shouldn’t appear too keen – let him think I have other engagements, interesting parties and interested parties.
‘Yes, please.’
He took my books and we walked together towards The Anchor, a favourite haunt among students. As we approached the River Cam, I was painfully, ecstatically, aware of everything in that moment – the little toe-pinch in my right shoe, the bead of sweat on the back of my neck, my books tucked under that big arm of his as he strolled along, my still-uneven breathing. I looked towards Queens’ at the punters carefully wielding their poles under the Mathematical Bridge. There was a myth that it was designed by Sir Isaac Newton, and originally built without any kind of connection at the joints. The story went that a group of students took the bridge apart, and were unable to put it together again, thus it had to be re-built with the current nuts and bolts. It wasn’t true, of course, but I liked the idea anyway. I needed to build mine and Leo’s relationship with a few nuts and bolts to make it secure. And above all, he must never know just how much water was under that bridge.
That summer, with a supreme effort of self-control, I channelled my natural repression and presented myself as elusive, chaste, to be chased. When we went for a drink, I left early, telling him there was a rumour some students had towed a Spitfire into Trinity Great Court. When he invited me to see A Tale of Two Cities at the cinema, I told him I didn’t admire Dirk Bogarde. When he asked me to attend a Leavis lecture with him, I went, but made sure to bump into several acquaintances en route that I absolutely had to speak to. I kept him waiting.
Why was all that obfuscation so necessary? I felt instinctively that Leo, so straightforward himself, did not admire that quality in others. He liked guile, caprice, uncertainty. He liked a slippery fish. So that’s what I was. Just before Christmas, he proposed, leaving a ring in my copy of the Odyssey, with a little note about my face launching a thousand ships, though I always felt less Helen, more Trojan horse. He lounged in the doorway watching me open the book, with a lopsided grin and a bottle of champagne. ‘How about it?’ he said, proffering the bottle, while I worked hard not to cry. We were married on a dry, chilly day in January – I was already pregnant in the photo Tristan took of us outside King’s College Chapel, although I didn’t know it. Alea iacta est.
And the problem with all of this? The flaw in my plan? Having got the ring on my finger, the baby in my belly and the little house on Jesus Green … when was I finally going to be able to relax, take out the bolts and see if it would hold?
Never. Having held him fast, I couldn’t let go; I had to hang on.
Walking Bob to the park the next morning, I felt awkward and self-conscious, as though I were an imposter. The dog seemed incongruous, trotting at my heels, and I worried that passers-by might see us and think I’d stolen her, or simply that we looked ridiculous together, like a goaty old man and his nubile girlfriend.
She was such a buoyant, unaffected presence, grinning up at me, constantly weaving off to sniff lampposts, urinate on leaves, or scratch herself at inconvenient moments. People are supposed to look like their dogs, and I imagined a dog of mine would be some sort of wolfhound – tall, grey and diffident. Not this perky, prancing thing, with her autumnal colours and sideways wink. She was the kind of dog Alicia Stewart would have had. Alicia, Leo’s sparkling, vivacious first love, who capered through life expecting everyone to make way for her.
Nevertheless, we made it to the park and dutifully began a circuit, remembering Angela’s lecture on the importance of exercise. The air was warmer now, with daffodils forcing their way through the cold dried mud of early spring. Looking up, I could see the delicate eruption of blossom – a brief but beautiful stage of the season. In Japan, the sakura – the cherry blossom – represents the transience of life, and they have festivals dedicated to watching it bloom; the bud is fragile and short-lived and thus one must come to terms with the inevitability of one’s death. How odd, though, to sit under a tree and actively contemplate one’s own demise.
My ruminations were interrupted by Bob, whining and pulling at her lead, dragging me in different directions. As we made our jagged progress around the park, we encountered another dog walker heading in the opposite direction. I didn’t like the look of him or his dogs, so discreetly gave them a wide berth. They were boxers; not a breed I’ve ever admired (if indeed I’ve admired any), and their owner looked something of a pugilist himself – shaven-headed, with a bulbous nose, army jacket collar pulled up around his face, cigarette smoke in a cloud around him. But of course, Bob, in her contrary way, developed an unaccountable fancy for his dogs, tugging me over and cavorting, rolling over on her back in supplication. I pulled on her lead irritably, ‘Come on!’
‘She wants off.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I couldn’t see his mouth move for collar and cigarette. Typical, on my first dog-walking day, to encounter some thuggish stranger and be drawn into conversation.
‘She wants off. The lead.’ He took the cigarette out of his mouth with black-nail-tipped sausage fingers, and pointed it at Bob. ‘She wants to play.’ He had a thick accent – Newcastle, or somewhere up there.
I looked at Bob, still capering and yapping. ‘She might run away.’
‘She won’t,’ he put the cigarette back in. ‘And if she does, she’ll come back.’
Reluctantly, I unhooked Bob’s lead, whereupon she immediately went into an orgy of romping with the boxers. There was much baring of teeth, but they all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and at least she was getting some exercise.
Enjoying the spectacle, my companion sucked away on his cigarette, then turned to me.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Er, Bob,’ I replied. It seemed we were expected to make polite small talk, in a tame mimicry of our dogs’ interaction. ‘Yours?’
‘That there’s Badger, and that there’s Barker,’ he pointed, though as with Sylvie’s dogs, I had no idea how he could tell the difference. ‘Bob’s a boy’s name,’ he continued, tapping his ash on the lid of a nearby bin.
‘It’s from Blackadder,’ I hazarded, hoping there would be no need to elaborate.
He frowned for a second, then chuckled. ‘Aye. Good name for a dog.’ I felt briefly gratified, as though it were my own achievement.
The dogs paused for breath and seizing this as my cue, I moved forwards to put Bob back on her lead, saying ‘well, it’s been nice to meet you …’ But the words died on my lips as Bob chose that moment to lift herself inelegantly onto her haunches and answer the call of nature. This was the moment I’d been dreading, and now I was going to have to deal with it with him there, watching me scrabbling in the mud.
Fumbling for the poo bags, I fished out of my pocket, took a deep breath and bent to do the deed. The smell was asphyxiating, steaming slightly in the spring chill. How did one use the bag? Could I slide it along the ground and flick in the mess with a stick? Dithering, I accidentally inhaled and immediately retched. This was horrifying. I would have to take Bob back to Angela’s; she’d have to go to the dog’s home. I would go back to checking the cupboards. Maybe I could save up for the alarm system. The bag fell from my shaking hands to the ground.
‘Want some help?’ He crouched down beside me, picking up the flimsy sack and putting it over his hand like a plastic puppet. He leant forward and deftly
