Still Me
Page 34
‘French? This is bad. What’s the title?’
‘Madame de.’
‘Madame de what?’
‘Just Madame de. It’s about a general and some earrings and …’
‘And what?’
‘He has an affair.’
‘She’s making you read books about French people who have affairs? Oh, my God. She totally fancies you.’
‘You’re wrong, Lou.’
‘I know when someone fancies someone, Sam.’
‘Really.’ He had begun to sound tired.
‘So, a man made a pass at me tonight. I knew he fancied me. So I told him straight off I was with someone. I headed it off.’
‘Oh, you did? Who was that, then?’
‘His name is Josh.’
‘Josh. Would that be the same Josh who called you when I was leaving?’
Even through my slightly drunken fug I had begun to realize this conversation was a bad idea. ‘Yes.’
‘And you just happened to bump into him in a bar.’
‘I did! I was there with Nathan. And I literally ran into him outside the Ladies.’
‘So what did he say?’ His voice now held a faint edge.
‘He … he said it was a pity.’
‘And is it?’
‘What?’
‘A pity?’
There was a short silence. I felt suddenly, horribly sober. ‘I’m just telling you what he said. I’m with you, Sam. I’m literally just using this as an example of how I could tell that someone fancied me and how I headed it off before he could get the wrong idea. Which is a concept you seem to be unwilling to grasp.’
‘No. Seems to me you’re calling me up in the middle of the night to have a go at me about my work partner who has lent me a book, but you’re fine with you going out and having drunk conversations with this Josh about relationships. Jesus. You wouldn’t even admit we were in a relationship until I pushed you into it. And now you’ll happily talk about intimate stuff to some guy you just met in a bar. If you really just met him in a bar.’
‘It just took me time, Sam! I thought you were playing around!’
‘It took you time because you were still in love with the memory of another guy. A dead guy. And you’re now in New York because, well, he wanted you to go there. So I have no idea why you’re being weird and jealous about Katie. You never minded how much time I spent with Donna.’
‘Because Donna didn’t fancy you.’
‘You’ve never even met Katie! How could you possibly know whether she fancies me or not?’
‘I’ve seen the pictures!’
‘What pictures?’ he exploded.
I was an idiot. I closed my eyes. ‘On her Facebook page. She has pictures. Of you and her.’ I swallowed. ‘A picture.’
There was a long silence. The kind of silence that says, Are you serious? The kind of ominous silence that comes while somebody quietly adjusts his view of who you are. When Sam spoke again his voice was low and controlled. ‘This is a ridiculous discussion and I’ve got to get some sleep.’
‘Sam, I –’
‘Go to sleep, Lou. We’ll speak later.’ He rang off.
12
I barely slept, all the things I wished I had and hadn’t said whirring around my head in an endless carousel, and woke groggily to the sound of knocking. I stumbled out of bed, and opened my door to find Mrs De Witt standing there in her dressing-gown. She looked tiny and frail without her make-up and set hair, and her face was twisted with anxiety.
‘Oh, you’re there,’ she said, like I would have been anywhere else. ‘Come. Come. I need your help.’
‘Wh-what? Who let you in?’
‘The big one. The Australian. Come on. No time to waste.’
I rubbed my eyes, struggling to come to.
‘He’s helped me before but said he couldn’t leave Mr Gopnik. Oh, what does it matter? I opened my door this morning to put my trash out and Dean Martin ran out and he’s somewhere in the building. I have no idea where. I can’t find him by myself.’ Her voice was quavering yet imperious, and her hands fluttered around her head. ‘Hurry. Hurry now. I’m afraid somebody will open the doors downstairs and he’ll get out onto the sidewalk.’ She wrung her hands together. ‘He’s not good by himself outdoors. And someone might steal him. He’s a pedigree, you know.’
I grabbed my key and followed her out into the hall, still in my T-shirt.
‘Where have you looked?’
‘Well, nowhere, dear. I’m not good at walking. That’s why I need you to do it. I’m going to go and get my stick.’ She looked at me as if I had said something particularly stupid. I sighed, trying to imagine what I would do if I were a small, wonky-eyed pug with an unexpected taste of freedom.
‘He’s all I have. You have to find him.’ She started to cough, as if her lungs couldn’t cope with the tension.
‘I’ll try the main lobby first.’
I ran downstairs, on the basis that Dean Martin was unlikely to be able to call the lift, and scanned the corridor for a small, angry canine. Empty. I checked my watch, noting with mild dismay that this was because it was not yet six a.m. I peered behind and under Ashok’s desk, then ran to his office, which was locked. I called Dean Martin’s name softly the whole time, feeling faintly stupid as I did so. No sign. I ran back up the stairs and did the same thing on our floors, checking the kitchen and back corridors. Nothing. I did the same on the fourth floor, before rationalizing that if I was now out of breath, the chances of a small fat pug being able to run up that many flights of stairs at speed was pretty unlikely. And then outside I heard the familiar whine of the refuse truck. And I thought about our old dog, who had a spectacular ability to tolerate – and even enjoy – the most disgusting smells known to humanity.
I headed to the service entrance. There, entranced, stood Dean Martin, drooling, as the men wheeled the huge, stinking bins backwards and forwards from our building to their truck. I approached him slowly, but the noise was so great and his attention so locked on the rubbish that he didn’t hear me until the exact moment I reached down and grabbed him.
Have you ever held a raging pug? I haven’t felt anything squirm that hard since I had to pin a two-year-old Thom down on a sofa while my sister extricated a rogue marble from his left nostril. As I wrestled Dean Martin under my arm, the dog threw himself left and right, his eyes bulging with fury, his outraged yapping filling the silent building. I had to wrap my arms around him, my head at an angle to stop his snapping jaw reaching me. From upstairs I heard Mrs De Witt calling down: ‘Dean Martin? Is that him?’
It took everything I had to hold him. I ran up the last flight of stairs, desperate to hand him over.
‘Got him!’ I gasped. Mrs De Witt stepped forward, her arms outstretched. She had a lead ready and she reached out and snapped it onto his collar, just as I lowered him to the ground. At which point, with a speed wholly incommensurate with his size and shape, he whipped round and sank his teeth into my left hand.
If there had been anyone left in the building who hadn’t already been woken by the barking, my scream would probably have done it. It was at least loud enough to shock Dean Martin into letting go. I bent double over my hand and swore, the blood already blistering on the wound. ‘Your dog bit me! He bloody bit me!’
Mrs De Witt took a breath and stood a little straighter. ‘Well, of course he did, with you holding him that tightly. He was probably desperately uncomfortable!’ She shooed the little dog inside, where he continued to growl at me, teeth bared. ‘There, see?’ she said, gesturing towards him. ‘Your shouting and screaming frightened him. He’s terribly agitated now. You have to learn about dogs if you’re going to handle them correctly.’
I couldn’t speak. My jaw had dropped, cartoon-style. It was at this moment that Mr Gopnik, in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, threw open his front door.
‘What on earth is this racket?’ he said, striding out into the corridor. I was startled by the ferocity of his voice. He took in the scene before him, me in my T-shirt and knickers, clutching my bleeding hand, and the old woman in her dressing-gown, the dog snapping at her feet. Behind Mr Gopnik I could just make out Nathan in his uniform, a towel raised to his face. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Madame de.’
‘Madame de what?’
‘Just Madame de. It’s about a general and some earrings and …’
‘And what?’
‘He has an affair.’
‘She’s making you read books about French people who have affairs? Oh, my God. She totally fancies you.’
‘You’re wrong, Lou.’
‘I know when someone fancies someone, Sam.’
‘Really.’ He had begun to sound tired.
‘So, a man made a pass at me tonight. I knew he fancied me. So I told him straight off I was with someone. I headed it off.’
‘Oh, you did? Who was that, then?’
‘His name is Josh.’
‘Josh. Would that be the same Josh who called you when I was leaving?’
Even through my slightly drunken fug I had begun to realize this conversation was a bad idea. ‘Yes.’
‘And you just happened to bump into him in a bar.’
‘I did! I was there with Nathan. And I literally ran into him outside the Ladies.’
‘So what did he say?’ His voice now held a faint edge.
‘He … he said it was a pity.’
‘And is it?’
‘What?’
‘A pity?’
There was a short silence. I felt suddenly, horribly sober. ‘I’m just telling you what he said. I’m with you, Sam. I’m literally just using this as an example of how I could tell that someone fancied me and how I headed it off before he could get the wrong idea. Which is a concept you seem to be unwilling to grasp.’
‘No. Seems to me you’re calling me up in the middle of the night to have a go at me about my work partner who has lent me a book, but you’re fine with you going out and having drunk conversations with this Josh about relationships. Jesus. You wouldn’t even admit we were in a relationship until I pushed you into it. And now you’ll happily talk about intimate stuff to some guy you just met in a bar. If you really just met him in a bar.’
‘It just took me time, Sam! I thought you were playing around!’
‘It took you time because you were still in love with the memory of another guy. A dead guy. And you’re now in New York because, well, he wanted you to go there. So I have no idea why you’re being weird and jealous about Katie. You never minded how much time I spent with Donna.’
‘Because Donna didn’t fancy you.’
‘You’ve never even met Katie! How could you possibly know whether she fancies me or not?’
‘I’ve seen the pictures!’
‘What pictures?’ he exploded.
I was an idiot. I closed my eyes. ‘On her Facebook page. She has pictures. Of you and her.’ I swallowed. ‘A picture.’
There was a long silence. The kind of silence that says, Are you serious? The kind of ominous silence that comes while somebody quietly adjusts his view of who you are. When Sam spoke again his voice was low and controlled. ‘This is a ridiculous discussion and I’ve got to get some sleep.’
‘Sam, I –’
‘Go to sleep, Lou. We’ll speak later.’ He rang off.
12
I barely slept, all the things I wished I had and hadn’t said whirring around my head in an endless carousel, and woke groggily to the sound of knocking. I stumbled out of bed, and opened my door to find Mrs De Witt standing there in her dressing-gown. She looked tiny and frail without her make-up and set hair, and her face was twisted with anxiety.
‘Oh, you’re there,’ she said, like I would have been anywhere else. ‘Come. Come. I need your help.’
‘Wh-what? Who let you in?’
‘The big one. The Australian. Come on. No time to waste.’
I rubbed my eyes, struggling to come to.
‘He’s helped me before but said he couldn’t leave Mr Gopnik. Oh, what does it matter? I opened my door this morning to put my trash out and Dean Martin ran out and he’s somewhere in the building. I have no idea where. I can’t find him by myself.’ Her voice was quavering yet imperious, and her hands fluttered around her head. ‘Hurry. Hurry now. I’m afraid somebody will open the doors downstairs and he’ll get out onto the sidewalk.’ She wrung her hands together. ‘He’s not good by himself outdoors. And someone might steal him. He’s a pedigree, you know.’
I grabbed my key and followed her out into the hall, still in my T-shirt.
‘Where have you looked?’
‘Well, nowhere, dear. I’m not good at walking. That’s why I need you to do it. I’m going to go and get my stick.’ She looked at me as if I had said something particularly stupid. I sighed, trying to imagine what I would do if I were a small, wonky-eyed pug with an unexpected taste of freedom.
‘He’s all I have. You have to find him.’ She started to cough, as if her lungs couldn’t cope with the tension.
‘I’ll try the main lobby first.’
I ran downstairs, on the basis that Dean Martin was unlikely to be able to call the lift, and scanned the corridor for a small, angry canine. Empty. I checked my watch, noting with mild dismay that this was because it was not yet six a.m. I peered behind and under Ashok’s desk, then ran to his office, which was locked. I called Dean Martin’s name softly the whole time, feeling faintly stupid as I did so. No sign. I ran back up the stairs and did the same thing on our floors, checking the kitchen and back corridors. Nothing. I did the same on the fourth floor, before rationalizing that if I was now out of breath, the chances of a small fat pug being able to run up that many flights of stairs at speed was pretty unlikely. And then outside I heard the familiar whine of the refuse truck. And I thought about our old dog, who had a spectacular ability to tolerate – and even enjoy – the most disgusting smells known to humanity.
I headed to the service entrance. There, entranced, stood Dean Martin, drooling, as the men wheeled the huge, stinking bins backwards and forwards from our building to their truck. I approached him slowly, but the noise was so great and his attention so locked on the rubbish that he didn’t hear me until the exact moment I reached down and grabbed him.
Have you ever held a raging pug? I haven’t felt anything squirm that hard since I had to pin a two-year-old Thom down on a sofa while my sister extricated a rogue marble from his left nostril. As I wrestled Dean Martin under my arm, the dog threw himself left and right, his eyes bulging with fury, his outraged yapping filling the silent building. I had to wrap my arms around him, my head at an angle to stop his snapping jaw reaching me. From upstairs I heard Mrs De Witt calling down: ‘Dean Martin? Is that him?’
It took everything I had to hold him. I ran up the last flight of stairs, desperate to hand him over.
‘Got him!’ I gasped. Mrs De Witt stepped forward, her arms outstretched. She had a lead ready and she reached out and snapped it onto his collar, just as I lowered him to the ground. At which point, with a speed wholly incommensurate with his size and shape, he whipped round and sank his teeth into my left hand.
If there had been anyone left in the building who hadn’t already been woken by the barking, my scream would probably have done it. It was at least loud enough to shock Dean Martin into letting go. I bent double over my hand and swore, the blood already blistering on the wound. ‘Your dog bit me! He bloody bit me!’
Mrs De Witt took a breath and stood a little straighter. ‘Well, of course he did, with you holding him that tightly. He was probably desperately uncomfortable!’ She shooed the little dog inside, where he continued to growl at me, teeth bared. ‘There, see?’ she said, gesturing towards him. ‘Your shouting and screaming frightened him. He’s terribly agitated now. You have to learn about dogs if you’re going to handle them correctly.’
I couldn’t speak. My jaw had dropped, cartoon-style. It was at this moment that Mr Gopnik, in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, threw open his front door.
‘What on earth is this racket?’ he said, striding out into the corridor. I was startled by the ferocity of his voice. He took in the scene before him, me in my T-shirt and knickers, clutching my bleeding hand, and the old woman in her dressing-gown, the dog snapping at her feet. Behind Mr Gopnik I could just make out Nathan in his uniform, a towel raised to his face. ‘What the hell is going on?’
