‘Our favourite boy,’ the nurse says, giving Jasper a fuss.
And he is. Jasper is a minor celebrity at the practice. And though she’s only ever known him as an older gent, he was still spry and puppyish when he started coming in a few years ago, still able to levitate his way into your lap if he thought you might be hiding a gravy bone or a stick of venison jerky. Jasper’s owners are film people, so he’s often stayed with Nimesh for weeks on end, hanging around reception while they work, acting as a handsome assistant to the nurses and the admin team. He rests his heavy head in her cupped hands now. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry this early.
‘Where’s Clara?’ Nimesh says to Seb.
Seb’s voice is distant. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘How’s Maisie?’
Nimesh grips his friend’s shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
It feels strange to imagine Nimesh with a personal life. To imagine him younger. If they subscribed to the concept of dog years, Jasper would be somewhere in his eighties. Nimesh has told her about the day they brought him home, how Seb had laid newspaper over almost every inch of his parents’ flat, and the cheeky little newcomer had still sniffed out the only corner of bare carpet to use as a toilet. She’s seen pictures of him back then. He looked like a mop head. Now he’s finally caught up with his features, earning his snaggle tooth, his old-man eyebrows, the white streaks in that wizard’s beard.
‘Shall we?’ Nimesh says, keeping his voice as steady as he can.
It was Nimesh who inserted Jasper’s microchip, who doled out his wormers on a monthly basis, who X-rayed his leg when he got it caught in a fence chasing a squirrel and who pumpedhis stomach for socks and chocolate and, once, a whole ream of tinsel. Since Nimesh moved here, Jasper has been only an occasional patient, appointments coinciding with weekend visits. Still, it was Nimesh who’d diagnosed his arthritis, who’d first noticed the clouds forming in his eyes. Jasper’s cocktail cabinet of medicine prescriptions had been penned in Nimesh’s hand. His hand shakes a little, now, as it rests on the small of Seb’s back and leads him down the corridor, the dog hobbling alongside them. The nurse follows behind at a respectful distance.
‘Thank you for doing this,’ Seb says, to Nimesh. ‘It couldn’t be anyone else.’
Nimesh says nothing, because he can’t. He opens the door of the examination room, and they head inside. Jasper stands vacantly on unsteady legs until Seb scoops him up. He holds Jasper close, squeezes him tightly. Jasper’s at home here. How strange for a dog, to spend so much of your life visiting the place you’ll come to die. It will be weird, Nimesh says. Imagining this room without him ever in it. Seb simply nods, then hands Jasper over to Nimesh for one last cuddle. It means a lot. It all does. They take their time. Then, when they’ve taken all the time they can, they place Jasper within a blanket on top of a mat on the metal table between them.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Nimesh says.
Seb scratches Jasper behind his grey-tufted ears. The dog is already laying his chin on the table, gazing upwards. The nurse steps forward. She knows that Nimesh is more than capable of inserting an IV, but she also knows how hard this is for him. So, it’s she who takes the lead, locating a vein near Jasper’s paw. She steps back. Jasper is stoic. He hasn’t taken his eyes off hisowner. Seb crouches, kisses him between those wiry eyebrows. He stays crouched, stays close.
‘We’re ready,’ he says.
On the front desk, they’re lighting a candle that cannot be snuffed out. Away from that, in here, is a familiar tableau. A man and his dog. Nimesh prepares the needle, takes a deep breath. It doesn’t hurt. Seb doesn’t cry. He merely stays at Jasper’s level, talking quietly to him, burying his face in the fur on his neck. A moment is all it takes. Seb cradles Jasper’s head, and he’s once again a younger dog, a doe-eyed puppy. Then he drifts away, and there is no Jasper at all.
the make-up artist
Everyone talks to him. It comes with the job, with the hours spent in this sweltering trailer. Those in the make-up chair can’t help but spill their guts. Bright and early every morning, in front of a mirror edged with bare bulbs, on a film set somewhere in the French countryside, he hears the whole story.
Clemence Thiffault(The villager):I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The house is so big. So old. Lots of cracks and leaks. I thought I was in paradise when I saw all the trailers in the orchard. But now they’re saying it’s going to be the hottest month ever in France. The hottest monthever. And we’re stuck here without air conditioning. Is it any wonder that everyone’s on edge?
Dustin Fitzgerald(Soldier #1):Seb gets a room with the director in the actual chateau, ceiling fan and all. And you can still tell that he doesn’t want to be here.
Adèle Durand(The housekeeper):Seb and Clara sleep in separate beds, I’m sure of it. I see her having breakfast on her balcony,going through the shot lists, and Seb is never there. You know that Jacob is Clara’s ex? And that Seb’s dog died, like, last week? She uses his sadness on camera. That scene where he tries on his dad’s old suit? Devastating.
Eric Matheson(The father):I give it a week. Maybe two. You can’t just cast the guy you’re knocking boots with and expect everything to be sunshine and roses. I used to be the one knocking the boots, if you catch my drift. I was a leading man, and now I get cast as the leading man’s father. I’m not even alive in this film. You’re either making me look younger for flashbacks or making me look dead when I’m a ghost. Do you keep any booze in here? What’s that blue bottle?
Adèle Durand:She knows how to direct people. My lord, Jacob, the bit on the balcony railings. I wanted to rush over and hold him. Sure, Seb is handsome, but he’s handsome in an obvious way. Jacob has an unconventional face. All angles. He looks like a Victorian poet.
Clemence Thiffault:He looks like a rat.
Adèle Durand:What does Eric say? Knocking boots. I would like to knock boots with Jacob Steele. But he only has eyes for Clara. Seb kissed her on set, yesterday, and it was like he was marking his territory. Jacob knew what he was doing. Clara’s eyes were on the monitor.
Eric Matheson:No, I’m not going to drink the fucking barbicide. What do you take me for? Anyway, I’m team Steele. I loved him inJester’s Privilege. The press said it gave all the wrong men all the wrong ideas, but everyone else in his generation is afraid to ask those thorny questions about masculinity. Look at me, working with a female director. Hand me the bottle, would you? Isopropyl alcohol. Seventy proof. You and I could have a good night on this. Monsieur Steele would be game, I think. He likes to go off-script. He’s a method man. Old Man Bonami is more traditional.
Dustin Fitzgerald:Did you hear about the night shoot? The hours dragging on and on, Jacob making them go again and again. He likes to improvise. Those are the lines, Seb said to Jacob. Do different lines, then, Jacob said to Seb. It wouldn’t hurt, to think outside the box. Seb said there was only one person he’d take direction from. And everyone turned to Clara…
Eric Matheson:Madame Director looked more like a ghost than yours truly. And what does she decide to say, when she finally finds her voice? Ha! You’ll love this one.
Dustin Fitzgerald:‘He’s right.’
Clemence Thiffault:She meant that Seb was right, about the film being Clara’s. He was sticking up for her, and she knew it. Jacob’s face was furious, though he tried his best to hide it.
Adèle Durand:She meant that Jacob was right, about thinking outside the box. Seb looked like he could have punched a hole in one of those little windows. But we’re all making the same film, aren’t we? And when Clara’s stressed, it isn’t Seb who goes to her, who tells her the rushes are looking great.
Dustin Fitzgerald:Jacob suggested that the third act wasn’t working. That they needed to workshop it. He had some ideas, as always, and Clara, who keeps changing the schedule, who’s getting as partial to a drink as old Eric, said she was open to them. I bet she is, Thom said. And I kind of get what he means, because like, yeah, they can discuss those ideas over dinner. But surely there’s someone else they should invite?
