Page 28 of The Good Boy

“Question,” Rory says from the back seat. “Is a clothes shop in any way like a vet?”

“Well, no one has ever tried to take my temperature via my behind in a clothes shop,” I say.

“Well, that’s something,” Rory says, as I hand him the list.

“Can you read?” I ask him.

“Obviously,” he says. “I’m not an idiot.”

“This whole dog-to-man deal is so lacking in consistency, it does my head in. But anyway, Miles wrote you a list of helpful advice about being human. Here.”

Rory takes the list and scans it.

“Like literally no butt sniffing whatsoever?” he asks.

Seems like we have a ways to go.

There’s not a massive choice locally. It’s either the generic sports store that seems to clothe most of Scarborough’s, and indeed the nation’s, teen boys in their uniform of hoodies and joggers, or TK Maxx, neither of which really seemed like Rory—which I admit is weird given that Rory only started seriously to wear clothes yesterday.

We wind up in a surf shop, where I spend my time going aroundreading the price tags and whistling through my teeth. Who knew it cost so much to look like a dropout?

Rory is uncertain about the whole thing at first.

“Go have a look round,” I say. “See what takes your eye. Maybe check the sales rack!”

Rory frowns at me over his shoulder as he hesitantly makes his way in among the railings. He sniffs a wet suit and wrinkles up his nose, and sticks his tongue on T-shirts.

“This is not going well,” I mutter to Miles.

“Never fear,” Miles says. “I’ve got this.”

Miles goes over to Rory, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“So, you decide what sorts of things you like,” Miles says. “I like a white shirt and dark jeans, for example, but you might like this fun T-shirt or—”

“I like this.” Rory picks up a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt.

“Excellent,” Miles says, squinting at the noisy pattern. “And I would say that you would want to pair that with some nice shorts. Perhaps these?” He picks up a pair of light khaki denim cargo shorts. Miles has a surprisingly good eye for a man who dresses like a geologist. “Let’s do the shirt in extra large, I think, at least across the shoulders. Let me take you to the changing room and you can see how you feel.”

“I feel smooth,” Rory tells him. “And sometimes squidgy and sometimes hard...”

“That not exactly what I meant,” Rory says as he ushers him into the changing room.

I don’t know what takes them so long to get Rory into one shirt and one pair of shorts, and I don’t want to know, but when hefinally emerges I have to admit that despite the shirt being the ugliest thing I have ever seen Rory looks great.

“Wow, it suits you!” The young shop assistant suddenly perks up. “Not many men could carry that off, but you can.”

“Oh, great, she says we can carry it off,” Rory says, heading for the door.

“Hold on, we need to pay for them with money,” I tell him, taking the trouble to show him getting my card out of my purse. “And you will need another set, so one more pair of shorts and this shirt?”

Miles fetches another pair of shorts and Rory chooses another shirt and I pick up a couple of T-shirts and some swim shorts that will do as underwear-slash-pajamas and pile them up at the till.

I won’t say how much they come to but basically he’s blown his annual Bonio budget in less than an hour.

“Rory, come here. Life skills.” I beckon him to my side.

“So, when you need to pay for something you take your debit card and sometimes you can tap it here to pay, but when it’s this much you have to put in a PIN number, which stands for a personal something number... number. A PIN—you put in a PIN. See?” I hand him my card and he frowns at it with the same kind of precise concentration he gives a ham sandwich when he attempts to psychically levitate it from the table and into his mouth.

---