It is Sunday evening, and my wife and I are returning from a weekend away. On the walk from the station we stop to buy two toothbrushes, because we left ours behind, and a bottle of wine, because.
“It’s so cold,” my wife says. “And I’m so tired.”
“Nearly there,” I say.
“We’ll order a takeaway, and then I’m going to bed,” she says.
“Fine,” I say.
When I open the front door, a small grey head pokes out of it at about knee level. Two black, mournful eyes look up at me as if to say: well, this is awkward.
“Hello, Billy,” I say. Billy is a highly self-conscious lurcher who lives in a permanent state of social mortification. He’s not our dog – he belongs to the youngest one’s friend – but we see a lot of him. This is not the first time he’s greeted us at the door looking shamefaced.
It becomes clear that Billy is not alone. From inside the house there wafts the smell of cigarette smoke and the unmistakable sound of Fifa 19 being played in manager mode. Someone is laughing. Someone else is cooking. Somewhere behind the door, our actual dog is barking.
“Can we come in, Billy?” my wife says. As I push the door wider, Billy takes three steps backwards, all the while fixing me with a look that seems to say: forgive me.
In the sitting room, the oldest one and his friend are using a joystick apiece to revitalise the computer-generated lineup of Sligo Town. The middle one is sitting beside them, monitoring another match on his laptop while also looking at his phone. I shed my coat where I stand.
“What an unexpected pleasure,” my wife says, dropping her bag.
“I know, right?” says the oldest one’s friend.
In the kitchen, the youngest one and Billy’s owner are making chilli, apparently for everyone.
“Hey,” the youngest one says.
“Hey,” his friend says.
“A full house, then,” my wife says, collapsing on to the sofa.
“Including Billy,” I say. Everyone turns to look at Billy, who is at that moment poised to help himself from the cat’s food bowl. At the sound of his name, he turns his head and flashes me a look that says: I promised myself I would stop doing this, oh God, I’m loathsome.
The middle one and his friend fill two bowls and retreat upstairs. I pour myself a glass of wine and go in search of a place to sit. I end up watching Fifa 19 being played in manager mode for several bewildering minutes.
“No!” shouts the oldest one as the opposition score.
“He’s picked his pocket there, in the dying seconds of the first half,” his friend says. I point to the screen.
“Can you turn that back into a television?” I say.
“Yeah,” the oldest one says. “After this.”
I stand up and return to the kitchen. Billy follows by my side, like a small, embarrassed pony. My wife is at the table, reading a magazine that arrived while we were away.
“What are you doing back here?” she says.
“I came to hang out with you,” I say.
“You can’t,” she says. “I’m having some quiet time.”
“But I’ve got nowhere to be,” I say. “And neither does Billy.” At the sound of his name, Billy gives me a rueful look and leaves the room.
“I don’t care,” my wife says. “I need space, and you’re ruining it.” I sigh, refill my glass and return to the sitting room, where I find Billy lying on the floor, on top of my coat. He lifts his head and fixes me with a pained gaze that seems to say: this is not what it looks like.
“Oh, Billy,” I say, retaking my seat. Finally, the match ends. The oldest one returns the TV to TV mode, and lobs the remote at me. I point it at the screen and press.
“What’s this?” the oldest says.
“Escape To The Chateau,” I say. “I’m not prepared to defend my devotion to it at this point.”
“Fair enough,” the oldest one’s friend says. Billy returns his head to my coat and stares at the ceiling with a look of boundless regret.
