Chapter Twenty-One
‘Watch out!’ warned Milo.
‘What on earth–?’ I shrieked, spotting something rat-like at his ankles.
Desperate to avoid squashing the rat, I lunged forward, stumbled blindly, threw out a hand to save myself, and grabbed part of the hedge. There was an ominous snapping sound. Suddenly I was shoving a twiggy bouquet up Milo’s nostrils.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ he spluttered, clutching his nose.
A cacophony of frenzied yapping broke out. Righting my balance, I realised that the rat at Milo’s feet was, in fact, a gobby chihuahua. Like its owner, it lacked any humour and had a dodgy temper. The man in question was now towering over me, dark eyes blazing.
‘You again,’ he glowered. ‘Why don’t you take more care and watch where you’re going? You could have killed Rambo.’
‘Rambo?’ I said incredulously.
‘He’s very protective.’
I gave Milo a withering look.
‘In other words, Rambo has Small Dog Syndrome. You gave him a name to boost his ego and, at the same time, big up yourself.’
‘Big up myself?’ Milo glared at me. ‘I’m over six feet tall. Why would I want to big up myself ?’
‘Because, in your heart of hearts, you probably feel emasculated walking around with a dinky dog.’ I adopted a mocking tone. ‘Which likely explains your unnecessary aggression earlier. You feel a need – like Rambo – to bark, growl, and behave in an overzealous manner in the name of’ – I posted quotation marks in the air – ‘ protecting your property. Whereas the reality is you’re both all mouth and no trousers. Now, if you’ll excuse us. Cindy and I have better things to do than hang around in hedgerows with you and fluffball that thinks it’s a Bull Mastiff.’
I made to move past Milo, but his hand shot out. Suddenly, the exit was blocked.
‘One moment, lady.’
‘Get out of my way,’ I barked, sounding not unlike Rambo.
‘Before you disappear, I’d like to set the record straight. This dog belonged to my wife. She named him. She also dumped him the same day that she dumped me. Fortunately, the dog fits perfectly into my cottage, whereas a Bull Mastiff wouldn’t. So – no pun intended – I can thank my wife for small mercies. And before you further criticise the size of my dog, I’d like to point out that you drive a car the size of a cotton reel which isn’t great for the size of your dog.’
‘Are you implying that my dog is too big for my car?’ I said, eyes narrowing.
‘What do you think?’ said Milo sarcastically.
‘Cindy has plenty of room on the back seat,’ I countered.
‘The last time I looked, she was in the front. Not exactly ideal, especially when the driver is a maniac.’
He has a point. Remember that time when the traffic light turned red and–
‘Hush,’ I snapped.
‘Woof,’ said Cindy.
‘And stop telling me to hush,’ retorted Milo. ‘I’m not a kid.’
‘Then don’t behave like one,’ I said sweetly. ‘And I’ll have you know my dog loves being in the car with me.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ Milo scoffed. ‘She’s Thelma to your Louise, and the pair of you roar around, sunnies on, windows down, radio blaring, high fiving each other as you flatten lollipop ladies all over the land.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ My temper was starting to rise.
‘No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’ Milo rolled his eyes.
The eyeroll was the last straw. It reminded me of Robin. It was what he used to do when putting me down; a rogue black sock turning his whiter-than-white underpants grubby grey… a steak that wasn’t quite medium-rare… the flat sheet not smoothed before making the bed… that when I blew my nose I sounded like Nellie the elephant… and why did I say you know so many times in a conversation… and did I know how tedious and annoying this all was?
Milo Soren was not Robin. But the eyeroll had triggered me. Suddenly, all the past putdowns – and there were many – rushed up from the past. Like a high-speed train, they roared through my head. I glared at this Antonio Banderas doppelganger standing before me.
‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Soren,’ I hissed. ‘Allow me to set the record straight. You are a hoity-toity, highfalutin, bit of posh, that talks tosh, and should take your toffee-nosed opinions and shove them up your la-di-da.’
And with that I shoved past him with a po-faced Cindy at heel.