Page 25 of Carry Me Home

The words hit me somewhere unprotected. Not because she said them – Nina says things like this easily, casually, the way she touches people’s arms and remembers everyone’s birthday and leaves notes in your coat pocket when you’re having a bad day. She doesn’t mean it the way I hear it. She has never meant it the way I hear it. That’s the whole arrangement.

‘You missed the gossip,’ I say, because I have to say something.

‘I missed the gossip too. But also you. The delivery system.’ She waves her hand vaguely. ‘The whole package.’

‘I’m a package now?’

‘You’re a very good package. Reliable. Informative. Provide regular updates on infected sheep hooves.’ She cocks her head, grinning. ‘You’re basically my favourite person, Tom Darcy. Don’t let it go to your head.’

Favourite person. Filed.

‘That was one time,’ I say. ‘The sheep hooves.’

‘It was three times, Tom. I have them saved.’

‘Why do you have them saved?’

‘Evidence. In case I ever need to prove to someone that you have a deeply weird sense of humour.’ She hops down from the counter, and the sundress settles back over her knees, and Chips scrambles to reposition himself at her feet. ‘More tea?’

She takes my mug before I can answer, her fingers curling over mine for a second before she pulls it away, and she disappears behind the coffee machine. I watch her move – kettle, milk, the dance of someone who knows this space with their eyes closed, who belongs here the way the walls do. Chips follows her, his nails clicking on the tile, his eyes never leaving her.

‘He really has bonded with you,’ I say.

‘He has excellent taste.’ She glances down at him. ‘Don’t you? Yes, you do. You’re very discerning.’

‘You’re talking to him in a baby voice.’

‘I’m talking to him in the voice he deserves. Look at his face. This is a face that requires vocal accommodation.’

‘He’s a dog.’

‘He’s a philosopher. You said so yourself.’ She emerges with two fresh mugs and hands me mine. ‘So what happens now? Any luck searching for his owner?’

‘I keep checking the lost-dog pages.’ I shake my head. ‘Maybe I’ll put up a few more posters.’

‘And if no one does?’

‘Then I suppose he needs a home.’

She looks down at Chips. Chips looks up at her with resolute devotion of a creature that has no concept of timing or restraint, that simply walks towards the person it wants and sits on their feet and doesn’t think about whether it should.

Must be nice.

‘I have a home,’ she says slowly. ‘I have a café with a perfectly good floor he could sleep on.’

‘You want to keep him?’

‘I want to keep him.’ She says it like she’s realising it as the words come out. ‘Is that insane? I’ve known him for a few hours.’

‘He sat on your feet within thirty seconds of meeting you. I think the decision was already made.’

‘By him.’

‘By both of you. I saw your face.’

She looks at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that I don’t see often – the underneath of Nina, the part she covers with motion and bangles and baking and laughter. ‘You think I can do it? Take care of a dog? I can barely take care of the fuchsias.’

‘You take care of everyone, Nina. The whole village comes to you. A dog is nothing.’