Page 41 of Something Borrowed

“That’s not a bad idea.” I pause. “The competition, not your creepy stalker voice. It would be much better all around if he didn’t have to call the police on you. A competition might be like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the gold tickets.”

“Well, hopefully, we’d miss the creepy undertones and wouldn’t lose any children that are present.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“And you can go on local radio.”

“How is it that I’m the one doing that?”

“Because you’re more charming than me.”

“That’s not exactly difficult. Fred West was more of a people person.” He laughs, and I tap my fingers on the desk to the Saint Motel track playing in the shop. “I’ve put it in the diary, so we’ll need to schedule a meeting with Finn.”

“Not his agent?”

“No. I suggested that, and he said when it’s friends he doesn’t need agents.”

“That man could sell charm to George Clooney.”

He wanders away, and I sit back in the chair, feeling the leather cradle my back. I reach down, offering a hand to Hump. He licks my fingers with a rough rasp of his tongue, and I tug gently at his velvety-soft ear. He's a Labrador Retriever, one of the breeds that makes brilliant guide dogs. He's sweet and very sensible, and my sister often says he should be in charge of our flat because he’s the only adult in the building.

“Alright, mate? Not too boring for you?” I grimace. “Sorry about last night,” I whisper.

Hump has to sleep in a basket in the kitchen when we stop at Bennett’s flat, because Bennett doesn’t like dogs on the bed. It’s a far cry from home, where Hump sleeps happily at the bottom of my bed. We got up this morning to find Hump had chewed the legs on Bennett’s kitchen table. I’m pretty sure it was Hump’s way of voicing his objections. The fuss Bennett made would havebeen more appropriate if Hump had shit his bed. I wouldn’t put it past my dog to do exactly that, if Bennett doesn’t improve his attitude. All bets are off when Hump’s harness is removed.

“I think I’d rather have shared your basket,” I confide.

He licks my hand again and then I hear him settle down in his basket under the desk with a groan of happiness. The sound always makes me smile. I can’t imagine my life without him.

When my sight began to deteriorate, I’d been reluctant to use a cane or get a guide dog, determined to ignore the problem. I would walk behind people, so I’d know when stairs were nearby and therefore avoid falling down them. I’d also follow big landmarks when out walking. But after taking more tumbles than a circus clown in training, I gave in and learnt to use a cane, relying on that and my residual sight to bridge the gap in my vision.

I hated the cane passionately at first. It made people talk to me differently, and they treated me as if I was blind, which was hardly surprising.

I’d eventually grown to love the freedom the cane gave me. Still, when my parents tentatively bridged the suggestion of a dog, I’d been reluctant, unsure that I needed an animal to show me where to go. But Hump is like having another best friend. I trust him absolutely, I can tell him things I can’t tell another soul, and he doesn’t answer back like Raff.

I’ll need to rely more on such friends in the future. My vision is deteriorating. The doctors warned us it would happen, and it’s become evident I’ll lose my last bit of light and shadow perception. Not knowing when it will happen is fucking scary.

In my experience, blindness has been a progression of learning to deal with the current level of shit just as the next setback comes along. It’s sad and often very tiring, but I’ll deal with whatever comes in the future. It’s a matter of pride to me.

There’s a knock at the door, and I turn my head in that direction. “Yes?”

“It’s Bennett,” my boyfriend says.

The sound of his voice should inspire a surge of excitement. I wait a few seconds, hoping it will come…

Yeah, nada.

“Hey,” I say. The amount of excitement in my voice makes me sound like someone in youth theatre, so I modulate it. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you wearing?”

His voice seems to have an undercurrent of amusement and I cock my head to one side. “Clothes?” I raise my hand, touching my shirt with a feeling of dread. I hate the idea that people have been staring at me. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re wearing an old blue Fila tracksuit jacket, an acid yellow T-shirt, and jeans with more holes than a piece of honeycomb. I’d also be prepared to bet that you’ve got on your neon green Gazelle trainers as you rarely accessorise with anything else.”

“Ouch. Well, don’t tell anyone I created this fabulous outfit. They’ll be queuing up for fashion advice.” I laugh in relief that it’s not too bad. I’ve definitely worn worse. “I packed an overnight bag quickly, so I didn’t have time to check the outfit with Raff.”

“And why do you have to check with him, of all people? He’s hardly an arbiter of fashion. Last week, when I came round, he was wearing a onesie with naked Santas on it.”

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