The Dog Sitter: The new feel-good romantic comedy of 2021 from the bestselling author of The Wedding Date!

by Zara Stoneley

  The Dog Sitter

  Zara Stoneley

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2021

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover illustration © Sam Kalda / Folio Art

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  Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008436247

  Ebook Edition © February 2021 ISBN: 9780008436230

  Version: 2020-11-17

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by Zara Stoneley

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  For Heather, every dog’s best friend!

  Chapter One

  ‘Where on earth are you?’ Georgina sounds stressed; she’s got that high-pitched edge to her voice that suggests the next stop is hysteria. It’s nothing compared to how I feel. If she thinks waiting for me is stressful, then she should be in this bloody car. ‘It’s after 2 p.m.!’

  Yeah, right. Don’t I know it. I’m hot, bothered, tired, sweaty and need a wee. I should have arrived at Georgina’s place hours ago, not still be stuck in an over-heated, stuffy and smelly car.

  This has to be my worst nightmare. Well, next to worst. I can’t ignore the Teddy incident.

  It’s amazing what crazy ideas you come up with when you’re stressed, depressed and feel like your life is crap, isn’t it?

  I must have completely lost my marbles, why did I think this would be a good idea? Relaxing? Inspiring? Hahaha!

  Also, why did I believe my satnav and think I’d have a chilled drive and arrive with bags of time to spare?

  In my dreams I should now be sitting on the terrace, sipping a gin and tonic as I look out at the magnificent view that my temporary home has to offer, and considering myself very lucky.

  ‘I know, I know, I’m really sorry, I’m nearly there. I think.’ I mutter the last two words under my breath and hope she doesn’t hear.

  For the last fifteen or so minutes (it feels more like hours) I have been following a dirty old cattle lorry, which is spurting liquid out every time it goes around a bend in the road. There have been lots of bends. I have a horrible feeling it is liquid manure. I have been behind it for miles. Lots of miles.

  ‘Well, I’ve got t—’

  ‘Oh my God! Shit, shit, shit!’

  ‘Becky, Becky? What’s happened?’

  I can’t answer. I’m too busy waving my arms around, hanging on to the steering wheel and trying to get rid of whatever has just come through the open window.

  Something disgusting has landed on my face, on my lips. I think some of it has gone in my open mouth. I mustn’t swallow, I must not close my mouth. I need to stop talking.

  ‘Becky! Are you still there?’

  Oh hell, I’m going to dribble, my mouth is full of saliva. I mustn’t dribble down my brand-new jeans.

  I need to stop or spit out of the window.

  Oh bugger. I need to do something quick! I brush the back of my hand over my open mouth, then swipe it across my cheek. ‘Yes, sure. Still here.’ Oh my God. I stare at my hand in horror, then try not to. I need to watch the road. But my hand is green, it’s slimy. I’m going to retch. ‘Oh my God, this is disgusting. It’s cow shit.’ Don’t wipe it down your leg Becky, do NOT wipe it on your jeans.

  I’d been doing fine until Georgina distracted me and made me forget about keeping my distance. Bloody hell, the countryside is stinky. Never have I needed wet wipes more. Or the loo. I really need the loo. Why didn’t I stop at the last services on the motorway?

  ‘Cow shit? Where?’ She sounds confused.

  ‘On my hand, my…’ eurgh, this is stomach-churning, ‘… face.’ Nightmare. I need a pee and I need disinfectant.

  There is a long silence. She’s probably wondering exactly what kind of weirdo she’s entrusted her home and dog to.

  ‘Came through the window.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wi—ow.’ I’m talking awkwardly through a slightly open mouth with my tongue out. I daren’t shut it properly, who knows what lingers in there? I lick the palm (shit-free side) of my hand. It looks clean. Phew. I take a sniff. It smells clean. I do another lick to be sure.

  This is good. Maybe it’s not as bad as…

  Oh Christ, it’s on my steering wheel! And my dashboard!

  There’s a honk of a horn which makes me realise it’s not a good idea to let go of the wheel. I swerve back into my lane, then glance into my rear-view mirror ready to give an apologetic wave.

  Eurgh, it’s on my nose. I’m sure I can see some on my nose. I lean in as close as I dare to the mirror and nearly run into the back of the lorry. ‘I’ve got to stop.’ I stick my tongue out as far as it will go and try to look at it in the rear-view mirror while still keeping an eye on the road.

  I think it’s clean, but I daren’t swallow, just in case.

  This is worse than spotting a giant spider in the car when you’re driving at seventy miles an hour on the motorway and can’t just bale out. ‘Oh no, it’s on my T-shirt, this is one of my best, oh bugger,’ I say through the bubbles of saliva in my mouth. I feel like crying. ‘Does it stain?’ Of course it stains. I’m sure it stains. Horribly. And never comes out.

  ‘You can’t stop, Becky! You’ve got to get here. You promise
d you’d be here before I have to leave for the airport! Shut your window!’ Georgina shouts as though this will solve everything.

  ‘I will be there!’ Oh FFS, if she’d shut up things would be a lot easier.

  I have to calm down, she has to calm down. Deep breaths. But not the type where you inhale the stinky air. Or swallow anything unmentionable that might still be in your mouth.

  Okay, I will be calm, I will explain. ‘I had to open my window, my aircon is blowing out hot air!’ I try blowing out like they tell you to when you’re giving birth. Not that I’ve ever given birth, but it’s on TV a lot. It works. Always.

  It is not working. I’m going to scream at her in a minute.

  ‘Well, if you’re not here soon I’ll have to leave the key next door,’ Georgina hisses, which doesn’t help my calmness. ‘I’ve got a bloody plane to catch!’

  Smile. If you smile when you talk you sound happy. Unless your teeth are clenched. ‘Fine.’ I don’t think I sound happy. There is silence on the other end. I think she’s hung up. This house-sitting lark has not got off to a good start. Maybe the Lake District isn’t the answer to my problems.

  The phone rings again, and I reluctantly answer. ‘Sorry about that, I’m stressed.’ Her voice is tight. ‘I wanted to show you stuff, there’s things I wanted to explain, right?’ There is a distinct whine to her voice that I didn’t notice when I spoke to her the other day. Then, she sounded completely confident about everything.

  Maybe she’s scared of flying and the thought is stressing her out. Or she’s just worried about her house and pet sitter. Totally understandable.

  ‘Sure.’ I try to stop looking at the sludge-coloured stains and sound understanding. ‘I should be there soon; my satnav says twenty minutes?’ Hah, my satnav has proved to be way too optimistic about this journey.

  She can’t change her mind though? Surely it’s too late?

  I think this is half the problem: right now, we’re both wondering if we’ve done the right thing, but neither of us really have a choice.

  It is too late.

  My own house-sitter will already be rifling through my cupboards saying, ‘WTF do you do with this?’ (I like kitchen gadgets – you know those bits of plastic you see advertised that you can’t resist, then two weeks later can’t remember what they do?) then be settling down in front of my TV – so I don’t have a home to go back to. And Georgina has a plane to catch. She needs somebody to look after her house and her dog. She can’t pull out. Neither of us can. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’m honestly going as fast as I can.’

  She sighs. ‘This is so bloody inconvenient; I’ll have to write a note for you in case you don’t get here in time!’

  ‘I’m sure I will, I did set off ages ago, I’ve been up since 5 a.m.’ I have. There just weren’t enough hours in the day yesterday to do everything (including work) plus to clean and tidy my flat, and pack, so I was up early.

  ‘Really?’ Georgina sounds disinterested.

  Drinking at this time might be something some people would disapprove of, but boy could I do with a stiff gin and tonic right now. Why didn’t I pack a cooler box?

  Except I am driving, so that would be totally unacceptable.

  Honestly though, when Georgina had said she needed a house-sitter ‘urgently’ she’d meant it. Within a couple of hours of my saying I was interested, she’d checked over the references that are on the house-sitting website, sent me the postcode and told me which route to ignore on the satnav. Not only that, but she’d demanded I be there by 3 p.m. the day after tomorrow as she’d got a plane to catch, or the deal was off. She didn’t mention any hazardous bio-waste that I might encounter en route.

  Anyway, I wanted the deal to be on. I really wanted it to be on. I needed it to be on. This was the first thing I’d done just for me, without having to ask anybody else’s opinion – for ages. It had to be right, I had to believe it would be.

  I had to believe that this would ‘fill my creative well’ and make me feel better about life.

  I needed to escape from my current reality for a while.

  So, I said ‘great’.

  Things have not been going well for a while.

  You know when you finally think ‘hey, I’ve got life sussed’, then find out you’ve been kidding yourself completely? That.

  Just before Christmas I had a reality check. I found out that my life wasn’t the life I thought it was.

  Like you do when your bastard boyfriend sacks you then dumps you.

  Or was it the other way around?

  Anyway, unimportant, I mean, what the actual fuck?

  Being sacked would have been a big enough slap in the face at any time, but when it’s your boyfriend doing it, and then he follows up with ‘and I don’t think our relationship is working either’, it’s a double whammy. Apparently, demanding explanations is completely unsexy. A turn-off. Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down.

  What kind of boyfriend tells you your work sucks after you’ve spent the last six months compromising and not doing the type of stuff you really want to do because he says full-on supportive shit like ‘this is where it’s at’ and ‘trust me, I know exactly what you need to do’ and ‘you might not be top-notch yet, but I can help even a novice like you get some brilliant commissions’?

  The kind of boyfriend that your family try to warn you off. That’s what kind.

  The sort that you know your sister Abby calls a dickhead under her breath when she thinks you can’t hear, the sort that makes your mate ask you why you listen to him, and the sort that your mum tells you to get away from.

  I knew better. They just didn’t understand him. I knew that they’d warm to him. I told them he was lovely.

  I took his side because I knew he was trying to help me. He knew what he was talking about and they didn’t. When he told me that the work I was doing wasn’t brilliant he wasn’t being nasty or unsupportive, he was being the opposite. It was constructive criticism. He was helping me.

  I mean, I knew him, didn’t I? I loved him. I knew he was not at all self-centred, egotistical or controlling. Definitely.

  Arghhh. Why does your mother always have to be right?

  Anyway, the whole Teddy fiasco hit back in December. What is worse was that January, February, March and April have passed me by and nothing has changed for the better. I have been stuck in a rut. A deep, dirty, unproductive, self-destructive rut.

  So, when Mum rang the other day and said yet again, ‘You do sound a bit out of sorts, darling. You need a break!’, my automatic response might have been, ‘I’ve got a deadline, I can’t just drop everything!’ but I realised she had a point. It was nearly the end of May and I needed to get a grip.

  I’d woken up that morning with this feeling of dread. You know, this hollow, empty feeling inside where you don’t want to get up and face yet another day. Then I’d dragged myself to my desk with a coffee and just stared into space for a while with absolutely no sense of excitement. Which isn’t the normal me at all, I’ve always loved my job as a book cover designer and illustrator – that’s why I do it.

  I also used to quite enjoy life.

  Until Teddy burst my bubble and told me that my work had moved from ‘mediocre’ to ‘lost cause’.

  ‘Nonsense, Becky.’ Mum could be persistent. ‘Nobody is indispensable. I mean, even Abby has time off!’ Even Abby, fancy that.

  I’d been avoiding talking to Mum a bit, if I’m honest. And Abby. And Dad, and my brother Daniel. Well, we’d stopped chatting as much because I just knew they didn’t approve of Teddy. Then when we split, it was just added pressure.

  I mean, how could I compete with my brother and sister, who never put a foot wrong and were all sorted – like you should be at my age.

  ‘Did you know Abby and Ed came around at the weekend to celebrate going out together for three years? Three years! Goodness, doesn’t time fly?’

  I didn’t know. I’d stopped joining in with the family Sunday lunches after
Teddy was rude about the ‘supermarket wine’ and Dad called the ‘experimental and innovative’ cover design Teddy wanted me to do, ‘a bit weird’ and asked why I wasn’t painting animals anymore like I always said I wanted to. I tried to explain I’d grown up, and needed to be more commercial, Teddy kept saying ‘Really? How chocolate box!’ and laughing (he likes ‘cutting edge’ not cuddly), and it all became so bloody awkward and embarrassing that it was easier to take a step back.

  Anyhow, back to that conversation with my mother.

  ‘Wow, really Mum? Three years?’

  ‘Yes, three years! Oops, sorry darling, didn’t mean to sound insensitive. No new man on your horizon yet?’ There was a hopeful lift of her voice at the end of the sentence.

  ‘I told you, I’m not looking, Mum. I don’t need a man to make me complete.’ Maybe to put up a few shelves because I don’t own an electric drill and would rather spend the money on practically anything else, but that’s it. And maybe to scratch that itch between my shoulder blades, but that’s what chopsticks are for isn’t it?

  ‘Ah, never mind, you’ll find somebody! You’re not seeing Teddy again?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a long pause. ‘Good, as long as you’re not just hanging on to see if he comes back.’