“You were kind of a music geek it sounds like.”
“I was a total music geek,” he echoes.
The Doctor looks up as a fly buzzes past. In a flash of blond fur, she leaps and catches the fly in her mouth. “Have you got a frog there in your dog?” I ask.
“She’s a half-breed, what can I say? Apparently her dad was a fence-jumper. The frog dad, that is.”
“So, The Doctor. Sort of an odd name for a dog. I would have thought maybe Clash. Or Clapton. Or Maxwell Silver Hammer.”
“Ah, you must see me as so provincial. That I don’t venture beyond the world of music.”
“No. I don’t think that.”
“I like to read too. So perhaps I might be more imaginative than Clash or Clapton or Maxwell’s Silver Hammer, not that those aren’t clever names.”
“So then why isn’t she Hamlet, or Ophelia for that matter?”
“Or Cleopatra.”
“Or Shakespeare, since some say he was a woman.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t watch British TV, do you?”
“You’re right. I don’t watch British TV. So what’s the story?”
“We had this dog growing up. A sort of standard scrappy English mutt. We loved that dog, but we hated her name. Our mum had named her Bitsy. What an awful name for a dog, don’t you think?” he asks, looking at me.
“It’s not my favorite name,” I say diplomatically.
“So William and I made a pact. We were huge Doctor Who fans. And we always said the line—I’m The Doctor—together after we’d watch a show. So we decided that if one of us ever adopted a dog, we’ve give it a good name. Not Bitsy or Lady or anything like that. But The Doctor. And seeing as William is only in college, I beat him to the punch, so I had first dibs on the coolest dog name ever.”
“I like that. It’s a clever name for a dog.”
“Why thank you. I’ve always wanted to impress a woman with my dog-naming skills.”
“Well, you have then,” I said, and brush a hand against his hair for just a moment. The moment shifts from flirty to tender as he leans into my hand. The gesture seems so intimate, so like a boyfriend or girlfriend would do. On both our parts.
The Doctor glances back at us, peaceful and content. Then, she whips her head toward the pond. She emits a low growl as a dark gray standard poodle prances by wearing a red rhinestone-encrusted collar.
“The Doctor hates poodles,” Matthew says by way of explanation.
Apparently, The Doctor hates poodles a lot. Because she is off and running. She is galloping no less, hurtling across the grass to the canine she disdains, her leash trailing along behind her. “Bloody hell,” Matthew says with a groan and takes off to chase her. I watch him racing to catch up to his dog, grabbing her just as she’s about to clamp down on a mass of curly, kinky, practically permed, gray dog hair.
I glance down and realize I am still holding Matthew’s notebook in my hand. I see my own silly notes from my mock interview with Matthew. I flip back a few pages so I can try to find the spot where he left off before I grabbed it. I spot the note he wrote back at the kitchen: Jane Black has one song for the new album. Everything is okay. I smile a bit at the memory, at his facetiousness in writing that.
Then I notice there’s more underneath it, the notes he must have taken when I went to the bathroom. These notes aren’t in block letters. They’re in his choppy and slanted penmanship. Jane Black is coming up dry for her new album. T-minus twelve days and she has nothing but a cover tune. She contends she can pen an entire album in twelve days. Note: research past albums written quickly. Twelve days seems insane. Follow-up: Ask again re her normal MO. Does she write all albums in this fashion? Can she make her deadline? If so, how does this impact article?
What the hell?
I raise my eyes from the notebook and see Matthew chatting amicably with the poodle’s owner. He grips his dog’s collar, but he seems to have charmed his way out of the dog kerfuffle.
I return to his notes. Cover tune. He writes it as if it’s a dirty word. It was his goddamn idea after all.
She contends. Let him try writing an album when a rock critic is following him around.
Ask her again. Yep, ask her again, indeed. Because that’s what this is all about. Asking me questions. Getting information. Writing a story. My God, I was so stupid to think his e-mails were true. That his kisses were real. All he wants is to ask me again about the deadline for the album. He wants to press me about what I’ve written so far. He wants to know if I can make my deadline so he can make his.
I slap Matthew’s notebook on the bench, cross my arms, clench my teeth, and wait for him to return. Soon, he’s walking right toward me, The Doctor at his side. He looks at me curiously.
“What’s wrong? You seem pissed.”
“Are there some things you wanted to ask me, Matthew?” I reach for the notebook and flip it open to the offending page. “Ask again regarding her normal MO,” I read to him. Then I wave the notebook and say, “So, go. Ask.”
“Jane,” he says gently.
“Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t have a normal MO. I just write what I write. Oh, and that’s partly because no one has given a shit when I produce another album till now. Because I used to suck. Remember?”
“Okay,” he says, still a little wary of me.
I glance back at the notebook. “Can I make my deadline, you want to know? Yes. And let’s address this last item. Jane Black is coming up dry.” Then I stare at him.