When he finally stops on a channel, I stare at him. “What the fuck? Crufts? Thirty-odd channels and you decide on a dog show.”
He grins and pulls me closer, lifting his free hand to brush it through my messy hair. “Reminds me of my younger days.”
“Why? Did they show you? What pedigree class were you in?” I laugh as he pinches me.
“No,” he says. “I apprenticed with my first paper when I was seventeen, and me and my best mate, who was also an apprentice, had to cover all the shit like this. Dog shows and county fairs. I remember watching this in a hotel in Afghanistan after covering a massacre. Made me yearn for England. It sort of represents the best of our country, like the village fetes and fairs. Faded genteel snapshots of a country that’s changing dramatically every second.”
I consider his expression. There was a lot of emotion in that statement. The most I’ve ever heard from him.
“Do you still see your friend?” I ask.
He looks almost startled as if he’d forgotten I was here. “Yes. We’re still best friends. We were partners for a very long time. He took the photos, and I wrote the pieces. Between us, we covered most of the shit that happened in the world for years. He’s retired now though. He’s a very famous painter.”
“Houses?” I ask, and I’m gratified when he laughs.
“I can’t wait to tell him that. Well, you’d know all about him if you’d read my book.”
I tut. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. I’m waxing my inner ear this evening.” He laughs and then looks at me steadily. “What?” I ask.
“Why aren’t you with someone, Felix?”
I raise my eyebrow. “Oh, dear. Should I be with someone so I can be fulfilled?”
He grins. “Emotionally, you have a bottomless hole,” he says in a dramatic voice.
I laugh but then fidget with my T-shirt, smoothing the fabric down. “I don’t want a relationship with someone,” I say slowly. “It makes you weak.” He jerks and I look at him curiously. “You don’t agree?”
He smiles, and there’s something very sad about it. “On the contrary, I couldn’t agree more.”
As if by mutual agreement, we turn back to the television. For a while, we watch Crufts in silence, making our way down a couple of bottles of wine and lost in our own thoughts. Finally, I stir.
“Jesus,” I slur. “These dogs have got very strange names. I swear their owners were pissed when they christened them.”
He gives a drunken chuckle. “It’s a combination of things. The first bit is usually their kennel name which has got to be one word and no longer than twelve characters. The Kennel Club is very strict about that. They reject about twenty percent of applications.”
“And they let this one through?” I say in disbelief as a dog flounces across the screen with a name that sounds like someone has squashed a load of shampoo bottles together.
He shrugs. “The rest of the name can be anything, but often litters are given themed names, or they’re named after the owner’s interests.”
“Let’s pick our own pedigree names,” I say impulsively, turning to him. I think hard while swigging my wine. “I know. I shall be Mrs Flimflam Sloppy Blowjob, and you can be Euripides Nice Hair Rimming the Third.”
He promptly snorts wine out of his nose. “What the hell?”
We cling to each other as we laugh, and then we select more names. They get wilder and ruder as the bottle gets emptier.
Finally, he turns to me, examining my face intently. “You do make me laugh,” he says in a low voice.
I stare at him. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? And entirely undeserving of the tragic tone of voice you just used.”
He shrugs, peeling the label on the wine bottle almost nervously. “I’m not sure whether it’s good or not, to be honest.”
I watch him, and when he looks up, I sigh. “Neither am I,” I admit.
Chapter Five
Felix
I see him as I make my way through the pub garden. The weather improved last week, and it’s a warm day. The scent of flowers drifts from huge hanging baskets as I walk towards him. The sun shines brightly on his head, gleaming on red strands and catching the odd grey. He’s dressed in cargo shorts and a washed-out baby-blue T-shirt and has his phone to his ear talking in a very intense fashion.
I hesitate, not wanting to intrude, but he looks up as if sensing me. His eyes are far away and hazy with some emotion, but then they clear and he grins at me. He slides his phone into his back pocket and stands up to greet me with a hug.
I go willingly into his arms. I’ve never been much of a one for hugging before. Seems like something couples do when they don’t shag anymore. However, I like Max’s hugs. His arms have just the right amount of pressure, and I get a secret thrill when he buries his nose in my hair and pulls me closer.
“Alright?” I say, stepping back. “Has something happened?”
“Such as?” He settles into his chair again and grins at me.
“Fuck knows. Brad and Angelina got back together. The royal family started liking each other.” I take the seat across from him and shake my head. “Nope. I can’t think of anything else strange today.”
His dark eyes flick over my face. “You’re very refreshing,” he says suddenly, and I don’t think he meant to say it, because a look of embarrassment crosses his face.
I bite my lip in enjoyment and lean closer. “Refreshing? That’s almost poetic, Max. Whatever is next? Will you compare me to a summer’s day?”
“More like a bucket of fucking water in the face.”
His phone chimes with a text notification. It’s loud even though it’s buried in his back pocket. He makes an irritated noise and ignores it, but the next second it starts to ring.
“Your bum is buzzing,” I observe and shoot him a salacious wink. “Not that there’s anything remotely wrong with a buzzing backside.”
He grimaces. “It’s just an old mate.”
“Are they wanting to meet up? We can do this another day. It’s only a pint and a shag, after all.” I hold my breath because, despite my careless words, I’ve been looking forward to meeting him.
He immediately shakes his head, and I exhale slowly. I haven’t seen him in days. I don't know if he was in London or out of the country. He doesn’t ring when we’re apart, and I’m okay with that, but the fact is that he’s a bloody excellent shag. Nobody has ever taken me apart the way he does until I’m a boneless sprawl on the sheets. And I’ve missed that. I love being out of my head like that where all my worries fly away, and I’m just a cock needing to come.
“Fuck no,” he says. “Nothing’s more important than this.”
I endeavour to brush away the flutter of happiness his words inspire. “Well, of course,” I say lightly. “I’m an excellent shag. There isn’t much that comes before that.”
“I think it’s because I had to work so hard to get you,” he muses, a grin twitching the corner of his mouth. “You were so shy and retiring. Like a little mouse.”