Chapter 7 #3
“A real…” Every second that passed without my coming up with a creatively devastating answer was just confirming his assessment of my dickheadedness. “A real bum-face.”
“I’m a bum-face,” he said slowly, “but not a real bum-face?”
I should have just gone with is too. It was a classic for a reason. As it was, I had no option but to double down on Schrodinger’s bum-face. “Yes.”
“Dickhead.”
“You can’t just keep saying dickhead.”
“Dickhead.”
“Why are you like this?” I asked.
Next Door’s Kid sneered over the fence. “Why are you like that?”
“Years of trauma. What’s your excuse?”
“Adickheadsayswhat?”
“What?” I replied, fatally.
He had a laugh like a machine gun. A really annoying machine gun.
“One of these days”—I actually wagged my actual finger—“I’m going to tell your parents exactly what a slimy, vicious, obnoxious little piece of—oh my God.
Spud.” My voice went up into that range that people use for talking to dogs and children who aren’t arseholes.
“Look at you. Who’s a good boy? Who’s the best boy?
” I reached into my jacket pocket and produced a small rain of treats. “What a wonderful…um. Bowel movement?”
“You’re weird,” declared Next Door’s Kid.
“Yeah, well. I’d rather be weird than…than”—I gestured—“you. Come on, Spud.”
A singsong of dickhead followed us back inside. I wouldn’t say it had become my life’s ambition to one day win an argument with that particular eleven-year-old, but it was creeping onto my bucket list, bringing the total number of items on it to one.
I threw myself back into my computer chair, letting Spud scrabble onto my lap. To my complete lack of surprise, Dr. Fairclough had already left the meeting.
“—decent chap,” Alex was saying. “And a decent chap wouldn’t just leave a chap to twist in the wind. Ah, hello, Luc.”
“Welcome back, Luc,” said Rhys Jones Bowen. “Did your dog have a nice poo?”
“There’ve been better poos,” I said, thinking of Next Door’s Kid.
Rhys Jones Bowen nodded sagely. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more where that one came from.”
“Before we conclude,” said Barbara Clench, “can I make a formal request that nobody attend any future meetings in their underwear?”
I looked down at Spud, my bare legs, and my hedgehog boxers.
Fuck.
* * *
A few minutes after one—Oliver’s lunchtimes were a little unpredictable when he was in court, and it wasn’t like he could text me from the…the…the sitty-downy bit where the lawyers go—my phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a classic Withnail and I–era picture of Richard E. Grant.
Nice dick, I replied. Then I coaxed Spud up into my arms, learned very quickly how hard it can be to find a flattering selfie angle while also wrangling an overenthusiastic puppy, and took an at least moderately okay-looking picture to send back to him.
His response was near-instantaneous. You’re both adorable.
It was not, however, stand-alone.
Has everything been okay?
Have you been remembering to keep hiding treats in the pen?
Has he gone to the toilet yet?
If he did, did you remember to make a note of it?
If he hasn’t, we probably don’t need to be concerned yet but it’s worth keeping an eye on.
Yes mostly yes and I’ll do it now, I typed when I could get a text in edgeways. It can be a poo retrospective.
After a little less than half a second, Oliver texted back, Thank you.
I got distracted by next doors kid being an absolute shut while spud was shutting
*shit
*shitting
Spud keeps poking the phone
There was a slight pause. Oliver was, by nature, a long-form texter. I really don’t understand why you have such a problem with Colin. He’s a perfectly pleasant boy.
This stung. It wasn’t the first time Oliver had said neutral to positive things about Next Door’s Kid. The fucking traitor. No hes not. He keeps calling me a dickhead
Perhaps he’s going through a phase.
A phase of calling exactly me a dickhead
He’s probably testing boundaries because he perceives you as an authority figure.
Oliver no one has perceived me as an authority figure in my entire life
Another Oliver-length texting pause. Or maybe he was getting food on his lunch break, which I hoped he was.
I hope, I texted, you’re getting lunch
On my way to get a wrap.
I thought about sending a “love you,” but I’d told Oliver I loved him only yesterday, and I had a reputation to uphold. So I sent a heart emoji instead, and felt like a different sort of dickhead. Oh God, Next Door’s Kid had been right.
“Come on, Spud.” I deposited him back on the floor. “It’s your lunch time too.”
He bounced after me into the kitchen and bounced even more when he saw me pulling down a pouch of puppy noms. It felt weirdly validating every time I made him happy, which seemed to happen a lot for reasons of dog.
In a complicated world, it was nice to have a relationship where I could get regular positive reinforcement by doing very simple actions.
Which raised some uncomfortable questions about exactly who was being trained here.
Once I’d put the bowl down in the puppy pen and Spud had stuck his face in it, I went and did my due diligence with the Journal of the Poo Year.
6:47, Oliver’s entry began, urine and some stool of good consistency and healthy colour.
Underneath it, I wrote, 10ish? Did poo. Maybe wee?
My phone buzzed.
By the way, Oliver was telling me, as lovely as you’re looking in your coquettish hedgehog boxers you should probably wear trousers to meetings. You never know when you might have to stand up.
Good tip, I sent back. Timely.