my complete lack of surprise, Dr. Fairclough had already left the meeting.
“—decent chap,” Alex was saying. “And a decent chap wouldn’t just leave a chap to twist in the wind. Ah, hello, Luc.”
“Welcome back, Luc,” said Rhys Jones Bowen. “Did your dog have a nice poo?”
“There’ve been better poos,” I said, thinking of Next Door’s Kid.
Rhys Jones Bowen nodded sagely. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more where that one came from.”
“Before we conclude,” said Barbara Clench, “can I make a formal request that nobody attend any future meetings in their underwear?”
I looked down at Spud, my bare legs, and my hedgehog boxers.
Fuck.
* * *
A few minutes after one—Oliver’s lunchtimes were a little unpredictable when he was in court, and it wasn’t like he could text me from the…the…the sitty-downy bit where the lawyers go—my phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a classicWithnail and I–era picture of Richard E. Grant.
Nice dick, I replied. Then I coaxed Spud up into my arms, learned very quickly how hard it can be to find a flattering selfie angle while also wrangling an overenthusiastic puppy, and took an at least moderately okay-looking picture to send back to him.
His response was near-instantaneous.You’re both adorable.
It was not, however, stand-alone.
Has everything been okay?
Have you been remembering to keep hiding treats in the pen?
