of her affection for Wolf, of his affection for her and for his dog. And he thought, who but Tess could call a thunking old hound like Wolf little guy? But she was right; it was a pertinent distillation.
‘I'll try and come back,’ he told her, ‘as soon as I can.’
‘Joe – don't,’ Tess said. ‘The vet – she said she'd call. And I said, should I call you and she said, yes, she thought I should but she said – she said she really didn't know. So she said just to wait in for her call.’
‘Will you phone me as soon as you've spoken to her?’
‘Of course I will.’
Out of the window, Joe could see the man, still holding his mug of tea, still having time off his gripe. He was about to say goodbye when he stopped for a moment.
‘But are you OK, Tess?’
She took a while to respond.
‘Poor Wolf,’ she said. ‘You should have seen him, Joe, you should have seen him.’
Joe was walking across the town square, late for supper with Nathalie, when Tess finally phoned him. He'd tried her a couple of times during the afternoon; both times she'd hurried him away, saying, I thought you were the vet, go away, I need to keep the line clear. He had checked his phone regularly, simultaneously relieved yet also perturbed at no missed calls, trying to chivvy himself that no news could potentially be good news. How did Tess know where the vet was, he wondered, not knowing if the number was in the scrappy notebook by the phone. How did it happen? Why didn't they stop, the bastards? How could you not know if you hit a dog like Wolf? Such thoughts underscored his day like the constant threat of inclement weather.
Actually, it was a fine evening, when late April masquerades as mid-May and dusk decides to fall a whole lot later than yesterday. He'd showered at the apartment; his phone on the edge of the sink, angular and black and masculine alongside the feminine scatter of Nathalie's cosmetics. She wears too much make-up, really, Joe thought, sniffing a lipstick. She over-eggs the pudding sometimes, Joe thought, unscrewing the mascara wand and thinking, how the fuck do women let bristles like that so near their eyeballs. He thought how every time he'd stayed here, she'd always been the first one up, off to the bathroom to paint what she believed to be the prettiest picture for Joe. But he had seen her barefaced and thought it was a pity she'd never believe him if he told her that makeup masked a little of her beauty. In his eyes, at least.
Come on, phone me.
Summer was tangibly close because in the square the old boys were settled at outdoor tables, playing cards or chess or chequers, with bottles of pastis to hand. Women were wearing their cardigans loose around their shoulders and there were bare legs where, even a week ago, there had been boots and tights. He entered the restaurant, shaking hands with the proprietor and going over to the table to Nathalie.
‘You are late, Joe.’
‘I've had a day of it.’
‘Of what?’
‘It's an expression. How was your day?’
‘It was good – but it is not good that you work on Saturday, no?’
‘It's not good, tell me about it.’ Joe drained his glass of beer. ‘And the men aren't happy – but we can't leave the materials because they will set. We've broken the back of it. Perhaps I won't go in on Monday.’
Nathalie raised an eyebrow lasciviously and chinked glasses before calling for fresh drinks. No sooner had they arrived, than Joe's phone went and he leapt from the table to rush outside.
He never usually answers it if it goes out of hours, Nathalie thought. Or he takes the call with a roll of his eyes and only half an ear. She looked outside, he was pacing, his head bowed, biting his thumb, listening intently. So maybe this isn't work, thought Nathalie.
‘He's going to be OK, Joe.’ Tess sounded triumphant and exhausted.
‘Halle-fucking-lujah,’ Joe said.
‘They could save his leg – but not his tail. He broke two ribs but his jaw didn't need pinning and his back is fine. He had to have lots of stitches and the vet said he looks worse than the injuries are – on account of having to shave his fur here and there.’
Joe listened.
‘I can collect him – perhaps as soon as the day after tomorrow, would you believe. He just needs to be nursed and kept quiet.’
Joe listened.
‘I can't tell you how horrible it's been.’
‘I'm sorry I wasn't there.’
‘I'm glad you weren't,’ Tess said and he could tell from her tone she wasn't being remotely objectionable. ‘You're his master,’ she said. ‘I wouldn't want you seeing your boy like that.’
‘He's lucky to have you,’ Joe said. And then he thought about it. ‘Thank God you were there.’ And he thought about it some more. Then he didn't think, he just spoke. ‘Thank you for being there.’ Pause. ‘Stay put, Tess,’ he said. ‘Don't go.’
She thought about that as she replaced the receiver. Where else would I be, Joe?
Nathalie was pouting.
‘He's going to be OK.’
‘Who is?’
‘Oh – I didn't tell you. My dog was run over – they thought he wasn't going to make it. But he is. That was the call.’
‘I am pleased for you and for your dog,’ said Nathalie, who'd seen a picture of Wolf and had wondered why English people so often ignore basic tenets of taste by choosing things so overtly vulgar. She'd only been to England once – long before she'd met Joe. The hairstyles of elderly ladies, the apparel of teenagers, the types of dogs, the combinations on menus, the men who worked as builders – they were all guilty of the same crime: the cult of the vulgar. ‘You were speaking to the vet, just now?’ She checked her watch and raised an eyebrow. The English and their pets.
Joe was engrossed in his fish soup; the relief of the good news had unleashed his appetite which he had neglected all day. He glanced across at Nathalie who was regarding him levelly.
‘No, it wasn't the vet – it was Tess.’
Her expression didn't change and he now noticed a haughty pinch to her lips, which he didn't like. ‘You spoke to her,’ Joe said, ‘when you phoned the house.’
‘She is your –?’
‘She was my house-sitter,’ Joe said.
‘Was? This is the past tense? She is no longer?’
Joe spooned soup. ‘I don't know.’
‘But she is still there, at the house?’
He didn't bother to nod. Obviously she's still at the house – she phoned me about my injured dog.
‘You are fucking her?’
Joe
