“Ruff.” That was Spud again, unless Jaz had a really good line in dog impressions.
From a certain point of view, I could have left it there. The missing pet mystery was solved, so I could, in fact, have just gone back to work. On the other hand, for all I knew, Spud was trapped alone in a sparsely decorated room. Although if he was, that meant we’d progressed from a missing pet mystery to a missing child mystery, which wasn’t strictly an upgrade.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
Still no answer.
“Okay, I actually don’t even know if you’re there, so I’m going to come in unless you tell me not to.”
I gave Jaz a count of five and then, when she said nothing, I eased the door open.
She was, in fact, there. She was lying on the bed, with her back propped up against the wall. I noticed that she was barefoot and that her toenails were painted a bright electric blue. Mostly, though, I noticed that she had my fucking dog on her lap.
I mean technically he wasourdog. Mine and Oliver’s. And evenmore technically he was all three of our dog, mine, Oliver’s, and Jaz’s on account of how she was in fact part of the family for as long as she needed to stay with us.
But less technically, she’d been here five minutes, and my fucking dog was lounging across her legs like they were the most comfortable place in the world.
“You okay?” I asked both of them, trying to sound friendly instead of horribly betrayed.
“Ruff,” said Spud.
Jaz didn’t say anything.
“Is he going to be…” I tried, then I went to, “It’s just, we’ve got this quite strict training thing.”
And for the first time since she’d arrived, Jaz said a whole sentence. “I can look after a fucking dog.”
It would have been hypocritical of me to sayLanguage, but also I felt I should probably sayLanguage. I didn’t, though, because as well as being a hypocrite, I was also a coward. “Okay,” I said instead. “Let me know if you need anything.” And I beat a hasty retreat downstairs.
My Spudless workday ended well enough, dog-treachery aside, and I didn’t really begrudge Jaz the company. It was probably nice for her to hang out with somebody she could not-talk with.
Oliver made us a Tuscan bean stew for dinner on the basis that it would keep warm and have flexible serving portions, so Jaz could choose whether to join us or not. I wasn’t especially surprised when she chosenot, and I just about heard Oliver’s voice from upstairs as he told her that she was welcome to change her mind anytime and that the leftovers would be in the fridge if she was hungry later.
“It’s fine,” Oliver reassured me when he came back down.
Once again, I did my best to be the fineness I wanted to see in the world. It lasted for as long it took me to tear off a chunk of focaccia and dip it into the balsamic-vinegar-and-olive-oil drizzle that Oliverhad set out in a dish for us. “Is it? She hasn’t eaten all day or left her room, and she’s still hardly said anything to either of us. And what she has said hadfucksin it.”
Oliver frowned. “We should probably make sure we teach her to moderate her language.”
“Great,” I said with extremely fake enthusiasm. “How?”
“Set positive examples and clear boundaries.”
“Great,” I said with equally fake enthusiasm. “How?”
“By being explicit about what we require from her and responding consistently. The advantage of human beings relative to dogs is that you can actually explain things to them.”
It wasn’t the perfect time for it, but I tried to lighten the tone. “You’ve met my work colleagues. Explaining things to human beings is way harder than you make it sound.”
“Young people are malleable,” Oliver said, setting down his fork. “They rise or fall to your expectations. We just need to make sure ours are appropriate, bearing in mind that she’s probably extremely traumatised.”
I was just doing my bestYeah, I guess you’ve got a pointnod when a voice came from the kitchen door.
“I’m not traumatised.”
We both looked around to see Jaz in the doorway, bright blue toenails standing out sharply against the dark-grey dining room carpet.
“Would you like some dinner?” Oliver offered. “It’s Tuscan bean stew.”
