I made an embarrassing whinging noise that was half into-it-ness and half self-consciousness. “You know I’m bad at the sex words and the ‘Do me here’ and ‘Put that there’ and ‘Oh yeah baby.’ And also, don’t we have a dog we’re responsible for?”
“You should know two things,” said Oliver, very seriously. “The first is that I shall under no circumstances ever ask you to say, ‘Oh yeah baby.’ And the second is Spud’s last bowel movement was eighteen minutes ago.”
I stared up at him. “Why do I need to know that? Like, the second that. When you threaten me with dirty talk, which I may ormay not be into”—I was into it—“that’s not the kind of dirty I’m looking for.”
Oliver blushed slightly. “I just meant, he’s asleep, so we won’t be interrupted.”
“Then you could have told me the sleeping bit, and left out the canine scat subplot.”
“I didn’t want you to be concerned about his needs while we were”—Responsible Dog Owner Oliver left the room, to be replaced by Much More Interesting Oliver—“while I’m demonstrating my listening skills.”
I gave a kind of squawk. “How selfless do you think I am?”
“More than you pretend to be,” said Oliver, catching my wrists and pressing them firmly into the pillow.
“Well then, how easy to ignore were you planning to make this?”
“I was intending to make it very difficult.”
“I don’t know”—I reared up slightly and nipped at his chin—“I’m pretty easily distracted.”
Oliver pushed me back down. Effortlessly because I wasn’t exactly trying to resist. “I think I’ll manage to hold your attention.”
And he did.
He really, really did.
* * *
I’ll be honest, moving the pen was a bit of a faff. But Oliver, either still glowing with post-bang satisfaction or just being his normal, annoyingly nice self, didn’t say a fucking word. Spud, though, found the whole process at least a little disorientating. After all, we’d spent the last few days teaching him that this was a super-special safe space just for him, and now we were tearing it apart to put it somewhere completely different. But by the time we’d got absolutely everything—all his special blankets and all his favourite toys—upstairsand hidden some extra-special treats, his natural puppyish curiosity at being allowed into a new part of the house took over and he was happily snuffling around, exploring and looking for noms.
“Now, this isn’t going to be forever.” Oliver was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pyjamas, calmly explaining the situation to an attentive but oblivious Spud. “And you’re still not allowed on the bed.”
Spud wagged his tail. “Ruff.”
“Good boy.”
“Ruff,” agreed Spud.
I face-planted onto the other side of the bed. The angry nap had been all well and good, but something something sleep quality something something REM.
“Now off to bed with you,” Oliver concluded. “Your bed, that is.”
“I’m in bed,” I protested, sleepily. “I couldn’t be more in bed.”
“There you go. Who’s a good boy?”
“Me, I’m a very good boy. I helped move the dog pen and everything.”
There was a gentle creak from the bedsprings as Oliver settled beside me. “While I’m enjoying the experience of being in a comedy skit circa 1978, you are aware I’m talking to Spud?”
“Yes,” I said in the pillow. “I had definitely realised that. I was just making a funny joke and am not at all exhausted.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Not from the sex.” My protests were, if anything, getting sleepier. “Okay, a bit from the sex. But, also, like life. Stuff. Arghhh.”
I was dimly aware I was moving but not quite conscious enough to work out why until Oliver had rolled me gently off the pillow and into his arms. “I know that the CRAPP situation is, well, a crap situation.”
