According to Luke, he’s “about to leave the office.”
Despite what he just said to whoever is on
the receiving end of the furtive cell phone call he’s making, Luke’s actually
sitting in his car right outside the house I share with my best friend Julie.
Which proves he’s lying. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Julie hasn’t heard his latest lie, of
course. Her hearing isn’t as good as mine. She has heard the car pull up, waved
to him, acknowledged his “on the phone” mime through the window, and left her
front door ajar so she can return to the particularly gripping part of EastEnders we’ve been watching, where a
mean-looking bald gentleman has just instructed the pasty-looking character
he’s been threatening to beat up that he “ain’t worth it.” An appraisal that—if
it referred to Luke—Julie and I would
have wildly differing opinions about.
I take the opportunity to sneak out through
the open door, trot along the path, and sit just the other side of the garden
gate, where I can eavesdrop on what’s sure to be the latest twist in a saga way
more complicated than the television shenanigans in Albert Square.
“Sure,” Luke says, after a moment, “Chinese
or pizza?” which makes my mouth water, especially when he adds, “Chinese and pizza it is.” Then I’m brought
sharply back to reality, because at his, “Love you, too, sweetie,” I realize
he’s talking to his wife, and remember that not only is he a liar, but he’s a
philanderer as well.
Luke finishes the call and checks his hair
in that reflective device stuck to the car windscreen that Julie only ever uses
to help her apply her makeup when she’s driving, smells his breath in his
cupped hand and peers up and down the street as if looking for someone. Then he
climbs out of his car, walks a pace or two away from the curb, and swivels
around quickly to click the vehicle shut with the remote, as if he’s firing a
gun in the opening credits of a James Bond film.
With a frown, he walks back up to the
driver’s door and wipes a barely-visible smudge from the paintwork, then he
takes a step backward and admires the vehicle—one of those sporty-looking
coupes that, mechanically, is the same as the “family” model. Style over substance, as Julie’s dad
would no doubt point out. Therefore pretty much the kind of car you’d expect
Luke to drive.
With a last check of his cell phone, he
switches it off, slips it into his pocket, and strides confidently toward
Julie’s gate, hesitating when he spots me waiting for him in the garden.
“Doug,” he says.
It’s an observation rather than a greeting,
so I give him a look, reluctantly step to one side so he can get past, then
tail him back toward the house, nipping in through the front door before him,
just in case he tries to shut me outside.
“Sweetie?” he shouts, as he regards me
warily, and it occurs to me I rarely hear him call her “Julie”—a sensible
tactic if you’re seeing multiple women, I imagine.
“In here,” replies Julie, from the living
room, and Luke strides along the hall, peering around the house like a
potential burglar, though if I know him, there’s only one thing he’s interested
in getting his hands on.
I follow him into where Julie’s sitting
expectantly on the sofa, taking up a defensive position at her feet as she
switches off the TV. This is worrying: EastEnders
isn’t over yet, and under normal circumstances, even if the house were
falling down, she’d probably try and hang around, dodging falling masonry,
until the end credits were rolling. Then again, as Luke’s all-too-regular
off-hours presence here often reminds me, he and Julie aren’t exactly “normal”
circumstances.
“This is a pleasant surprise!”
“Couldn’t stay away.” Luke collapse-sits
onto the sofa next to her, then hoists his feet up onto the coffee table as if
he owns the place. “You know me.”
I exhale loudly as I take up a guard
position beneath his legs: If she really knew Luke, I doubt she’d let him in
the house, let alone on the sofa. It took me
long enough before I was allowed to sit there.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Just this,” says Luke, leaning across to
plant a wet one (as Julie’s dad describes the way I do it whenever anyone
raises me to face level) on Julie’s lips, and I have to look away. I don’t know
why, but I find this “kissing” thing Luke and Julie insist on doing
unsettling—possibly because of the weird hum of pleasure he makes every time.
“I was just passing. Realized how much I missed you.”
“Passing?” says Julie, dejectedly, then she
does a double take, and a look flashes across Luke’s face, and Julie’s
expression mirrors it. Then I realize why he’s come round, and it shocks me so
much it’s all I can do not to let out a disgusted bark. From what I can work
out given his earlier phone call, he’s going to have a “quickie” with Julie,
then calmly pick up takeout and bring it home to his wife.
“Yeah.” Luke licks his lips, an action
which makes me shudder. “I’m not interrupting any plans, am I?” he asks, though
I’m pretty sure he already knows the answer to that question. Julie rarely has
any plans. Mainly because—given Luke’s situation—she can’t make any.
“No, just…” Julie nods at the TV. “Priya’s
going to be here in a bit. Game of Thrones
is on.”
“Oh yes. The Dragon Lady.” He rolls his
eyes, and I’m not sure whether he’s referring to a character from the program
or Priya. Luke’s not her biggest fan. And the feeling is definitely mutual.
“I can call her,” says Julie, already
reaching for her phone. “Tell her to come later. We can watch it on DVR.”
“Don’t worry. I can’t stay.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in Julie’s voice
is so obvious, Luke can’t help but give a little victory smile.
“For long,” he adds, looking pointedly at
his watch.
“Oh,” says Julie, again, followed by
another, but this time, an I-get-it one, which makes me suspect she’s “up for
it,” as I’m sure Luke would probably describe her. It’s at that moment I decide
I can’t just stand idly by and let him get away with this. So as Julie shimmies
across the sofa to straddle him, and Luke reaches up and starts unbuttoning her
blouse, I squeeze myself out from underneath his still-outstretched legs, leap
up onto the sofa, and force my way between the two of them.
“Doug!” Julie gives me a stern look.
“Down!”
I’m wishing I could say the same thing to
Luke, but before I can decide what my next move’s going to be, he picks me
up—rather ungently, it has to be said—and sets me back on the floor.
“Yes Doug, down!” Luke sniffs his fingers,
makes a face, then surreptitiously wipes his hands on a cushion, which irks me
even more, particularly since I’ve already had my bath this month. “Now, where
were we?” he says, reaching for Julie’s buttons a second time.
As he busies himself with the contents of
her blouse, he simultaneously blocks my route back up onto the sofa with his
legs, and I fear I might be stymied, until I remember a tactic that Eddie, the
Jack Russell star of the reruns of Frasier
Julie and I love watching, often uses. I dart under the coffee table, leap
up onto the armchair opposite the sofa, position myself in Luke’s direct eye
line, and fix him with my most disapproving stare. After a moment my strategy
works, because he opens his eyes midkiss (which is even creepier than the
noises he makes), catches sight of me over Julie’s shoulder, and breaks away
from her.
“Something the matter?” asks Julie.
Luke glares back at me. “It’s Doug.”
“What about him?”
“He’s staring at me.”
“What?” Julie turns to look at me, so I
hurriedly put on my best, most irresistible pug eyes, wrinkle my forehead to
the maximum, then angle my head for good measure.
“He’s not staring. He’s a pug. That’s just
how it appears.”
“It’s disconcerting.”
“Well, just shut your eyes.”
Julie leans down to kiss him again, and
Luke does as instructed. But sure enough, a few seconds later, he half opens
one of them, to find I’ve resumed my visual assault.
“He’s doing it again.”
“Luke…”
Luke wriggles out from underneath her, sits
upright, and places a cushion in his lap. “I’m sorry. I just can’t. Not with
him…”
Julie sighs, then she gets up from the
sofa, picks me up and carries me through to the kitchen.
“Sorry, Doug,” she says, depositing me on
the floor by my bowl, before tipping some food into it, hurrying back into the
living room, and shutting the door behind her.
“Now, where were we?” I hear her say,
perhaps a little impatiently, then everything goes quiet, so I pad over toward
the door. It’s one of those opaque-paneled ones, so all I can see is the
outline of the two of them cavorting.
I sit down and fix my gaze on my best guess
of where Luke’s face is, and stare as hard as I can at him through the frosted
glass. And it seems to work, as it’s only around thirty seconds before Julie
says, “What now?”
“He’s still doing it.”
“Pardon?”
“Doug. Staring at me. Through the kitchen
door.”
“What, with his X-ray vision?”
“You know what I mean.”
Julie sighs in a way that demonstrates that
it’s evident she doesn’t. “What do you want me to do. Put him outside?”
“Would you?”
I whimper at the prospect so plaintively
that it’s only a matter of seconds before Julie opens the kitchen door, picks
me up, and carries me over to the armchair. Though my victory is fleeting, as
she heads straight back to the sofa, and resumes her straddling of a somewhat
disgruntled-looking Luke.
“Tell you what.” Julie walks her fingertips
suggestively along the arm of the sofa. “Why don’t we take this into the
bedroom?”
Luke frowns, perhaps wondering whether
Julie’s suggesting some light furniture removal, then the penny evidently
drops. “Good idea,” he says.
“Right. I’ll just nip into the bathroom,
and you…” Julie nods in the general direction of the bedroom.
I sit there innocently as she jumps up from
the sofa and heads off along the hall. But the moment she shuts the bathroom
door behind her, I leap down from the chair, sprint out of the living room,
and—almost losing it on the sharp corner thanks to the combination of my short
legs and Julie’s polished wooden laminate flooring—get to the bedroom ahead of
him. And I’m already sitting defiantly on Julie’s bed by the time Luke appears
in the doorway.
“For fu…!”
He narrows his eyes at me, then glances at
his watch again, perhaps working out just how late he can get away with
arriving home by blaming it on the length of the wait for the takeout. Then—and
admittedly it’s the one flaw in my plan—he raises both eyebrows in a gotcha way, and shuts the bedroom door,
trapping me inside.
Hurriedly, I jump back down from the bed,
run to the door, and place an ear against it. From what I can work out, Julie’s
finished in the bathroom, and I hear Luke tell her that, actually, the sofa’s
just fine with him. There’s a giggle (Julie), then the sound of a belt being
undone, then silence, followed by some sounds that I’d rather not report. Aware
that I’ve run out of options—and I’m not proud of myself—I begin to whine. And
whine. Then I start to bark insistently, upping the volume every third-or-so
bark, until finally there’s a frustrated-sounding “For crying out loud!” from
Luke, quickly followed by footsteps, and a slightly-flushed-looking Julie
opening the door.
“What’s the matter, Doug?” she says, as she
picks me up and carries me back into the living room. “How did you get yourself
shut in there?”
I glance pointedly over to where Luke is
sitting on the sofa, adjusting his clothes while giving me what I believe is
known as “the evil eye,” but Julie misses the inference.
Luke sighs resignedly, in the manner of
someone who’s realized he’s not going to get what he wants. “Right. Well…” He
glances at his watch a third time, then hauls himself reluctantly up from the
sofa. “I ought to…”
“Don’t go.” Julie sets me gently back down
on the floor, then takes a pace toward him. “We haven’t even…”
“Yes. Well. Whose fault is that?” huffs
Luke.
He’s meant that it’s mine, but judging by
the look on her face, Julie appears to have taken his last comment personally.
“Sorry. No. You’re right,” she says, sulkily. “You get off home to your wife like a good boy!”
As Luke swallows loudly, I snort as
incredulously as I can. There’s only one good boy here, and (spoiler alert)
it’s me.
“Sweetie, don’t be like…”
Julie shrugs off his attempt at a hug, and
I brace myself for the inevitable. They’ve had this conversation—or rather,
argument—several times before, and each time Luke tells Julie he just can’t
leave his wife yet, I sense a little something die inside her.
True to form, she’s got tears in her eyes,
and though I’d like to rush over and comfort her, I stop myself. She needs to
feel bad about Luke, and sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me!” she snaps. “You promised!”
“And I will.” Luke perches on the arm of
the sofa. “I told you, now’s not the right time. I just need to get all my
ducks in a row, and…” He fires off finger pistols in rapid succession, and I
can’t help but snort again. “But I understand,” he continues. “If you can’t wait,
then perhaps we ought to…”
“No, I didn’t mean…” Hurriedly, Julie takes
his hand, as if she’s the one who should be apologizing. “I get that this is
hard for you. Really, I do. But you can’t blame me for wanting us to be
together?”
She smiles down at him, a pleading
expression on her face, and Luke kisses the back of her hand, as if bestowing
some kind of papal blessing. Then he stands up and sighs dramatically as he
takes her in his arms. “It’s what I want too,” he says. “But try and look at
things from my point of view. I just want to do right by everyone, you know?
You, me, and Sarah…”
At the sound of Luke’s wife’s name, Julie
winces, then she nods, though if you ask me, the only person Luke has ever
intended to do right by is himself.
“Okay,” she says, reluctantly. “So I’ll see
you on Monday?”
Luke looks shocked for a moment, as if
there’s some important date he’s forgotten, then he lets out a short laugh.
“You mean at work?”
Julie nods again, and Luke grins like
someone who knows he’s still in the driving seat—and not just of the showy
coupe parked outside. “Right,” he says, patting his pockets to locate his car
keys, his mind probably already on which pizza topping he’s going to choose.
“Well, say hi to Priya for me.”
“Sure,” says Julie, though all three of us
know she won’t, unless she wants a lecture.
“I’ll see myself out,” Luke says, and even
though that’s probably directed at me, I still make sure to escort him off the
premises. I wouldn’t want him to take anything. Especially advantage of Julie.
Though my fear is, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Excerpted from Pug Actually by Matt Dunn,
Copyright © 2021 by Matthew
Dunn. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
