Page 4 of The Good Boy

I sway against my front door. It seems that my ankles are by far the most drunk part of me and standing up vertically is a considerable challenge. Meanwhile, Rory, who knows I am on the other side of the front door, has started barking like a maniac, wondering what the holdup is. Or the fall-down, in my case.

“Wait, before you go...” I lean back to look at Miles, who immediately looks at his feet. “The... the thing is that... that... Rory excavated another massive hole under the fence while you were out,” he says. “So, there’s that.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let Dad put that bloody dog flap in,” I say.

“Yeah, so I’m really worried it’s stressing Matilda out,” he says. “Cat therapy. It’s expensive.”

“How can you tell if she’s stressed?” I ask. “Her face is always the same.”

I look at his elderly gray cat, who is sitting on the sill of his living room window staring at me with yellow eyes that seem to glow in the dark. Matilda had lived next door for a good few years before Miles arrived and he inherited her when his gran died. It’s possible she is the oldest and meanest cat on earth. Her demeanor is always the same: disdain bordering on sudden outbursts of unprovoked violence.

“It’s safest just to always assume the worst with Matilda,” Miles tells me. “Anyway, I promised Gran I’d take care of her, and she’s basically all the family I’ve got now. That’s all.”

“Not all,” I tell him. “You have me, the sister you never wanted! Anyway, I’ll sort it. I’ll give Rory a serious talking-to. But tomorrow, because you and Kelly are gonna make me go out again tomorrow and it takes effort, Milesington. It takes effort for a woman of my age and I need my sleep.”

“Eugenie Wilson,” he says, shaking his head. “You are only as old as you feel.”

“Which is eighty-six,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he says, standing there while it takes me several attempts to get my key in the lock. He’s still there when I fall in through the front door. His face is still there even when I close the door, smiling at me with that sweet, rare smile.

Finally, I am home.

The upshot is that I go in through my front door a crucial ten minutes later than I otherwise would have done, which makes this whole thing Miles’s fault, if you ask me. But I don’t hold a grudge. That’s a lie, by the way.

Ecstatic, Rory greets me as if I have just returned from a yearlong journey in the Congo and not just popped out for dinner with the family, hurling his whole great waggy self at me as he woofs with unbridled joy and wiggles his butt, his tail thumping and whirling so fast that if we had lived in a cartoon he would probably have taken off like a helicopter.

“Hey, boy!” I hook my arms around his neck and slide down the wall to sit on the floor with him as he licks my ear. “Who’s a good boy? Hey? Who’s a good boy? You are! You are! You are the bestest boy there is, yes, you are! Yes, you are! My little darling boy. Yes, you are!”

Rory continues to dance around my feet as, remembering Miles’s gift in my hand, I climb to standing, more than a little unsteady, Rory tripping and blocking me in turn as I basically tumble into the living room. Carrying it as if it might detonate I place Miles’s lovely gift on the dining table and then flumph onto the sofa. Rory bounds up beside me, leans into me, and rolls his head back to gaze at me with adoring, mismatched eyes, one dark brown and one ice blue like the big goofy weirdo he is.

“I know, Rory,” I tell him as I rub his tummy with one hand and reach for the remote control with the other. “This is not our usual Friday night of takeaway and telly, is it? I’m sorry, darling, I missed you too.” I kiss him on the nose and turn on the TV. “Still time to watch something on catch-up, though, hey? No work tomorrow...”

The thing is, I’m thinking as I search for something mindless to watch, that Nanna Maria, Mum, and Dad can’t stop worrying about me because they think I am lonely and sad. Nanna Maria and Mum found the love of their lives when they weretwenty years old, and I am not even looking for a casual snog off Bumble—they just don’t get it.

They just don’t understand that I gave up on all that stuff a decade ago. It’s not for me. I’m better off alone. I like my job, despite my boss being my clinically insane Nanna. I like my little house, I am grateful for my friends, and most of all I love my loopy, funny, crazy dog, Rory. And he loves me right back, unconditionally. As far as I’m concerned, I have everything I need and I’m at minimal risk of life-altering heartbreak and misery.

Just then the alarm goes off on my phone, and because I am tired and tipsy and I can’t remember why I set it in the first place I turn it off.

“I wish you were a human, Rory,” I say absently as I scratch his ears. “Then maybe my family would see they can stop worrying about me being lonely when really I am not lonely at all.”

That was my first mistake, Reader. But it was not the last one. Oh no, not by a long, long, long, long way.

Chapter Three

Sunlight sneaking in through my not-quite-closed curtains wakes me slowly. Stretching into the luxurious expanse of my big empty bed I roll over onto my back and glance at my alarm clock. Past nine and Rory’s not been in to wake me up, demanding breakfast! Happy birthday to me.

The tiny slice of blue sky I can see tells me it’s a sunny day, and a sunny day in Scarborough is the best kind of day, especially when you are planning to spend it with mates. Lunch with Kelly at one and cocktails and dancing later with my mates tonight, because, though I am not a fan of going out, even I realize it is obligatory on a birthday, especially your own. It’s not really for me, but for my friends. It’s a public service. But before all of that Rory and I are going down to the beach, where I’ll drink a coffee while I watch him run in and out of the waves, chasing tennis balls and getting soaked through. Springing out of bed, I get dressed in my signature black baggy clothes, while deliberately not looking at the rainbow of garments I designed and made years ago, which I keep but never wear. One emerald-green dress that is always especially hard to look at barely even catches my eye. I’m 100 percent confident that today is going to be a good day. A day full of friendship and fun. A perfect birthday day.

And then I find a naked man sleeping in my dog’s bed.

Obviously, I scream; of course I do. And I meanreallyscream. Loud, shrill, bloodcurdling shrieks, but even then, in that first sixty seconds, I don’t really feel afraid, which is weird, right? Screaming and wondering why I am not terrified at the same time. Shock, it’s probably shock. Or adrenaline, or the brain’s way of making things easier when you are about to die a terrible, violent death, and why am I thinking about this instead of putting more effort into screaming?

I put my all into it as I scramble for the nearest substitute weapon I can find, grabbing a frying pan. He must have got in through the stupid dog flap. As I shout for Rory I make a mental note to have a word with him over his guarding skills if I get out of this alive. Sure, the Sainsbury delivery guy is his best bud, but that is no reason to let in any old bloke with zero resistance. Back to the imminent threat. Oh yeah, and the screaming.

“What? What’s going on!” The naked man leaps to his feet and I put the frying pan in front of my face to avoid seeing his man bits, because somehow that’s scarier than him, oh, I don’t know, killing me? Why is this so weird? And what is considered weird and not weird about a naked home invasion situation?

“What are you doing in my house!” I shout, trying to stay focused. “And why are you naked?”

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