Page 13 of Two Wrongs
But if you swapobligationfordivorce, I’m not lying, technically.
Okay... let’s just go ahead and call it lie #1038 because something tells me before this trip is over, I’ll have lied my way into hell.
Because I’m all about the lies these days. Including the ones I tell myself.
Chapter Six
Ivy
The sun is settingwhen the cab pulls up to the gated entrance to what is, technically, partly, still my house, I suppose. a Spanish Colonial Revival set in Toluca Lake; it’s a million miles and a couple of million dollars away from where we began. Back then, Dylan was sharing a dive with two waiters, sorry,actors, while I barely clung to the next rung of the property ladder in a glorified studio an hour out from my place of work.
The marital home. It was one of the largest purchases he made following his first box office hit—for you and me, darlin’, he’d said—though by Toluca standards, the house is pretty modest. Three beds, three baths, and I loved every square inch of it.
We’d banged over every square inch of it.
‘You want I should drop you here?’
The cab driver pulls me from my memories abruptly, something twisting in my chest. I’d say it was my heart, but for the fact that I no longer wear it there.
‘What? Wait. Oh. Hang on.’ I rummage in my bag for the gate remote, praying that the battery still has life, and breathe a sigh of relief as the dark stained gate begins to slide left. ‘Front door please.’
The driver eyes me via the rearview mirror, resigned, and at the front door, I hand him an obscene amount of cash for a journey I’d known would be ridiculous. In exchange, he deposits my case at my feet.
Key in the lock, I begin to stress because what if Dylan changed the alarm codes? As the door swings open, I think it’s more likely his forgetful ass overlooked setting it before leaving. Again.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ I whisper, steeling myself to enter this world for the last time. Pushing the door a little wider, I take my first tentative step inside.
The double-story entrance is silent; no beeping or blaring of an alarm, though there is ... atap-tap-tappingsound. A sound drawing nearer while getting faster, a sound my heart recognises a nanosecond before I’m flattened to the ground.
‘Nigel? Oh, God, it is you!’ Emotion stings my eyes—I’m so pleased I’m here right now, if for nothing else than this.
A pair of heavy paws land on my shoulders, my heart’s desire now licking my face and slobbering, and unfortunately, peeing just a little bit on my shin. I don’t chastise, and I can’t blame; I’m so excited I could pee a little myself. In my case, it would be with relief because that’s my overwhelming emotion right now. I’m just so bloody relieved to find him here. Fingers tight on his hairy haunches, I bury my face in the scruff of his chest, the scent of warm and slightly unpleasant dog breath filling my nose.
‘You’re such a good dog.’ Yes, Nigel is a dog, not some kind of pee fetishist. And he’s not a good dog really unless you countbeing good at being a dogas what constitutes being agood dog. Nigel only knows three or four commands and pretty much does as he pleases unless there’s a bribe at hand. ‘Yes, you are. Such a good boy and you’re here!’ My hands push his slobbering mush away for a beat at the realisation that, ‘If you’re here, who else is?’ His coffee coloured eyes reflects my worried expression. ‘Who’s looking after you, boy?’
And what else has he lied about?
The place isn’t fancy enough for staff, though I expect Dylan’s got someone looking after the domestic side of things, given the gleaming floors and the evident health of the nearby potted banana plant. Pushing Nigel from my legs, I pull myself upright, determined to find out who’s looking after my pooch because despite what Dylan might say, this woolly behemoth is mine. He may have picked him up as a scrawny puppy from the animal shelter in Burbank, but he gave him to me.
Just as surely as he’d told me he’d rehomed him.
You left, Ivy. The fucking mutt had to go. It was either rehoming him or a trip to the doggy farm, by way of the veterinarian.
Rehomed him, my arse; I should’ve known he lied. Who would take on something this large—something that looks like the results of a three-way between a mop, a deerhound, and a small horse? The tiny bundle he’d deposited on my lap was fluffy, black, and tiny. I was besotted, and so was he.The start of our family,he’d said. Neither of us had any idea he’d end up shedding his fur, going bald for a couple of weeks, and then turn woolly and grey and grow to the size of a Shetland pony.
‘He’s half poodle, half deerhound, and all daft.’Dylan mimicked my accent, deepening his into something wild and improbable when other dog walkers asked for Nigel’s breed. Along with the indecipherable accent, the beanie and sunglasses, no one could tell they were in the presence of acting superstardom.
Bet he’s got tickets on himself these days.
The guilt I’ve been feeling the whole journey is no longer weighing so heavy. I’ve lied to those I’ve loved, but now, it appears, so has he.
Only he doesn’t love me anymore, does he?I push that thought to the back of my mind because no way am I replacing angry with sad.
‘Bastard,’ I say to the empty room with my hand still on Nigel’s thick neck... and a collar that I didn’t buy. ‘Did Daddy buy you a bonny pink collar, boy?’ His big eyes stare up at me as though to say,What do you think?
I think—because DMZ; yeah, so I might’ve had a wee web stalking session in the taxi—that a certain blond singer has been hanging around my man.Dog. I mean dog. There might not have been pictures online of Talia Griff walking Nigel, but someone bought him a sparkly collar, and it’s enough to make my blood boil.
‘That no-good philandering fuckwitted b—’ I halt. Why is it thatheis the only person in the world who can drive me to profanity? Closing my eyes, I take a deep, cleansing breath.I’m not punished for my anger; I am punished by it, I intone silently.Exhale slowly. Think calm thoughts. Conquer anger by non-anger.
