Nicola Barker - The Yips

As he speaks, upstairs — in the furthest reaches of the house — a loud crashing sound is audible.

‘Piano lid!’ Valentine clucks, turning to glance over at the sleeping child, suddenly anxious. The child shifts her position, with a gentle sigh, then settles.

‘I should probably head back to work,’ Gene mutters, losing his nerve. He glances down at his watch.

‘Of course,’ she answers, then reaches out her hand — the right hand, the bruised hand — and places it, softly, matter-of-factly, palm flat, fingers outstretched, over the area just below his right nipple. She rests it there for a second and then lifts it and places it at the base of his throat, just above his collar bone, then lifts it again and places it at his left shoulder, close to the armpit.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, catching the hand, roughly, as it moves from its former position and down lower — towards his stomach.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she answers.

‘So we’re sitting on this bench together, just me and Sinclair, both kind of dumbstruck by what it’s taken to get us there, basically; I mean all the crazy misunderstandings, the bad luck, the huge row with my mum, the spiked drink, the broken heel, the false alarm, the missed exam …’ Jen bites her lip, her eyes gently misting over as she recollects. ‘And it’s pretty much the most romantic moment of my entire life so far …’

The boy nods, obligingly. He is sitting, alone and — he had somewhat naively presumed — inconspicuously, at a small, corner table in the bar at the Thistle. He is enjoying a solitary glass of Coke as he reads a thick, paperback copy of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (which currently lies open, but face-down, at his elbow).

‘I mean just try and picture how incredible this is — uh — what did you say your name was again?’

‘Israel.’

Jen stares at him, incredulous, for a heartbeat.

‘Okay. Well it’s like something from a romantic comedy, Israel,’ she continues (determined not to be thrown off her stride at this critical juncture in the story), ‘just so absolutely perfect, so ridiculously beautiful and touching and …’ Words fail her. ‘I’m like — I swear to God — I’m actually tearing up even thinking about it!’

Jen grabs the boy’s napkin, dabs the corner of her eye, then passes it straight back to him.

‘D’you think I’m incredibly sexy, by the way?’ she wonders, throwing back her shoulders and pouting, provocatively.

‘Sure.’ He nods, non-committal.

‘Thanks!’ She giggles.

‘By most European standards,’ he qualifies.

Jen stops giggling (and is about to respond, tartly), then spots a tiny, sticky deposit on the otherwise pristine table top and commences scratching it off with her nail.

‘So he’s leaning in to kiss me,’ she continues, buffing the table to a shine with her cuff, ‘and I’m swooning. I’m holding my breath, waiting, aching , for the first, soft sensation of his lips against mine …’

She glances over to her left, scowling. A customer is waiting to be served at the empty bar.

‘Hold that thought … okay?’

She dashes off to serve him. The boy returns to his book.

‘So anyway’ — Jen’s back, in a flash, to complete her story — ‘he’s moving in to kiss me. My heart is just … well it’s just melting. It’s pure liquid honey. But at the same time it’s beating so fast, so insanely fast, it feels like it might actually explode out of my chest. It literally is exploding — ka-boom! Ka-boom! Ka-boom! ’

The customer returns to the counter with a quibble over the order. Jen promptly dashes off, trilling her apologies. Israel returns to his book, with a sigh.

‘Where were we?’

He’s slower to put his book down this time, but does so, with an obliging smile, after completing his paragraph.

‘Uh … You were sitting on a park bench with your boyfriend in several inches of snow …’

‘Exactly! So he’s moving in for our first ever real kiss and it’s completely amazing, like this ridiculous Hallmark moment; something we’ll be telling our grand-kids about, thirty years from now — and then totally out of the blue this ludicrous, little dog comes running towards us across the park. I say it’s ludicrous because it’s a really funny-looking, little thing — half pekinese, half chihuahua …’

‘A pee-huahua,’ he volunteers.

‘A chi-kinese,’ she suggests.

‘A chi-pee-huahua.’ He grins, checking the knot on his tie then adjusting his heavy spectacles.

‘The point is,’ she interrupts, ‘that it dashes towards us and then stops, abruptly, directly in front of the bench we’re sitting on, before commencing this bizarre, little dance. Sort of crouching on its back legs and then turning in a circle, grunting. Kind of like a miniature jockey riding an invisible horse …’

‘Uh-oh!’ the kid says.

‘It’s doing a poo’ — Jen nods — ‘but it’s constipated. So it’s just pushing and pushing. Twirling around. This really intense expression on its mashed-up little face …’

‘Not a scenario especially conducive to romance,’ Israel sympathizes, portentously.

‘I mean what are the odds, eh?!’ Jen’s indignant. ‘The park’s totally whited-out! Two inches of snow! It’s all but deserted, and then this evil, little dog turns up and starts its agonized pirouetting.’

‘A stray, perhaps?’ Israel ruminates.

‘I love animals,’ Jen informs him, ‘I love animals, but I really wanna jam my pointy, stiletto-ed heel up this constipated, little blighter’s arse and kick him straight into the Wednesday afternoon of the following week.’

‘Wednesday afternoons are always hideous,’ Israel heartily concurs (back in Jamaica, from whence he hails, he enjoys extra maths tutoring after school on Wednesdays).

‘And it’s hardly like I’m the only one who’s noticed,’ Jen grumbles. ‘Sinclair’s forgotten all about the kiss and is gazing at the thing, bug-eyed, totally mesmerized …’

‘Ah, the irresistible allure of nature in the raw,’ Israel opines, with a sardonic smirk.

‘Anyhow,’ she continues, shooting him a dark look, ‘we’re just sitting there — the moment completely ruined — gazing, in astonishment, at this hairy, little freak, when a woman turns up, out of breath, clutching on to its leash — just some dumpy, middle-aged woman; I’ve no idea who she is. But instead of grabbing the dog by the collar and hauling it off, full of apologies — much as you might expect — she stands a few feet away from it — completely ignoring us — and just observes its crazy antics in a reverential silence …’

‘What a breach!’ Israel exclaims — almost sincerely.

‘So now we’re all just stuck there, like a bunch of idiots, waiting for this blasted dog to perform!’ Jen’s cheeks pinken at the memory. ‘But it doesn’t. So after a minute or two I begin to lose patience and say, “Excuse me, might it be possible to … you know …”

‘I indicate towards the dog.

‘“Pardon?” She stares at me, gormlessly. So I say, “Would it be possible to maybe … you know …” I make this sweeping gesture with my arm, i.e. “your runty, constipated, little dog is single-handedly destroying my mental, spiritual and emotional equilibrium right now.” But still she doesn’t follow me. She goes, “I’m sorry, is something bothering you?”

‘So I go, “Yeah …” and I’m pretty, bloody incensed by this point, I go, “Don’t you think it might be a nice idea to try and exercise some control over when and where your dog does his business?”