Page 51

My thoughts are dashed by the arrival of Owen in his Golf. He pulls up to the curb and lowers his window.

I lean forwards, clutching my large bag so it doesn’t slip from my shoulder.

“Looking for a good time?” I joke, and for a split second, I think I’ve started this evening on the wrong foot, as Owen doesn’t flinch. “Sorry, that isn’t even funny. I’m not suggesting you drive around picking women up in your car.”

“I think you should be the one more offended at referring to yourself as a hooker,” Owen says at last. “But there’s no danger of that, as I’m not sure when I last saw a hooker in oversized jeans and a chunky cardigan.” He smiles as he nods to my outfit.

“Are you saying knitwear doesn’t turn you on? I’m shocked. This is my go-to pulling outfit.” I mock scowl.

“That would be why you’re single, then.”

I try to look angry, but he’s right, and I’m just happy he’s in a joking mood, a far cry from the sullen Owen I know so well. This new version of him is a refreshing change. I almost skip around to the passenger side and climb into his immaculate car.

“Wow. It’s such a mess in here. Have you considered a valet?” I point out, trying to hold onto the funny atmosphere.

“Ha ha,” Owen says flatly as he checks his rear-view mirror and pulls away from the curb. “You know, cleanliness is the closest step to God.”

“Is it?” I ask, shoving my bag into the footwell.

“I’ve no idea. It’s something my mum used to say, which I don’t even think is a real saying but something she made up to get me to clean my room.”

“You were a messy kid? I don’t believe it.”

“Define messy,” Owen says.

“You should come to my place; you’ll see mess at its best. If cleanliness is the closest step to God, then I’d need binoculars to see him.”

“Please don’t invite me,” Owen says, and I take a moment to check out his dark blue T-shirt that pulls slightly across his chest and stone-coloured trousers. It’s then that I hear the sniffing from the back seat.

When I look back, I’m met with the saddest face I’ve ever seen.

“Oh my goodness,” I exclaim. “Is this the infamous Paul?”

“Yes, although he isn’t happy this evening,” Owen says.

“Is it because you’ve made him sit in that ridiculous seat?” I ask, eyeing the strange dog seat Paul has been placed in.

“It’s because he’s been relegated to the back.” Owen angles his head at Paul.

I stare at Owen, registering what he’s implying. “I’m sitting in his seat?”

“I couldn’t really make you sit in the back,” he says.

“Of course you could. God, I feel awful. No wonder he looks so miserable, and he probably hates me now. Pull over,” I snap.

“What?”

“Pull over,” I repeat, nodding towards the side of the road.

Owen pulls the car over, and I jump out and open the back door.

“What are you doing?” Owen shouts from the front as I fiddle with the clips on Paul’s leash, then, after letting him sniff my hand and giving him a little stroke, carefully pick him up. He eyes me with mistrust as I inhale his doggy smell, which is a strange, comforting mixture of cheesy tortilla chips and digestive biscuits.

“Well, hello there, Paul. It’s nice to meet you, and I can only apologise for stealing your seat, but you can blame your dad, as it was his call. I’m going to put you back in the front where you belong.”

I place Paul in the passenger seat, but he still looks so sad.

“Why is he sad now?”