His Parrot Knew Far Too Many Pet Names

By the time the parrot called me a delicious little peach, I had begun to wonder whether Joel's dating life required a booking system.

He'd invited me to his place in Newcastle after our third dinner. I was thirty-six, old enough to know an attractive man could have a history, and apparently still young enough to invent the entire history from one bird's testimony.

At dinner, Joel had listened while I described a display case that refused to close properly. He asked whether the hinge could be repaired, which was a more promising response than the usual joke about museums containing old things.

I asked about his week. He mentioned classes, a leaking tap and buying the wrong size of storage box. None sounded like a carefully polished story. I liked that. My previous dates had included several men whose hobbies appeared to have been selected for how they would look in photographs.

Joel showed me a picture of the box sitting uselessly beside the shelf it was meant to fit. His expression in the photograph was so mildly disappointed that I laughed before I could help it.

'I measured,' he said. 'Just not the relevant thing.'

'What did you measure?'

'The box I already had.'

We spent five minutes discussing an error neither of us could fully explain. When he asked whether I wanted to come back for tea, I said yes without conducting my usual private debate. He seemed easy to be around. I hoped I would remember to remain easy myself.

On the walk, he warned me about the bird.

'He can be a bit much with visitors.'

'I work with public questions all day,' I said. 'I'm difficult to surprise.'

It was the sort of confident sentence an evening ought to be legally obliged to leave alone.

The bird was called Treasurer. Joel had explained this over dinner with the weary affection of someone who had inherited both a pet and his uncle's sense of humour. Treasurer occupied an impressive stand by the living-room window and regarded me as a visitor whose credentials had not yet cleared.

'He's lovely once he knows you,' Joel said.

'Delicious little peach,' Treasurer replied.

Joel laughed. 'There he goes.'

There who went? The bird, obviously. But also, in my head, a procession of previous visitors being greeted by produce-based endearments. I hung my jacket very carefully.

Joel made tea. I'd asked for tea because I genuinely wanted it, although I was aware of how decisively a cup of chamomile could position an evening. He remembered no honey. Good sign. He remembered the mug I had admired in the photograph he'd sent last week. Excellent sign.

'Come on, thunder buns,' said Treasurer.

I looked towards the kitchen.

'What was that?'

'Thunder buns,' Joel called back. 'He gets stuck on things.'

I could imagine.

We sat on the couch. Joel asked about my week at the museum, and I began telling him about a school group that had asked whether every old object was haunted. It was a good story. It had a punchline involving a photocopier. Unfortunately, halfway through, Treasurer shouted, 'That's it, gorgeous goose!'

Joel grinned at him. I forgot the photocopier.

I had dated someone once who called every woman beautiful because it saved him remembering names. This memory returned with the unwelcome punctuality of a direct debit. Joel, meanwhile, listened kindly while I finished a story that now contained neither a proper beginning nor a proper end.

'You all right?' he asked.

'Fine.'

It was a foolish answer. I wasn't upset about anything that had actually happened. I was irritated with a fictional man I had built using the real man's haircut and a parrot's limited evidence.

Treasurer climbed down his stand, lifted one foot and said, with surprising urgency, 'Give me the cheeky biscuit.'

'He loves that one,' Joel said.

'Clearly.'

The edge in my voice made him glance at me. I pretended to be interested in the bookshelf. It contained cookbooks, a history of local beaches and a folder marked TUESDAY. None of these helped.

I picked up a book about the beaches because looking at a book was easier than looking at Joel while inventing things about him. Inside the cover was a handwritten birthday message from his aunt, followed by a small drawing of a bird wearing a crown.

'Treasurer?' I asked.

'Naturally. He gets top billing.'

'How long have you had him?'

'About three years. My uncle moved into a place that couldn't take him, so he came here. The bird, not my uncle.'

Joel told me about choosing a stand and rearranging the living room to make space. He spoke affectionately, with the practical resignation of someone whose household decisions involved another creature's strong preferences.

I wanted to enjoy the story. Instead I kept waiting for the next nickname, listening so closely for evidence that I barely heard the explanation he was actually giving me.

Treasurer tapped something with his beak. Joel glanced over, then returned his attention to me.

'Do you want to put your bag somewhere more comfortable? You're holding it like you're waiting for a bus.'

I looked down. The strap was wound around my hand.

'Oh. Habit.'

I set it beside the couch. He made room without comment. The kindness briefly interrupted my suspicions, which irritated me because I was beginning to realise the suspicions might be my own contribution to the room.

Then Treasurer said 'Peach' again, very softly, and my imagination resumed its entirely unauthorised work.

Joel offered biscuits. Actual biscuits. I accepted one and wondered whether I should make a joke. A light question. Something breezy that would establish the origin of the bird's language without announcing I'd mentally convened a tribunal.

'So,' I said, 'Treasurer hears a lot of nicknames.'

Joel nodded. 'Constantly. I should probably change them.'

This was not the reassuring answer I had pictured.

'People don't mind?'

'Usually they reckon they're funny. Some hate the goose.'

I took a long drink of tea. Too hot. Now I had a tender tongue to accompany my increasingly elaborate suspicions.

Joel leaned back, comfortable in his own home and apparently unaware that his casual discussion of the goose had become a significant moment for me.

'What do you call people?' he asked.

'By their names, generally.'

He blinked. 'Right.'

There it was, the small chill I'd created. I knew it while creating it. But backing out required admitting that I had formed an opinion using a witness who also spent several minutes threatening his own reflection in a teaspoon.

Treasurer spared neither of us. 'Peach! Peach! Hold it, darling!'

Joel stood and moved a folded towel from the chair near the window. Underneath was a resistance band and a notebook. He picked up the notebook to make space for my cup.

On the open page I saw: Seniors, Wednesday. Peach reach. Gorgeous goose. Seated biscuit.

I looked at the notebook. Then the bird. Then Joel.

'What is a seated biscuit?'

'A terrible name for a movement in my class. I told you I teach fitness sessions, didn't I?'

He had. Twice. I had been busy appreciating his forearms during one explanation, which now felt like an administrative error of my own making.

'I run a couple of online groups from here,' he continued. 'My aunt said the proper exercise names made it sound like homework. So we started making up ridiculous ones. Treasurer has appointed himself assistant instructor.'

He demonstrated the gorgeous goose: a gentle standing movement with arms extending sideways. Treasurer immediately shouted encouragement.

'Thunder buns?'

'Chair squats. The class named those. I refuse responsibility.'

'Cheeky biscuit?'

'A side step. I don't remember why. There was a discussion about morning tea.'

A laugh escaped me, followed by another. Joel smiled, then studied my face with the slow arrival of understanding.

'Hang on. What did you think?'

There was still time to lie. A small, neat lie. I could say I thought he performed amateur theatre. Instead I put my cup down.

'I thought the bird had memorised your extensive romantic vocabulary.'

Joel's eyebrows rose. 'Extensive?'

'There were several categories of snack.'

He laughed so hard he had to sit. I laughed too, relieved and mortified in equal measure. Treasurer responded with thunder buns, which was fair.

'I am sorry,' I said when we recovered. 'You hadn't done anything. I brought an old annoyance into your lounge and gave it feathers.'

'Thanks for saying that.' He nudged my knee with his. 'For the record, if I start calling you seated biscuit, you can leave.'

'I'll need to see the movement first.'

Joel opened the Tuesday folder after I asked about it. Inside were attendance notes, a few simple drawings and a list of names with reminders about who preferred which session. Nothing resembled the romantic archive I had vaguely feared might be hiding in plain sight.

'Your classes sound fun,' I said.

'They're a good group. Though I'm losing control of the naming process.'

He showed me a margin note where someone had suggested renaming an exercise after a particularly disappointing biscuit. Beside it he had written, 'Discuss after class', as though postponement might restore order.

I laughed, then looked at him. 'I should have just asked what he was repeating.'

'You did eventually.'

'With quite a bit of attitude attached.'

'A little,' he said gently.

I appreciated him saying it. I had half expected reassurance that I had been perfectly charming, which would have let me avoid noticing how quickly I had become prickly.

'I don't want you thinking you need to explain your whole history because I got suspicious,' I said.

'I don't. But I would like you to ask me things instead of getting cross with a version of me I haven't met.'

That was fair enough to make me laugh at myself properly. I promised to try, without turning the promise into a dramatic announcement about personal growth. Treasurer would almost certainly interrupt a dramatic announcement, and for once I might have thanked him.

Joel put the folder away and asked whether I wanted another biscuit. I said yes. He offered the packet without commentary, which felt unexpectedly tactful given the evening's extensive discussion of snacks.

We finished our tea. I told the photocopier story properly. Joel gave it the laugh it deserved, which improved my opinion of both him and the evening.

When Joel took the cups to the kitchen, I stayed on the couch with my bag lying ungripped beside me. Treasurer studied me from his stand.

'We've reached an understanding,' I told him quietly.

He tilted his head. I decided not to ask for further testimony.

Joel returned and caught the end of my sentence. 'Are you negotiating with him?'

'Just establishing that I won't be taking relationship advice from him.'

'Wise. His longest commitment is to that teaspoon.'

I laughed and moved a little closer. The room had not changed: same books, same bird, same man. I was simply paying attention to the actual company now, and it was considerably nicer than the evening I had been constructing in my head.

Joel asked whether I wanted to stay a while longer. I said yes, then put my phone away so there would be no ambiguity about where my attention was going.

When he kissed me, Treasurer remained mercifully silent. Perhaps even an assistant instructor understood a break.

At the door later, Joel asked if I'd like breakfast on Sunday.

'Yes,' I said. 'But something simple.'

'Of course.'

From the living room came a piercing instruction.

'Give me the cheeky biscuit!'

Joel closed his eyes. I kissed his cheek.

'You heard your manager,' I said.