Page 75 of The Good Boy

“Er...” I look at Miles and Claudia, lower my voice, get all posh, and go full Sir David. “‘In the spring the male penguin will sit on the eggs for several weeks while the female is out at sea... Sometimes he will sing Elvis.’”

To be fair I’m not sure if this is genuine intel or the plot toHappy Feet.

With a great force of effort, Rory stops thrashing, his fingers squeezing mine.

“More.”

“‘When Elvis is no longer an option the penguin builds a huge airplane out of parts...’”

Is this the plot toMadagascarone or two?

“Okay,” Miles says. “I am slowly going to make my approach and gently disengage Matilda from your face. Stay calm, try and stay still. Moving will only excite her predator instinct.”

“I think her predator instinct is already excited,” Rory whispers.

Miles hooks one hand under Matilda’s belly, stroking her head and gently murmuring to her. I watch with bated breath as he very carefully takes one weaponized toe at a time off Rory’s forehead, disengaging the claws. When I see the wounds begin to bleed I stifle my gasp a beat too late.

“What? Is it bad? Is it very bad?” Rory asks me, squeezing my hand hard.

“Nooooooooo,” I lie, staring at the gouges in his forehead. “It’s just a few scratches—they will heal in no time.”

“The thing is, when she was a kitten she was mauled by a dog, and she has never forgotten it,” Miles says, kissing the top of Matilda’s head. “It’s okay, Matilda, you are perfectly safe.”

“I’m glad somebody is,” Rory whispers.

“But Rory isn’t a dog?” Claudia questions.

“There we are, all done.” At last Miles has fully disengaged the cat, who is still stiff with aggression, her four legs stuck out in front of her like a sort of plush Dalek. “I think something about Rory must have reminded her of dogs. Can’t think what, though. I’ll take her upstairs for a cuddle and lock her in the bedroom to calm down.” Miles peers at Rory’s face. “Then I’ll get some antiseptic to clean up your face.”

“Can’t you put her in the cage thing? In Genie’s car, a couple of streets away?” Rory asks, touching his forehead gingerly. “It’s just that I am pretty sure she can pick a lock.”

“I don’t think she will willingly go in her carrier at the moment,” Miles says. “Best not to provoke her.”

“Genie.” A pale and bloody Rory looks at me through one swollen eye. “Am I going to die?”

“You are not going to die,” I say. “Although I’m not sure when you last had a tetanus jab.”

“A what?” he quails.

“You are not going to die, Rory, I promise.”

Rory does not look convinced.

Miles grabs some catnip out of a drawer and departs with murder cat, and I help Claudia clean up and pour Rory another drink from a fresh bottle.

“This is a disaster,” Claudia says, miserable. “This isn’t how I planned it at all. I so wanted it to be perfect.”

“Itisperfect,” I reassure her. “It still is. At least we had almost finished the first course. And if you like I can go to the corner shop and get more wine.”

“No, you’re right,” Claudia says. “I’m overreacting. It can still be perfect. One day, years from now, we will look back at all this and laugh. And don’t worry, I’ve got loads of wine and a bottle of champagne in the fridge.”

“Wow, champagne on a Thursday. I won’t know myself.”

Miles comes back in with Savlon, cotton wool, and plasters. Sitting down, he begins gently to tend to Rory’s injuries.

“Genie, shall we have a girls’ glass of wine in the front room while Miles is patching up Rory?” Claudia asks me, nodding at the living room with a suspiciously confidential waggle of her eyebrows.

“Okay?” I reply uncertainly. I have no idea what Claudia and I will have to talk about, but I am very happy to follow the bottle of wine she is carrying.

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