he wasn't going to make it. But he is. That was the call.’
‘I am pleased for you and for your dog,’ said Nathalie, who'd seen a picture of Wolf and had wondered why English people so often ignore basic tenets of taste by choosing things so overtly vulgar. She'd only been to England once – long before she'd met Joe. The hairstyles of elderly ladies, the apparel of teenagers, the types of dogs, the combinations on menus, the men who worked as builders – they were all guilty of the same crime: the cult of the vulgar. ‘You were speaking to the vet, just now?’ She checked her watch and raised an eyebrow. The English and their pets.
Joe was engrossed in his fish soup; the relief of the good news had unleashed his appetite which he had neglected all day. He glanced across at Nathalie who was regarding him levelly.
‘No, it wasn't the vet – it was Tess.’
Her expression didn't change and he now noticed a haughty pinch to her lips, which he didn't like. ‘You spoke to her,’ Joe said, ‘when you phoned the house.’
‘She is your –?’
‘She was my house-sitter,’ Joe said.
‘Was? This is the past tense? She is no longer?’
Joe spooned soup. ‘I don't know.’
‘But she is still there, at the house?’
He didn't bother to nod. Obviously she's still at the house – she phoned me about my injured dog.
‘You are fucking her?’
Joe had learned not to be startled by Nathalie's bluntness so he didn't rise to it. He didn't like her tone or the implication and her jealousy was as unbecoming as it was flattering. So calm and controlled and cold, compared to Tess's uncontained indignation. Nathalie's eyes burned dark with possessiveness; Tess's cheeks had simply turned puce.
Should he answer? Could he be bothered? Couldn't he just enjoy the meal and drink to Wolf's good health? The soup was wonderful but he fancied more rouille and he looked around for the waiter.
‘You are fucking this woman Tess?’
Joe looked at her. He could easily take his mind off the stress of the day by playing Nathalie. But he didn't want to. ‘Actually I'm not, Nathalie.’
She didn't look as though she believed him.
‘I don't know what you are pushing for,’ he said.
She shrugged sulkily. And after the meal and a bottle of wine at her apartment, she fucked his brains out.
Before Joe went to sleep, as Nathalie trailed her fingertips over his biceps, his chest, she propped herself up on her arm, her other shoulder back a little to display her breasts to their best advantage and she asked him again.
‘If she is no longer your house-sitter, what is she still doing at your house?’
Joe thought about it. He thought how, whenever he thought of his house, Tess populated whichever room sprang to mind. She hadn't found a new job, had she? He had asked her not to go, to stay. What was she doing right now? Pottering around, shifting his things from room to room, shunting his furniture from here to there? Making toast in the kitchen? Checking on her baby? Sanding, painting, tidying? Writing labels for jam jars? Other nights, quite possibly any combination of the above. But he thought she was most likely tonight to be mourning the huge space Wolf's absence would have created.
‘She lives there.’
Nathalie asked him again if he was fucking Tess.
He pretended to be asleep because he really couldn't be bothered to validate her question with even a one-word answer.
Seb was disappointed that Tess hadn't phoned, disappointed but not despondent. She hadn't phoned him the time before either, after he'd sat in the kitchen of the big house and pulled her onto his lap for that snog and fumble. He'd given her his phone number then, tacked it onto the kitchen calendar himself, if he remembered rightly. He liked to think himself an easygoing bloke, so he was happy to wonder whether Tess simply hated using the phone. After all, his dad did and Seb never doubted his affection. Whenever Seb phoned home long-distance, which he did weekly, if his father answered Seb had come to expect little more than, hullo, son, I'll just pass you on to your mother. Some people just aren't phone people, Seb thought as he checked with his boss at the surf shop if he could take an hour for lunch. As he headed up the bank to Glenside, he rationalized that he couldn't really be disappointed because Tess hadn't actually let him down, let alone blown him out – she said she'd call after all, she just hadn't called yet. He liked her; he'd enjoyed her company in the pub and he'd certainly liked the stuff back at his place afterwards. He was just hoping for an action-replay sooner, he fancied a bit more of that indoor sport. So, he decided to facilitate it – and save her a phone call – by taking an early lunch hour and popping by to arrange another date now.
He really didn't need his fleece on. He pulled it over his head as he walked along Albion Terrace and tied it loosely around his waist. Not bad to be out and about in a T-shirt. Mind you, it would be May in two days. What does she do in that big old house all day, he wondered? Fancy choosing a job in Saltburn that had nothing to do with the beach and actively enforced periods of time indoors. He often marvelled that he was actually paid to do what he did. The job in itself – and the ability to be in the sea most days – was rewarding enough. Meeting someone like Tess was an unforeseen bonus – he'd been here a few months and was intending to stay for the British summer before heading home for the Australian one. He had assumed early on that, other than grandmothers and midriff-baring teenagers, there were few females in the town of his own age and standing. Well, the few he'd seen had rings on their fourth fingers and usually a toddler or two in tow. But then, along came Tess. Toddler yes, ring no, midriff – now he'd seen it – in better shape than most of the teenage contingent of town. There was also something encouraging about a fellow out-of-towner. You could say things like, you know – that place around the corner from the station, off the street where the dodgy pub is, with no shame for not knowing specifics. You could share a private joke at the expense of the locals without it being treason. You had common ground – finding out how each other came to be here and whence each other came.
Here he was, at the house again, the gate closed – but wasn't it always? Yes, he thought it was. Anyway, no harm in trying the bell. He rang and waited and thought the hollow reverberating clang sounded incongruously Addams Family for Saltburn. He was enjoying an image of Tess dressed up as Morticia, when she opened the door in jeans and a grey top.
‘Hey – just thought I'd pop by – just fancied a stroll during my lunch hour.’ He paused. ‘Good weekend? It was nice to see you on Friday – I was wondering if we could, you know, do it again?’
Tess twitched her lip and for a split second Seb thought, shit, she's going to blow me out right now, and he started to back away with an easygoing shrug.
‘I'm sorry – I said I'd call, didn't I?’ And while Tess was relaying the details of Wolf's accident, Seb was thinking to himself, thank you, God, it wasn't me – it was just the old hound.
‘So you'll call, will you – let me know how the old guy is doing?’
‘Of course,’ said Tess, as if Seb's visit had been in Wolf's honour all along. ‘I hope to have him home from the vet's in the next day or two.’
‘Right,’ said Seb, ‘well, I suppose I'd better head back to work, then.’
Tess thought to herself, you ought to invite him in for a cup of tea or a glass of water at the very least after he's tramped all the way up the bloody hill to see how Wolf is. ‘Would you like something? Before you go?’
Yes, he bloody well would. Her hand was on the front door, but he was over the threshold and, with little more than a subtle lean, his mouth reached