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11

Owen

Smithy: You okay for Thursday?

Smithy is always making jokes about how clockwork my life runs, yet he’s the one who texts me every Tuesday asking me the same question. I’ve only ever said no once, when Paul had been ill, and I didn’t want to bring him around to Smithy’s where Darcy and Dana might poke him, pull his ears, and slather him with sticky kisses.

It’s my day off, and Paul and I are standing in the middle of a field behind our house. He’s been sniffing the same patch of grass for the past ten minutes because, apparently, this is the greatest blade of grass in the whole damn field. Or so he would have me believe.

I used to love walking him. Even with his little stumpy legs, Paul could go like the clappers and would walk forever. There’s nothing I like more than open spaces, empty skies, and a light breeze. I could spend my whole life outside and never get bored. There’s no chatter, no problems to be faced other than stepping in dog shit or avoiding a downpour.

I’d love to tell you Paul isn’t bothered by the rain, but he is. Don’t know where he gets it from, as I’d happily walk in the rain, but for Paul, it’s a hard pass. I’m convinced it’s because his stomach is so close to the ground that it gets wet, so I sympathise with him a bit.

But Paul isn’t as young as he used to be and no longer seems interested in the mile-long hikes we took when he was a pup. Now all he wants to do is sniff.

Sniff a lamppost for two minutes.

Sniff a weed for three minutes.

Sniff a gatepost for four minutes.

Sniff the ground for five minutes.

Our walks aren’t really about walking anymore so much as investigating the aromas surrounding the estate. But I don’t begrudge him this. He leads a simple life, and who am I to deny an old dog his greatest pleasures: belly rubs, sleeping in my bed, and the occasional bit of cheese?

The strange thing about waking up this morning was that my first thought had been about Alice.

For the last three years, I’ve woken up and, in the first few seconds, forgotten what happened, like it vanished during the night, but then my head catches up with me and it all comes flooding back. It’s like getting out of bed and opening the curtains, hoping to see the sun, only to find the same grey cloud that’s been following me around looming overhead.

But not today. This morning, I felt like I didn’t even open the curtains, didn’t even bother looking for the cloud.

I know it’s still there, but I didn’t dwell on it. Instead, I pictured Alice sitting on the bench in the work garden, the sun hitting the side of her face and making her look even more radiant than she already is. Inevitably, my thoughts wandered to what she would look like sitting there in a dress, my hands wandering under the loose material, how beautiful she’d look with her head tipped back and my name on her lips.

When I eventually shook off this silly daydream, I checked the time on my watch and wondered if Alice was at work yet. At lunchtime, I contemplated what she’d brought to eat today. The cheese sandwich she had yesterday looked like it’d been made by a toddler, floppy white bread with grated cheese falling out everywhere, and I was still reeling from the mess of it.

I know it’s only a garden, but I prefer it to look pristine, and as much as I like animals, I don’t want to eat my lunch alongside a family of rats.

Whatever culinary travesty she had today, I wondered whether she’d eaten in the staffroom or in my garden—because, yes, I do consider it to be my garden. I told myself not to be ridiculous; there was no way Alice would voluntarily sit out there when she has friends at Kitchen City to socialise with every day. She probably hated it. She doesn’t strike me as the outdoor type, and I imagine she either doesn’t have a greenspace where she lives, or if she does, it’s some hideous flagstone patio with resin plant pots and the carcass of a long-dead shrub.

Or—and this is where I start to sweat—she might even have artificial grass.

The thought alone is enough to make me scoop up Paul and head for home, but not before sending a thumbs-up to Smithy for Thursday, which makes me think of his dried-out worktops.

As I march back down the hill, I weigh up the options for tomorrow’s lunch. The weather forecast is for another good day with sunny spells, light clouds, and highs of eighteen degrees, which in England amounts to the best weather we’re going to get all year. Soup is definitely out of the question. I have some couscous, which would go with the Moroccan falafel I bought.

I could take some for Alice, but then the thought of her dropping couscous all over the garden fills me with dread. Couscous is messy at the best of times, and Alice appears to be a raucous eater. But it would be nice to take her some lunch. It’s a nice gesture and will prevent her from eating another grated cheese sandwich in front of me.

But what if she doesn’t like couscous? What if she hates it? I’d hate someone bringing me a surprise lunch. I like food, I just find it a bit of a minefield of textures, flavours, and smells. I like to know where I am with what I’m eating.

Maybe I should text her and ask her about lunch and what she likes to eat.

But I don’t have her number.

We’ve not got to that stage in our fake relationship.

Should I ask her for her number when I see her at work tomorrow?

But what if she takes it the wrong way and thinks I’m genuinely interested in her?