Dog Handling (12 page)

Justin was her instructor, who, despite his angel face, Liv was beginning to realise was as formidable as Arnold Schwarzenegger. There was no shirking, no girlish wimpiness allowed.

“We’ll have you surfing Wiaimae in no time at all,” he assured her, which may or may not have been a good thing depending on what Wiaimae was. This morning she’d tried to skive her class altogether, but when she came down for her midday dip and sunbathe with Alex he’d spotted her by the ice-cream kiosk and given her a ticking off.

“It’s not my time you’re wasting, Liv. I get to sit in the sun and watch the babes for the entire hour you’re not there. But you’re cheating yourself out of achievement.” He looked earnestly at her from above the stripe of green zinc across his nose and told her he had a free slot at four that afternoon if she wanted to redeem herself. Liv hung her head and agreed that she would.

As she’d slunk away in disgrace Alex let out a low whistle. “Fantastic. How much do you pay him to be strict with you?” she asked, casting a glance back at his perfect young body and shoulder-length blond hair.

“Too much, clearly. If he were earning a fiver an hour he wouldn’t care.” Liv sulked, thinking now she wouldn’t be able to watch
The Bold and the Beautiful
and wait in for Will’s phone call that afternoon.

Alex had taken time out between her Indian head massage and a trip to the library to watch Liv grow, as she put it. Really, she just wanted to perv at Justin. She walked along the sand looking like the perfect Australian Beach Babe—she had on a hot pink string bikini and pair of sneakers and her hair was getting longer and blonder by the day. Even though sunbathing was practically illegal in Australia, given their understandable aversion to skin cancer, Alex had managed to fake a dipped-in-something-sweet-as-honey colour. And just to add to her cuteness—as if bonus points were needed—Alex had brought along Charlie’s new puppy. Mate was a Jack Russell terrier who accessorised Alex’s beach bag perfectly. Charlie had got him as a babe magnet but was off in Melbourne for the day so had left him in Alex’s care. He salivated adorably on Alex’s shoulder.

“All right, Liv? You’re getting good at that.” She smiled and settled herself on a towel nearby with Mate beside her licking her knee. Liv tried to ignore her as she toyed with a block of something called Sex Wax, which was meant to stop her falling off the board. She wondered what would happen if she rubbed it on her body.

“Do you reckon lifeguards and dogs would fall in love with me and follow me along the beach like a body spray advert?” she asked Justin.

“More like flies from miles around would flock to you. Like a human dog-poo,” he replied seriously.

Liv brushed off the insult and turned on Alex. She knew Alex was only here so she could check out Justin’s tuition and low-slung blue board shorts. While she was a cynic when it came to rich, older men, she did seem to come over all romantic and misty-eyed in the presence of penniless youngsters like Justin.

“What are you still doing here, you voyeur?” Liv barked at Alex.

“I can look, can’t I?” Alex said shamelessly. And she proceeded to look and drool and occasionally dip into her novel.

“Okay, we’ll call it a day, Livvo. See you down here seven
A.M.
tomorrow. Thought we’d get a bit of speed work done, so put on a bathing suit that you’re not going to lose in the surf.” Justin dusted the sand off the back of Liv’s legs as Alex’s eyes practically popped out.

“I must say I completely approve of you having an affair with your surf instructor,” said Alex as they made their way back to the cottage with Mate once again in Alex’s bag.

“I don’t want an affair with Justin,” Liv whispered, turning around to make sure he couldn’t hear. “Anyway, I’ve got a lover,” Liv said, though she was far from certain. She really ought to dash home and listen to her messages.

“Yeah, but he’s nowhere near keen enough. It’s no good having a lover who’s not around to provide da luvvin’,” Alex said. “So Little Justin would be perfect. Uncomplicated lust. Keen as mustard and no chance that you’ll fall in love with him—he’s too young and eager.”

“I don’t fancy him,” said Liv.

“That’s because your mind isn’t open to the experience yet. You’re still thinking like a faithful girlfriend. You’ve just replaced Tiny Tim with Will the Weasel, who, it has to be said, is not known for his sense of commitment. You need to get in touch with your inner woman,” advised Alex.

“There’s quite enough outer woman for me to deal with first.” Liv felt her bottom trail behind her like a small child. “Don’t you think we should let Mate out for a bit of exercise?”

“Sure. Help yourself,” Alex said as Liv lifted the panting pup from his beach-bag transport.

“Here you go, Mate. Fetch.” Liv threw a nearby stick for the dog, but he just eyed her in a bored fashion and rolled around on the sand.

“You have to be firm with him,” Alex told Liv. “Watch.” She went and stood beside the puppy. “Sit,” she said, and raised a forbidding eyebrow at the tiny hound. Mate sat and flashed her adoring eyes.

“Okay. Sit,” Liv repeated, but Mate just looked at her and then began to maul her sandal. “Oy, get off!” she yelped, and tried to shake him free. He clung on for dear life with his deceptively strong jaws.

“You just don’t have the knack, Liv. You’re much too nice. He just takes one look into your eyes and knows you don’t mean business. You have to get tough,” Alex advised. “Oh, and by the way, I think that you should dump Will,” she added.

“I will. I really will. Just as soon as he calls me,” Liv said bravely. “It’s funny, but James said this would happen. He said I shouldn’t give away the goods on a first date. That I ought to treat men like dogs—train them and not give in to them. Which, judging by my success with Mate, I’m clearly crap at.”

“James has a point,” Alex said as they neared the cottage. “I always train my boys. Slap them across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper when they behave badly. It’s the only language they understand, poor loves. And I always said you were way too easy on Tim. You should have slapped him down a lot more than you did.”

“Yeah, but you’re not normal, Alex. You’ve never been in love, so you don’t know what it’s like to long for a man to call you.”

“I never have to long for long. Because I’m firm. They do respond to that, you know, Liv. There is such a thing as being too nice and available.”

“Well, I’ll be a bitch on wheels when Will calls then. Show him I’m not available. At least not that same night anyway,” Liv decided as Alex opened the front door and they fell into the cool shadows of the cottage. Mate leapt up again and tugged at the hem of Liv’s shorts. “Down, boy,” she snarled firmly, trying to muster up a ferocious gaze. Mate stopped yapping for a moment and then looked up at her. “Good boy,” she said much too soon, as he cocked his leg and peed on her ankle.

“There must be someone you’re interested in apart from Will?” Alex pulled a couple of Cokes out of the fridge and Liv washed her foot and gave Mate the evil eye.

“Well, yeah, there’s somebody. Ben Parker, for instance. But I don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance with him because not only is he otherwise occupied; he’s occupied by Perfect Amelia, who I wouldn’t even want to stand next to in a bus queue for fear of looking shabby. Let alone make a fool of myself by trying to seduce her boyfriend.”

“Well, you never know about Will. I mean he might just be really, really busy. I’m sure he’ll call by the weekend,” Alex said. Which Liv supposed was a neat way of avoiding the fact that with Amelia as competition in the race for Ben, Liv was definitely going to be the horse that fell at the first fence.

Chapter Ten

If the Phone Doesn’t Ring
It Can’t Be Him

B
y Saturday, a week and still no phone call after her date with Will, Liv was rudely awakened at six o’clock.

“Oh, god. Surfing,” she croaked as she turned over and knocked the alarm to the floor. Her head puttered to life like an old car on a winter morning. As she was mentally preparing to find her swimsuit and shave her underarms, she remembered, “Saturday. Thank god. Thank god.” She buried her face back in her pillow and let herself drift back to sleep. As the warm early-morning sun was catching her hair and making her relish her lie-in she suddenly sat bolt upright. “Fuck. Saturday. I’m late.” It was miserably true. She’d meant to get up at five o’clock this morning. Not six. She’d promised James that she’d help him drive his stock from some warehouse in the city and bring it to Paddington. Sure enough, the phone rang three seconds later and compounded her general trembliness. She shuddered and ran into the sitting room nursing the shred of hope that it could be Will. At 6:00
A.M.
Yeah, right.

“Yes.” She tried for husky, but it came out homicidal.

“Where are you? You were supposed to be here at six.” It was James sounding as if he’d already jogged seven miles, breakfasted on smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, and read a spectrum of improving newspapers.

“James, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there. Now,” she said, pulling on a T-shirt that was lying on the floor. Laura’s? Probably; it was disfiguringly tight and had splodges of Venice on it, but no time to lose. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She’d definitely overdone the frizz-smoothing serum when she’d last washed her hair, she thought as she grasped her lank, greasy locks. And trousers. Trousers? Not a prayer. She found a pair of denim shorts that might have looked good on Naomi Campbell. But only might. Oh well. Key. Wallet. Out the door.

By midmorning on the stall Liv was flagging badly. She’d given up on life and love and it was definitely showing in her appearance. Like girls who meet a man and mysteriously lose weight and shine. Liv lost two men, gained weight, and became ugly. Her hands were purple with dye from all the crushed velvet she’d had to lug around the warehouse, and her face was a whiter shade of wallpaper paste. James had asked her if she wouldn’t mind sitting in the back of the van and running through the books. He’d said it kindly, but she knew that in truth it just wasn’t good for business to have someone who looked like a Goth who’d been in a smash on the M3 on the way home from a Cure gig in the late eighties as your muse.

“Liv. Are you still alive?” he asked two hours later as he opened the back door of the van and found Liv doing her sums in the comforting darkness.

“Sure. It’s a bit hot, though,” she said, gasping for air and blinking like a mole in the sunlight. “Only I’m off for a bit of a sandwich. Shouldn’t be long, but would you mind”—he looked reluctantly at her, wondering if maybe it wouldn’t be better just to close down the stall rather than have Liv peddling his wares for him—“taking over the reins while I’m gone?”

“Do I look
so
terrible?” she asked as she tried to catch a glimpse of herself in one of the van’s wing mirrors.

“Best not to look, eh?” James said. “You’re usually a beautiful girl, but this morning you’re not far from a bushpig.” He went to ruffle her hair in a display of brotherly affection but quickly pulled his hand away before it was coated in lardy gunge. “A friend of mine’s got a hair salon in Double Bay. I’ll fix you up with an appointment,” he said sweetly, and beat a hasty retreat. “The cash tin’s there. Hopefully it’ll be quiet.”

Liv thrust her legs into the sunlight and blinked at their terrifying pallor. Not a good look for Paddington Market, which was awash with fresh golden-baked teenage limbs. In fact, probably not a good look anytime. She plonked herself down in the deck chair behind the stall and read the balance sheet with mock fascination. If she emitted unfriendly-enough vibes she might not even have to deal with a single customer. In fact, she watched with a surly expression she’d copied from an Estée Lauder saleswoman as at least six potential customers came, fiddled with the bras, and then scurried away. Doubtless to have a few nightmares about the experience.

Then she heard another set of footsteps approach the stall. She made a few accountant noises in her windpipe and practised her own modified version of a Uri Geller spoon-bending tactic to make the invader go away. The fact that it made her puce in the face was an added bonus. But the footsteps didn’t beat any sort of retreat, hasty or otherwise. Bugger.

“Is this Greta’s Grundies?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yeah. Feel free to touch whatever you like,” Liv growled, a little surprised at the man-buying-bras revelation but without looking up.

“Great. Thanks,” he replied. God, he had a sexy voice though, she thought. Different from the voices she’d heard recently. She tried to work it out while keeping her eyes fixed on VAT. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Chocolatey voice, she decided. Actually could be any number of other things, like warm-raspberry-jam-on-buttered-crumpets voice or treacle-poured-on-porridge voice, but she plumped for chocolatey. Interesting this, not judging the book by its cover but by what it’s got to say. When she was at Goldsmiths she’d once conducted an outrageously flirtatious phone relationship with the buyer from a trendy Soho hat shop. He was called Simon and Liv had fantasised about how he was the one for her and that there was no way they couldn’t fall in love the second they met. They discovered that they had both been listening to Kris Kristofferson’s “Loving her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again,” alone in their rooms for years. They were passionate about reading in the bath and they both wanted to keep yaks and follow the Inca trail. So no way they couldn’t fall in love. Except that when they met at a PR agency’s Christmas party he had the nerve to have a shiny bald pate, glasses, and a monobrow. So despite thinking that the man fiddling with the lacy knickers six feet away from her sounded like he would have her dribbling lustily in no time, Liv knew that Mr. Chocolatey Voice was actually as hideous a bushpig as she herself was.

She put her black book and pen down and stood up.

“Sure, fire away,” she replied as she came face-to-face with Mr. Chocolatey Voice. Alias . . . oh, Christ, well, of course it was going to be, wasn’t it? Alias Ben Parker. No wonder he’d sounded different. She knew him. He was the man who’d told her ten years ago in fledgling chocolatey tones that her hair was as lovely as Belinda Carlisle’s. It had been love then. What was it now? Well, actually, it was acute embarrassment.