Seductive Viennese Whirl (24 page)

"I've seen a doctor. This is part of the process. It'll be over soon enough."

Shit. Shit. Shit. This really is serious. A lot more serious than I thought.

"Still, maybe there's something you can do. Get a second opinion." She starts working the bloodstain into her lapel with her tissue, which is absolutely the worst thing she could do. Even the dishwasher liquid might not get the stain out now.

"Now look," she says, ignoring my comment and holding the tissue up to her nose. "I want you at the dog show eight o'clock sharp on Monday morning." She grabs a jar of pink pills and tries with difficulty to screw its top off. Now I come to think of it there are a lot of jars of pills on her desk that I don't remember seeing before.

"Rightyho," I say cheerfully. "Can I give you a hand?"

"I can manage," she hisses between clenched teeth, wrestling with the lid of the pill jar.

"Are you sure?" Of course, I'm not usually this nice, but oh God Egg, I feel so guilty! I feel really bad about making blood gush from the Haddock's nose.

She gives up on the pills, blows her nose and, holding up the bloody rag shouts, "Oh for God's sake, just get out."

I go back to my desk and tell Eva that it looks like our voodoo doll is starting to work, but she just shrugs as if it were of no consequence. I hand her my latest missive to Alex. She glances at it and proclaims it to be ‘very poetic' whatever that means. I'm beginning to think she's incredibly ungrateful. Still fuming, I slide the letter into an envelope and write Alex's address on the front, and since Ricky is passing I let him pick up the letter and carry it away in his post cart.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: in the dog house

Date: November 18, 2011

Dear Egg,

This morning I wake up late and in a panic realize I have no clean clothes whatsoever and half an hour to get to the dog show. In desperation I pull out a Vivienne Westwood suit I bought once at a sale because it was reduced to fifty quid and haven't worn since. It's cream tweed with little brown dogs printed all over it and I can barely do up the buttons, but it will have to do. I pull on some black opaque tights that are hanging over a chair, only to find they've a huge ladder up one leg. In the end there's nothing for it but to don the only other pair of clean tights I have, Wolford fishnets, which don't go with the suit at all. I get all worked up about looking a fright, finally contenting myself with the thought that the dogs aren't going to notice my fashion faux pas.

When I get to the Earl's Court exhibition hall I'm surprised to find it doesn't pong of dog. But then, these are no ordinary dogs, I notice, as they strut, beautifully groomed towards the show area at the centre of the hall.

I traipse after them, but before long I start feeling like there's a swarm of bluebottles in my stomach, because I've seen something very, very exciting. I hurry over to it. It's a stall. Heaving with hair products. My hand greedily reaches for one of the sleek bottles. I turn it toward me, read the brand: Furrific. Momentarily perplexed by the fact I've never heard of it, I spend a few seconds wondering why they're selling shampoo at a dog show, until the photo of the dog on the front tips me off that this shampoo is not destined for human heads.

This is so stupid, I think irately, looking down the list of ingredients. I mean to say, do dogs really need a shampoo made from rosemary and tea tree oil? As I set the bottle down I'm acutely aware that the bluebottles are still zooming around in my tummy. And now my brain is ticking over, telling me there might just be something to this dog shampoo business.

Over the years I've spent a fortune on shampoos, straighteners and defrizzers, in a vain attempt to make my hair go glossy and ringletty. None of them ever did squat. Could this be it, I think, biting my lip? Could this be the shampoo I've been looking for all my life?

"Hello there," I ask, smiling at the bespectacled man behind the stall. "What do you think would happen if I used this shampoo, on me?"

He snorts. "No idea, but I couldn't be held responsible for the consequences. It's formulated for dogs." And with that he gives an exasperated
humph
before turning away and starting to unpack his boxes.

Put off by his brusque manner I start to move away, but I feel a force, it's almost magnetic, pulling me back.
This could be it. This could be it
. My toes and fingertips tingling with anticipation I slowly turn towards him, awed at the task ahead of me.

Damn him and his snotty attitude, I think, determined not to let my dislike show. After all, he's the only one who can help me. I can't take the chance of just buying a bottle at random. I need the one specifically formulated for my hair type. I'm just writing the whole thing off as impossible when the idea hits me to describe myself as a dog, or rather, as a breed of dog. Well, it's worth a go. What do I have to lose?

"Hey, sorry about that. I was only kidding." He looks back at me stony faced. "I actually want some for my dog."

"Your what?" he says, looking down at the empty space by my feet.

"Yes, I have a dog. Back in Michigan," I say, switching to an American accent.

"What kind of coat does he have?"

What a strange question. "He doesn't wear a coat." The man rolls his eyes.

"His fur," he snaps impatiently. "What kind of fur?"

"Oh, well, it's thick and curly. Frizzes easily in wet weather."

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "What's his breed?" "Um, fox terrier and spaniel mix."

"A cross breed," he says disdainfully. "Well, this might do." He hands me a bottle of sunflower and apricot shampoo.

"I'll take a conditioner too," I add, giving him the money and feeling like I've just done something terribly wicked like purchasing a bag of coke. I glance around surreptitiously before putting the dog products in my bag.

When I get to the Smuckbecker's stall, Citronella's on her hands and knees in front of two huge freezers, setting out little cups of frozen yoghurt under the banner,
If dogs could talk they'd choose Smuckbecker's
.

"I see we're going with the Banana Blitz then," I say, sticking my thumb into the tub she's holding. It's filled with a brownish yellow concoction, which reminds me strongly of the contents of Basil's nappy, that time I was visiting, just after he was born. I lick the stuff from my thumb. I know I might seem cynical about the advertising business but I can assure you that this is one product I would definitely eat myself, provided I was wrecked on a desert island and the only other alternative was to gnaw meat from my own arm.

The people from the Barkers' premium dog food stand to our left look at us with amusement. They evidently don't believe the dogs will touch the frozen yoghurt. Neither do I.

I don't know why the Haddock wanted us here so early. The dog competition goes on all morning, so there's no one even checking out the stalls. By the time lunchtime rolls around the yoghurt has melted in the cups and the Barkers people are laughing at us openly.

After lunch a few dog owners start to trickle past and look at us snootily, obviously not the same consumers as those in Poppy's market research report, who'd been tickled pink at the thought of fulfilling their dog's desire for frozen yoghurt. But Citronella has such a big dopey grin plastered on her face, and she looks so totally dog friendly, in Wellingtons and Barbour jacket, that eventually some of them come over to investigate.

I still can't imagine that the dogs are going to touch the stuff. I mean, I wouldn't touch the stuff. As far as I'm concerned you can dress it up with chunks of fruit and bits of nuts, but at the end of the day frozen yoghurt is just a poor imitation of ice cream.

Do you know what I mean? It's like having a choice to go and see Cher or a Cher impersonator, the copy is never as good as the real thing. I'm sorry to go on, but it's something I feel quite strongly about.

Anyway, the upshot of it all is that despite my reservations the dogs go gaga for the Banana Blitz. More and more owners keep coming over with their pooches, until, pretty soon, we're the most popular stand at the show and I'm in dog saliva up to my knees. No one's going to the Barkers stall and the staff are giving us very dirty looks.

Soon we've become an unofficial doggie crèche. Owners are dropping their dogs off and nipping off for a drink and a fag at the bar.

I'm scooping brown goo out of a big tub, frantically refilling the cups to keep up with the demand, when a Yorkshire Terrier decides to attach himself to my leg and starts humping away. Now he's got his claws into my fishnets and is tearing them to shreds. With some difficulty I yank him off and set him on top of the squirming mass of dogs. I look over to Citronella, who's lost her Alice band. Her hair is wild about her face but her face is glowing with satisfaction.

"Look at that!" she says, pointing to a Chihuahua sporting nails painted candy floss pink. The dog stops a few feet away and gives our dog crèche a withering look. She's evidently having a bad day, or else she's just pissed off to be lugging around the pink diamante cross that's on a chain around her neck.

"That is so silly," says Citronella, shaking her head. "I like dogs that look like dogs."

"I absolutely agree," I say, although I think all dogs are a pain in the butt, whether their nails are caked in mud or nail varnish. "What's the world coming to when owners force dogs to be slaves to fashion?"

"I didn't force anyone," says a gorgeous blond in a pale grey suit and turquoise shirt.

"Oh hello Sten," I gulp. I hadn't noticed him attached to the end of the Chihuahua's lead. I'm about to introduce Citronella but she's scurried back to the dogs.

"Madison barked and barked in front of that particular shade of polish in the Harvey Nichols Beauty Department. I had no choice but to give in. It was the same with that blasted necklace, although she bitches and moans every time she wears it." He pauses and leans down to pat Madison. "My babycakes has had a rough day."

"What happened?"

Standing up he pulls a yellow rosette from his pocket. "He only won third prize." The dog starts snapping and snarling at the rosette. Sten hastily stuffs it back. "Would have been first if the judges hadn't been so stuffy about the nail varnish."

"He?"

"Yeah, the judges wouldn't believe he was a guy either until they checked his bits."

"So, he's um gay?"

Sten shakes his head. "An easy mistake to make. But no. He may very well be the first canine metrosexual."

I'd read about metrosexuals in one of Eva's mags. They were a new breed of straights who were using skin care products, dressing immaculately and embracing their feminine side. Some of them even experimented with women's clothes and makeup. The patron saint of the metrosexuals is David Beckham who started the movement the day he wore a sarong in public.

I put down a pot of Banana Blitz in front of Madison. After an initial hesitation he tentatively licks the yoghurt. Then he wanders a little way away from the other dogs, as if their doggy greed is something he wishes to disassociate himself from. So we trail after him.

"You still writing to that Alex bloke?"

"Yeah, Eva needs cheering up. She's pretty down these days."

"I don't know Kate. You, Eva and Alex are in this together. It's not going to end well. Love triangles are seriously bad news. What was it Princess Di said? ‘There were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.'"

"I'd hardly call it a love triangle. They're the two that are in love. I'm just the messenger." "Yeah, right." Sten starts to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"It's written all over your face. You're seriously into this guy."

"So what if I am? It's not like anything's every going to happen between us."

"Just watch out or you'll end up getting burned."

"I can handle it," I say, as a shout goes up behind us.

Turning towards our stall I watch a chocolate coloured Labrador leap at the tub of Banana Blitz Citronella's got in her hands. She loses her balance, landing with a thud and tipping partially melted goo over herself. The Labrador starts to lick yoghurt from her face and blouse, but she manages to push him off. She clambers to her feet, but too late. The rest of the dogs are rushing over to her yoghurt soaked person, noses twitching, tongues salivating. Meanwhile, Sten and I are rooted to the spot, unsure as to what to do. As we finally start hurrying towards her, she's backing away from the pack, slipping on the yoghurt and falling heavily against one of the flimsy wooden poles holding up the stall. Amongst a chorus of yelping hounds, we watch the pole crack under her weight and the stall start to collapse. The barking momentarily ceases as the dogs scramble to get out of the way of the toppling structure. There's a sound of splintering wood. Then an almighty crash.

The Barkers' people are tittering away while we help poor Citronella to her feet. As the dog owners return they take in the chaotic scene and chastise their dogs. They feel so guilty they promise to purchase some Smuckbecker's frozen yoghurt as soon as they leave the show. Result.

I kiss Sten and stroke Madison's shiny golden coat. I feel so filthy and slimy from being mauled by all these dogs, that all I can think of is getting home, sinking into a hot bath and lathering my hair up with dog shampoo.

"What a beautifully soft coat he has," I say dreamily, wondering if I'll ever be able to run my fingers through my hair without getting them stuck in a tangle of knots. "What dog shampoo does he use?"

Madison starts barking.

"It's all right boy," says Sten, as Madison sticks his nose in the air and starts trotting away from me. "He won't touch the stuff, gets all worked up unless I use my Paul Mitchell products on him."

"So long Sten. Don't let him get the upper hand."

"Too late for that, I'm afraid," says Sten, rushing after Madison.

It's a topsy turvy world all right with dogs using human shampoo and humans, all right then, with me using dog shampoo. Despite the fact that I'm wearing a suit that's two sizes too small, my tights are tattered and I've scratch marks on my legs, I feel quite content. I'm even humming a tune as I get home and push my key in the lock. Eva slightly dampens my mood, lounging in front of the TV in her dressing gown. She'd taken the day off because I forgot to wake her up, the lazy cow.