Nicola Barker - Love Your Enemies

Sarah had been awake all night. Initially she had debated taking one of her other show Afghans to the ball, pretending that it was Silver. But she was well aware that everybody knew how Silver actually looked. He was the celebrity after all; people had grown accustomed to his beautiful blond hair and proud, serene gaze and gait. He was a star. Anyway, Anthony had to be taken into account. He was obviously planning to make an appearance with the real new look Silver in tow. She knew that everyone would presume that she was responsible for the cut. It didn’t matter whether they found out the truth later. As a businesswoman, Sarah knew that initial impressions are the ones that really stick, the most fundamental, the longest lasting, the most suggestive.

At 5 a.m., red eyed, slightly frazzled, the big solution to her problems finally popped into her brain. It had taken its time in coming, but it was worth the wait. She let out a small, shrill, desperate scream, then sprang out of bed and threw on some clothes.

Since the split she had been living in her mother’s small flat in Pimlico. She dashed downstairs, out of the building and jumped into her Mercedes. She started the engine and pointed the nose of her car in the direction of Paws for Thought and its adjacent kennels. Her fingers and hands were tickling as she pushed round the steering wheel and the gear-stick. She was ready for work. She was ready for action, ready, almost, for anything.

Saturday night. Anthony was waiting outside the large reception hall for the AAS Ball in his station wagon. Silver was sat in the back, his twiggy tail stuck miserably between his back legs. He was a sensitive dog who often felt things too deeply. Sarah had used to say — maybe she still said it, but his doggy ears never heard it now — that ‘Silver’s soul is just too great. He has too great a soul, at least too great a soul for an Afghan.’

Silver was burdened, felt a sensation of weight and dread in his heart which perfectly complimented the sensation of light airiness around his buttocks.

Anthony squinted out of the window and towards the well-lit entrance. Several photographers were hanging about on the steps, waiting for scoops (not of the pooper variety), waiting for guests of honour, important people and important dogs. Anthony finished his packet of ready-salted Hula-Hoops and, after screwing up the packet and throwing it carelessly out of the window, glanced down at his wrist watch. He turned and peered over his shoulder at Silver, saying, ‘Won’t be long now, gorgeous,’ and adjusted his shirt and bow tie.

A sudden commotion to the right of the hall indicated the arrival of the guest of honour. Sarah arrived, surrounded by people, the flashing lights of photographers, shouts, whistles, a surprising volume of noise, interspersed with the odd, occasional, hysterical doggy bark.

Anthony peered across the road, trying to see what she was wearing, what she was doing, but he could only see the top of her blonde bob as she climbed the stairs into the hall and disappeared from sight.

He waited for five minutes, gauging the tickle at the top of his nose, a dangerous, familiar tickle, waiting for a warm trickle of blood, but none came. After the five minutes were up, he opened the car door, climbed out and then opened the back door for Silver. Silver clambered out and waited patiently for his collar and lead to be adjusted. He felt full of a supernatural doggy dread. The evening air felt cold and treacherous.

Anthony sniffed noisily and then made his way towards the brightly lit entrance. Silver followed, dragging his paws, slinking, head hanging.

The hall was packed, brightly lit, full of yells, whistles and a strange, unexpected, buoyant hysteria. Anthony frowned. He had expected this kind of atmosphere after his appearance with the new-look Silver in tow, but not before. As he entered the main hall itself and began to walk up the long, red-carpeted aisle towards the main stage, he squinted short-sightedly forwards to try and see what was happening.

He caught sight of Sarah’s head, her yellow hair. She was wearing a beautiful, white-sequinned dress, a plain, close-fitting dress which made her look — Anthony couldn’t deny it, even to himself — which made her look almost angelic. She glowed.

At the end of three matching white-sequinned leads were three of her best show Afghans from the kennels, all nice dogs, Anthony thought, but not of Silver’s calibre.

He drew closer. The crowd — at last — were beginning to notice him: he sensed a wave of developing interest and enthusiasm generated by his sudden appearance. Now he was within ten or so steps of the stage. Sarah was saying, ‘Thanks to you all, ladies and gentlemen, but most of all, thanks to the dogs that have made all this possible.’

She turned, twirled, span around to face the rear of the stage. The dogs turned with her. The audience screamed in unison.

Each of the dogs had been shaved, shaved in the same way as Silver. Their three heart-shaped blueish patches shone under the bright stage lights. The first dog had a large letter ‘I’ on its bottom, the second the word ‘Love’, the third the word ‘Afghans’.

The crowd cooed and then cheered. The three dogs waved their tails in unison. Then Anthony noticed Sarah’s bottom. Her own white-sequinned and well-shaped tush had been decorated too, not shaven, but covered in a big Afghan-hair heart which swished and swirled as she hitched and rolled her hips Monroesquely.

Anthony gazed, aghast. Sarah half-turned, caught his eye and said, ‘Anthony has brought Silver, ladies and gentlemen. Our very special guest of honour!’

The audience applauded. Anthony could do nothing but climb up on to the stage, and, clutching Silver’s lead tightly in his sweating paw, bow to the assembled masses. Silver’s tail remained firmly slung between his back legs.

Both Sarah and Anthony had entered (however unwillingly) into the atmosphere of the whole thing. They smiled hollowly at one another and then down at the dog. Silver looked miserable. Sarah frowned and then whispered to Anthony, ‘What’s wrong with him? Normally he loves applause and attention, he adores a crowd.’

Anthony shook his head and shrugged. He tweaked at Silver’s lead, but Silver didn’t respond. Instead he seemed to be deeply preoccupied, squinting, wrinkling up his nose, shaking his head, acting as though he was in some kind of terrible discomfort.

Sarah and Anthony stared at each other worriedly. Silver inhaled deeply, and then, like a temperamental powder keg, let out a sneeze of an almost terrifying violence and ferocity. The sneeze shot out of Silver’s nostrils, bounced around the four corners of the hall like an airy bullet, and then seemed to return to the stage and gave the appearance of thwacking Silver in the centre of his nose. Silver staggered, coughed, sniffed and snorted, then his nose began, unmistakably, to bleed. The blood didn’t drip, it gushed.

Anthony dropped Silver’s lead and fell to his knees beside the dog, his eyes damp with guilty tears. He said, ‘Oh Sarah, what’s wrong with him? What have I done? This is all my fault, if I hadn’t been so selfish of late …’

Sarah shook her head, and, grabbing hold of his right arm, pulled Anthony up on to his feet again and into a tight embrace. She said, ‘We’ve both been selfish, Anthony. We’ve both been rather childish recently, rather preoccupied. Maybe we haven’t been properly receptive to Silver’s needs during all this fuss and bother. But at least now we know where our priorities lie. This must make a difference, must wake us up to our obligations and responsibilities, both to him and to each other.’

Anthony felt his head clear. He said, ‘I feel as though I’ve been lying in a big pot full of concrete these past few months, frozen, burdened, alone, but now the weight has been lifted. Sarah, I love you, I’ve always loved you. I want to try again, to make a new start with you and Silver.’