Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
Giants
I wait in the garden until he’s finished packing his bag, which only takes him a few minutes.
When he emerges, wheezing and sneezing, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says GIANTS CAUSEWAY – a place that I’ve actually visited, during a shore-larking mini-break with Max. Maybe this can be some obscure form of bonding that will help us get through the next few excruciatingly awkward minutes until he feels up to tackling the garden steps again; a shared enthusiasm for beloved Irish landmarks is not the traditional icebreaker, but it’s something.
‘Have you been?’ I say, nodding at his T-shirt.
He looks behind him, in the direction of the house. He’s left the front door open, and I can see the bathroom door ajar, several blowflies slowly making their way across it.
‘Weird question,’ he says, ‘but okay.’
He frowns at me, and then in answer to my look of confusion, he continues, ‘I actually don’t need to go right now. I went earlier.’
‘I didn’t mean have you been to the loo,’ I say. ‘I meant the Giant’s Causeway.’
He tilts his head, not seeming to understand a word that I’m saying.
‘The what did you say?’
‘It’s on your shirt,’ I say, pointing. ‘I assumed it was a souvenir from a trip.’
He looks down at his chest, baffled. Obviously, he has absolutely no idea what clothing he’s put on his body.
‘Oh, that. I’ve been to Ireland for work and stuff,’ he says. ‘But not in a long time and never to the Giant’s Causeway. I’m not really much of a traveller these days…’ He trails off and sounds distinctly uncomfortable about something.
‘You travelled to Loor,’ I say, distinctly wishing he hadn’t.
‘I don’t do planes anymore. Or boats either, generally. Unless it’s for work and I can’t get out of it.’
‘What is your work?’
He’s mentioned it twice in the past minute, which I assume means he wants to be asked about it, but a momentary flash of alarm appears on his face.
‘I’m mostly, um, retired.’
‘Retired already? What were you – a Russian figure skater?’
‘Can’t you tell by my elegant physique?’ he says, dodging the question.
‘Not really.’
He’s extremely broad in the shoulders. More like a bricklayer than an ice skater, although the thought of him wearing tight sparkly spandex while doing a pirouette makes the corner of my mouth twitch.
‘Nice cat you’ve got in there,’ he says, swiftly changing the subject. ‘What’s his name?
‘Nemo.’
‘For real?’ he asks, in a bit of a sneery voice that I don’t like at all.
‘Yes.’
‘I walked past the bookcase and he swiped at my head.’
‘Cats are naturally territorial.’
‘He’s only just arrived,’ he says. ‘It’s hardly his territory.’
‘He disagrees.’
‘So… you’re a cat person?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose.
I feel a twitch of offence on Nemo’s behalf. What’s wrong with liking cats?
‘My ex-boyfriend was. I have no preference. I like all animals.’
He scratches the side of his face, a gesture that somehow manages to convey surprise that I’ve been in a romantic relationship of any kind.
‘They’re probably going to hate each other,’ he says. ‘Ted likes to chase cats. He can be a bit of dick about it, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Well, Nemo likes to scratch dogs in the eyeballs.’
This is pure conjecture. Before meeting Ted, Nemo hadn’t, to my knowledge, ever seen a dog. He’s a house cat, and yet he seems to have the innate knowledge that dogs are trouble.
‘At least they’re well-matched in terms of size,’ he says.
I look down at Ted.
Nemo has longer legs, but Ted has superior muscle and girth. Even so, in a fight, I’d put my money on Nemo. Ted is just too people-pleasing. Nemo doesn’t give a toss if anyone likes him. It’s one of the things I most admire about his character.
‘It’s a bit hipster calling a cat after a fish,’ he says, walking to the garden window to peer at Nemo through the glass.
‘He isn’t named after a fish,’ I say, frostily, because frankly, I am fed up explaining this; my parents were particularly adamant in their wrongness.
‘He’s orange and white,’ he says, as if I’m wearing a blindfold. ‘He’s clearly named after the clownfish from the Disney movie.’
I shake my head, and say in a superior tone, ‘Nemo was born in Scotland. That’s where my ex-boyfriend adopted him before he moved back to London.’
I let it hang in the air.
He looks at me blankly.
‘And?’
And I get to break out some Latin – my only Latin, but he doesn’t need to know that.
‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’
I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but this man has been getting on my nerves ever since I met him, and persists in looking at me with an incredulous expression on his face that makes me want to take him down a peg or two.
‘It’s the motto of Scotland, from the royal Stuart dynasty,’ I say, articulating the words slowly, as if he’s hard of hearing.
‘So?’ he says, unimpressed.
‘So, they started putting it on coins back in the late 1500s. Some Scottish regiments of the British army still use it today. It means “no one provokes me with impunity”, which my ex thought was perfect for a cat.’
‘Shit,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘That is the nerdiest thing I have ever heard.’
‘It’s not nerdy. My ex is just really into history. It’s his thing.’
Why am I defending Max? And why do I even care what this random man thinks of my ex’s rationale for naming his cat?
Ted chooses this moment to start barking at something he’s seen. He elongates his neck, stretches his back, tilts his head upwards and ends each volley of barks with a little howl, his little pom-pom tail wagging throughout.
‘Relax, Ted,’ the man says, soothingly. ‘You’ve gotta keep that heart rate down.’
‘What’s he even barking at?’ I say, craning my head to see what Ted’s looking at.
A glossy black and white bird struts on the fence, completely unbothered by Ted’s noise.
‘He hates magpies – and everything else in that family,’ he says. ‘Draw the blinds if you spot anything crowish pecking around outside, otherwise Ted will bark himself into a frenzy. He’s fine with other kinds of birds. No idea why.’
‘Perfect. Well, thanks for holding the fort,’ I say.
‘No problem. The owners of this place are nice guys. I was glad to help out.’
‘Okay, I might see you around then.’
‘No doubt,’ he says, before taking the steps slowly and wearily.
After five steps, he stops to cough, and I give him his privacy by leaving him to it.
As I go into the house, the magpie sweeps so low over my head that I feel a whoosh of air from the beat of its wings. Catching a glimpse of it in my peripheral vision, I channel Scotty by grazing leaves with my fingertips and whispering, ‘Touch green, never seen.’ Superstitious nonsense or not, the last thing I need is more bad luck.