Love Your Life(87)

    “Sam, I really think you need to decrease your commute time,” says Maud seriously. “For your own good. It should be your highest priority.”

“I agree,” chimes in Nell.

“I don’t mind the walk,” says Sam, shrugging. “It’s not a problem.”

“It is a problem!” Nell contradicts him forcefully, and he blinks in surprise. “It’s more of a problem than you realize.”

“Could you walk more quickly?” I suggest. “What road are you on?”

“Fenland Street,” says Sam, looking a bit confused, and instantly Topher, Nihal, and Maud pull out their phones.

“I know that area,” says Nell, summoning up a map. “What route are you using?”

“Down the hill,” Sam replies. “Takes you straight there, pretty much.”

“No,” she says firmly. “Take Launceton Road. That’ll shave off five minutes.”

“Are you cutting through the shopping center?” chimes in Topher, squinting at his screen. “Because that’ll cut down your time too. Are you jogging?”

“Jogging?” Sam looks startled.

“You should jog.” Topher taps his chest. “Health.”

“What about a skateboard?” suggests Nihal.

“Yes!” exclaims Topher. “Genius, Nihal. Use a skateboard,” he instructs Sam. “Get you there in no time.”

“A skateboard?” echoes Sam, looking around at our faces. “Listen, guys, I appreciate your suggestions, but—”

“If you use a skateboard and take Launceton Road, I reckon we’ve got it down to ten minutes,” Nell says firmly.

    “I’d say eight minutes with the skateboard,” chimes in Matt. “You can power along on one of those things.”

“Even better,” says Nell. “Got that?” She swivels to Sam, who looks totally bewildered. “You’re eight minutes from the tube. Remember that, Sam. Eight minutes.” She catches my eye and bites her lip, and I have a horrible feeling I’m going to burst into laughter, when Sarika appears and says brightly, “Ready to go, Sam—aaargh!” She suddenly screams in horror. “Harold! What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?” I leap up in alarm. “Oh no!”

As I catch sight of Harold, my stomach swoops in horror. There’s a dismembered furry paw sticking out of his mouth. It looks very much like the paw of a massive fluffy teddy bear. I glance beyond him and see a furry head lying on the floor, with two glassy eyes staring reproachfully at me. Shit.

“Oh God.” I clasp my head. “Sam, I’m so sorry, he must have got hold of your teddy—”

“That bloody dog!” exclaims Sarika, making a swipe for Harold, who darts merrily away.

“Harold!” I say. “Drop! Drop it!”

“It’s fine,” says Sam, in a voice which suggests it’s really not fine.

“Welcome to my world,” says Sarika wryly.

“Now will you agree he’s a bastard?” says Topher to me, but I ignore him.

“Come here, you bad dog!” Nell gets to her feet.

“Who’s got a snack?” says Maud helpfully.

Soon all of us are pursuing Harold while he dances around the flat, occasionally dropping one piece of mutilated teddy bear, barking at us, then triumphantly grabbing another.

    “We need to have a strategy,” says Matt for the third time. “We need to form a circle around him…stay still, Harold!” As the landline phone rings, he turns his head briefly and says, “Get it, someone, will you?”

We approach Harold, who’s clutching the teddy’s head and eyeing us with bright defiance.

“We need to close in on him slowly…” says Matt in a low voice. “Then, when I say, ‘Now,’ we all make a grab….Now!”

We all swipe for the teddy’s head, Maud manages to grab it, and she starts a tussle with Harold.

“Drop!” she exclaims breathlessly. “Drop!”

“Drop!” I join in.

“Bastard dog!” says Topher, and Harold lets go of the teddy to bark at him.

“Got it!” exclaims Maud, lifting the dismembered, mangled head aloft while Harold’s barking rises to a frenzy.

“Matt, it’s for you.” Sam tries to make himself heard over the racket. “Someone called Genevieve?”





Twenty-One




I mean, it’s fine. Genevieve can phone Matt. In fact, Genevieve has to phone Matt, on occasion. They both work for the same organization and are obliged to be in contact. I do understand that. But I don’t see why Genevieve has to call quite so often.

For a “shadow from the past,” she’s pretty bloody present. It’s two weeks since the party, and since then she’s been on the phone every night. Matt talks in short, sharp monosyllables, but still the calls seem to go on forever. Whenever I query them (in a lighthearted manner), Matt says, “We’re doing a presentation together at the expo. We need to talk.”

And then he looks beleaguered. And putts his golf ball for hours on end—which I’ve realized is not about enjoyment at all. It’s stress relief.