Fiona Gibson 3 Book Bundle. Fiona Gibson

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      It’s true, Harvey does know about dogs. Since he was a little boy, he’s instinctively known how to develop a mutual trust and understanding, leading to a sense of security: crucial for any animal if he’s to be a fine companion and not make a spectacle of himself, like Kerry said Buddy does from time to time. He seemed like a real character, though. As he climbs the steep hill with the huge, posh houses which leads up to the golf course, Harvey reflects how much he misses owning a dog of his own. The walks, the games and companionship – all those rituals are good for a person. However, it would appear that those days are over. Harvey has let his spare room to his friend Ethan, who leaves a scattering of worn socks, pants and other small, unsavoury items in his wake. A pain, yes, and Harvey would far rather have the place to himself. But unfortunately, dogs don’t pay a share of the rent.

      ‘How did your lesson go?’ Ethan asks, peering up from the sofa in the small, neat living room that’s lined with Harvey’s books, CDs and the vinyl he can’t quite manage to part with. Ethan’s wiry red hair is unkempt, his mouth full of last night’s home-made chicken curry which is visible as he speaks. On the coffee table, a gummy-looking bottle of mango chutney rests on Harvey’s treasured copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – original seventies edition – and a small bowl is perched on Ethan’s lap.

      ‘It wasn’t a lesson,’ Harvey says. ‘Just a chat to see how we got on.’ He senses Ethan studying him with small, dark eyes – the eyes of a creature who rarely ventures out into daylight – as he hangs up his jacket on the hook by the door.

      ‘What was she like?’ Ethan asks.

      ‘Nice, y’know. Friendly. Interesting.’ Harvey shrugs, registering his flatmate’s naan bread draped over the arm of the sofa like an oily antimacassar. He could ignore this or snatch it away, inspecting the inevitable greasy patch beneath it and give his flatmate a lecture about his slovenly ways.

      ‘Old, was she?’ Ethan enquires.

      ‘No, not old. About our age, hard to tell really …’

      ‘Not one of those craggy old teachers who slams the piano lid on your fingers when you play a wrong note?’

      ‘Jesus,’ Harvey sniggers, deciding to let the naan thing go. ‘Did you have a teacher like that?’

      ‘Yeah, old battle-axe. Stank of violets and death. Still have the scars here.’ Ethan waggles his chubby hand, which Harvey knows to be scar-less because they’ve been friends since they were eighteen and started at drama college together. ‘So why are you having these lessons again?’ he enquires. ‘I thought you were skint.’

      ‘Just fancied it,’ Harvey says lightly.

      ‘’S’pose it could come in handy with the act,’ Ethan teases him. ‘A little musical interlude, make a change from the old one-man-band …’

      ‘Yeah, maybe.’

      Ethan wipes a blob of mustard-coloured sauce from his chin. ‘Was she fit, then?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The teacher.’

      Harvey blinks at Ethan, wondering whether to mention Kerry’s lovely green eyes and dark brown, wavy hair that tumbled around her slender shoulders. He wouldn’t have hesitated when they were younger. He’d have mentioned that strange moment in her kitchen, too, when it looked as if she were about to cry. How fragile she seemed, despite her breezy demeanour. Now, though, with no escape from Ethan and his arse-scratching tendencies, Harvey guards his privacy jealously.

      ‘She was nice-looking, yeah,’ he mutters with a shrug.

      ‘Married?’

      ‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

      ‘Oh, so you noticed then.’ A bit of chicken flies out of Ethan’s mouth, which Harvey also chooses not to comment upon. The little shits who pelted him with sweets at the last party he did had better table manners.

      ‘Only because I was watching her hands while she was playing, okay?’

      ‘And you just so happened to check out her marital status.’

      ‘No, I wasn’t really thinking about that.’ Harvey rolls his eyes.

      ‘Oh, come on. Didn’t you want to make beautiful music with her?’ Ethan guffaws loudly and swigs from a bottle of beer. ‘You did, didn’t you? It’s obvious you fancied her …’

      ‘What’s obvious? Tell me one thing I’ve said that makes you think I was remotely attracted to her.’

      ‘That’s why it’s obvious,’ Ethan declares. ‘You’re being all guarded and secretive, going over there to talk about, um, Chopin or whatever. You don’t even like classical music …’

      ‘Oh, fuck off.’

      Ethan smirks and picks up the naan bread, ripping a chunk out of it with his teeth. Harvey was right; the sofa arm now looks as if it’s been licked by a huge, oily tongue.

      ‘So are you going to ask her out?’ Ethan wants to know.

      Harvey glowers at him. ‘How old are you again? She’s going to be teaching me, for Christ’s sake. It’s a professional relationship.’

      ‘Oh, is that what you call it?’ Ethan calls after him as Harvey escapes to his bedroom. ‘It’s about time you found yourself a decent woman, Harv. I worry about you. There’s got to be some desperate bird out there who’d be willing to do it with a clown.’

      Sinking onto the edge of his bed, Harvey takes a moment to compose his thoughts. Lighten up, he tells himself. He doesn’t get out much. Don’t rise to the bait … Plus, Harvey realises, he’s bloody starving, having forgotten to eat in his eagerness to meet Kerry. He gets up and pokes his head around the living room door. ‘Any of that curry left?’

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘The curry I made last night. Any left for me?’

      ‘Aw, no,’ Ethan says, dumping his empty bowl at his feet. ‘Sorry, mate, that was the last of it. But if you’re heading for the kitchen, could you get me another of those cold beers?’