‘Oh fine, fine.’ Ivan’s dog, Sia, who has free rein across the kennels and loves everyone like they’re perpetually about to feed him raw steak, trots over to me and pushes his giant Labrador head against my hip. ‘One of the cats got out – not sure how – but we caught him in the end.’
I spend a happy four hours with the dogs, running across the acre with the boarders, handing over day-dogs to their owners, whose tired eyes always light up at the point of reunion. When I get home, the smell of strange dogs on me makes Rita eye me suspiciously until I lie down on the floor with her, reminding her that she is my doggish one and only.
And then, when it’s almost nine o’clock, I let myself go on Facebook.
Rhys has accepted my friend request, which was to be expected but still makes me smile with relief. I go immediately to his profile page, ignoring the two notifications I have waiting for me.
It’s not stalking – it’s exhibiting interest in a new friend. That’s what Facebook is for. It’s completely normal to – Oh. Oh. Hmmm.
My heart, previously on board with my brain in the just-interested-as-a-friend department, deflates, sinks, twinges at the sight of Rhys’s profile picture: him and a dark-haired girl wearing sunglasses. A friend? Or a girlfriend? There is no corresponding relationship status on his profile page, which is maddening. Why can’t people just be clear?
I click on to his photos and have a quick sweep through them, trying to decide. There are lots of photos of him and this girl, some with other people too and others just the two of them. I’m none the wiser. On one hand, there are no photos of them being particularly close physically – no kissing, no gazing into each other’s eyes, no matching Christmas jumpers – but, on the other, maybe they just don’t like PDAs.
The maybe-girlfriend’s name, I learn, is Meg Callifryn, and my heart sinks further. Rhys and Meg. Goddamit. Their names are perfect together. And Callifryn? What kind of an unfairly pretty surname is that? Not like Brons, which would be OK if it was spelled Bronze, but it’s not. It’s German and it’s Brons.
I mean, it’s not like I care. Obviously I wasn’t thinking of actually trying anything with Rhys, but . . . well. Still.
I sit back against my chair and let out a ridiculous but nonetheless satisfying huff. That’s that, then. I’ll just have a tiny look at Meg’s profile. She has minimal privacy settings, so I learn that she is seventeen, was recently a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding and that she can play the flute. Her own profile picture, for what it’s worth, is of her and a girl. Her relationship status says she’s in a relationship, but that’s as far as the information goes. I wonder if she can talk.
I close the window, pause, then reopen it. I go to my own profile page, wanting to see what Rhys will see if he looks. Which is a big if, let’s face it.
My profile picture is of Rita and me – she’s poking her nose into my face and I’m laughing. I close my eyes and then open them suddenly, hoping to trick my brain into thinking I’m seeing the picture for the first time. It makes me look relaxed and fun, right? And everyone likes a girl who loves animals. So far so good.
I scroll down a little. Most of the updates on my wall are photos I’ve been tagged in over the summer. Tem put up her annual summer album last week and I’m in about half of them. Keir also finally got round to putting up pictures from Bell’s fifth birthday party in July. The mix makes me look fun-loving and happy and that’s the nice thing about Facebook; it’s mouldable. This is me! Sort of.
Interspersed among the photos are the usual random comments and links. Most of them are from Tem, who is a prolific and loyal Facebooker. The most recent is a link to some kind of half marathon, which is her unsubtle way of trying to cajole me into running it with her, even though that is clearly never going to happen. Our conversation underneath (begun with me simply saying, ‘No, September.’) had descended into a pun-off. Is this not a-track-tive for you, Steffi? No, too many hurdles, etc.
I think of Rhys reading the conversation. I hope he likes puns. Of course he likes puns – who doesn’t like puns?
I click on my notifications. One is an invitation for Farmville from my cousin, which makes me want to ask her if she knows what century it is, and the other is a surprise. Rhys Gold liked your profile picture.
My heart flips. Oh. Well. That’s . . .
I realize I’m smiling at my laptop. Not just smiling, full-on beaming. Six little words, so much potential. He liked my profile picture. That’s something, right?
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