by Lucy Dillon
Zoe could barely breathe for outrage. Routine? After he’d destroyed every scrap of routine they knew? There was so much wrong with this that she didn’t know where to begin. The trouble was, she knew she had thirty seconds flat before he passed the buck onto her and screeched out of the boys’ lives for another week.
‘Maybe you should come in and have a cup of tea and we can talk about this,’ she managed, but already David was looking shifty.
‘I’d love to but I’ve got to make tracks. Jennifer’s got plans for this evening. She’s been away all week and we need to, you know . . . catch up.’ He said it in an unnecessarily euphemistic way and Zoe felt her chocolate biscuit repeating on her.
‘Oh? She’s been away?’ At least she wasn’t muscling in on the boys’ weekend, she told herself. At least there’s that.
‘Yes,’ said David, meeting her gaze with a certain amount of smug confidence. ‘But I thought it might be nice if she came along with us when we go to Alton Towers next time. We might even bring her two, though they’re a bit older. Make it a family outing.’
Zoe’s mouth went dry. ‘We need to talk about that. About how we explain new relationships to the boys. Didn’t the counsellor say it’s best to leave it until they’re OK with the idea of the divorce? Are you sure it’s the right time? Do you even know Jennifer’s children?’
‘It’s been a year, Zoe,’ David interrupted her with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ve all got to move on. And I don’t like the implication that Jennifer is some kind of flash-in-the-pan rebound thing. We’re very serious about each other.’
Zoe took a deep breath and tried to quell her rising panic. This wasn’t the time. The boys were squealing, there was a whimpering noise coming from the back of the car, she hadn’t even thought about the prospect of Alton Towers so soon after Legoland. There was enough hysteria in the house as it was. ‘David,’ she said, as emphatically as she could. ‘This is something we need to discuss properly, not something you throw at me two minutes before you drop the kids off.’
The trouble was, Zoe was confrontation-phobic with a heart softer than melted ice cream. And David knew it – he’d always known it. That was precisely why he was doing this.
‘Spencer! Come out of the road!’ she called. ‘Leo! Be careful! Get on the pavement, please. Both feet.’
The boys peered impishly from behind the back of the car. It was obvious something was up. How can I possibly take care of a puppy, as well as two kids and a job, wailed the voice in Zoe’s head.
She looked at David. ‘I can’t deal with a puppy. Why do you always make me the one who has to say no?’ Her voice sounded strangled.
‘So don’t say no,’ said David, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Bye, boys! Are you going to come and give Dad a cuddle?’
‘Mum! Look!’ Leo thrust something into her arms and instinctively Zoe grabbed hold of the wriggling golden puppy. It was warm and soft, and heavy like a baby, with a seal-smooth coat and huge brown eyes that looked up at her with absolute trust. It made a whimpering noise and tried to lick her hand.
Oh no, she thought, doing her best to harden her heart. No. You don’t get me like that.
‘His name’s Toffee,’ said Leo. ‘Isn’t he cute?’
Spencer was saying his goodbyes to David, with hugs and hair rufflings, and Zoe’s sharp ears caught more promises than she wanted to hear. The promises were worse than the sugar overload, in terms of comedowns.
She looked at Leo, who was gazing up at her expectantly from his still-too-big jacket. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s gorgeous. But, Leo, don’t you remember we had a talk about dogs, and how it wouldn’t be fair to . . .’
‘Come and say bye-bye to your dad!’ David was holding out his arms from the other side of the car and Leo rushed round, with a quick backwards glance of apology in her direction.
It broke Zoe’s heart, watching the boys dole out scrupulously fair amounts of love to each parent on handover days.
The puppy whimpered again, and Zoe realised she’d squeezed it without thinking. She wondered if she was holding it right. How old was it? She’d never had a dog before. What were you meant to do with them?
The practical side of her brain, the side she’d never known was there till she had kids, was already making lists – did they bring a book? What about its stuff? Where was it going to sleep? – and she realised that the window in which she could make David take this dog back and have it live with him and Jennifer was rapidly vanishing.
Her beautiful boys were waving David goodbye, their eyes full of tears they weren’t quite old enough to hide, and he was slinking into his car and revving the engine, and then suddenly, he was pulling away, and she was left with two hyperactive boys, all their washing and a Labrador puppy.
Zoe felt something warm and wet on her hands.
A Labrador puppy that had just weed on her.
Bloody, bloody David.
5
Rachel woke to the sensation of morning sun and warm breath on her face and assumed she was in bed with Oliver, in her own flat, in London. The house and the dogs? It must all have been a weird dream.
Her heart flooded with relief, but when she opened her eyes, it wasn’t Oliver’s come-to-bed expression she saw, but a long black nose, and – when her eyes focused properly – two ice-blue eyes.
Gem was standing with his paws on the duvet, leaning over her anxiously and making faint whiny noises. Rachel realised with horror that he’d been licking her. She could feel a dog hair on, or up, her nose.
‘Urgh!’ Rachel sat up, rubbing her face, and immediately he dropped back onto the floor and retreated to the far corner of the room, where he regarded her balefully.
‘That. Is. Disgusting. Is that how everyone wakes up round here?’ she demanded.
Gem said nothing.
Rachel sank back into the pillows and stared sightlessly at the chalk sketch of a sultry dark-haired woman that hung on the wall opposite.
She was definitely not in London. She’d been here three days now, and she hadn’t even started on the sorting out, let alone reading the file on probate Gerald had given her. All she’d done was call the estate agent to value the house and lie to Val about searching for the bloody silver brushes.
Rachel let her gaze trail listlessly around the room, wondering if checking out the heavy Victorian furniture and unusual trinkets counted as getting on with sorting out the valuation of the house contents. Her attention was dragged back to the heavy-lidded femme fatale on the opposite wall, her proud expression burning out from under a backcombed bouffant of jet-black hair.
Might keep that, thought Rachel. It looked quite a lot like her, when she did the full make-up job on her brown eyes. It was signed with a squiggle, and Paris, 1966.
She wondered what time it was, although that wouldn’t make much difference since everyone seemed to operate on Country Hours here. George Fenwick had dropped by at nine a.m. yesterday to give her a lecture about the importance of moving some of the rescue dogs out of the kennels and into new homes. She’d been in her pyjamas at the time, and Megan had had to drag her out of bed specially, but that hadn’t apparently struck him as a reason to come back later.
‘You can’t afford to have them sitting here scoffing themselves silly,’ he’d pointed out while eating the breakfast Freda Shackley had put under his nose. ‘You’re the PR expert – how hard would it be for you to do a nice little campaign to shift them on? It’s what Dot would have wanted – new homes for her old dogs. That is part of your duty as executor.’
‘I’ll put it on my list,’ Rachel had said. Her lists were now epic. But apart from lying on the bed feeling numb for hours on end, the only time she left the house – at Megan’s suggestion – was to trudge round the fields outside the house with Gem, during which she’d rehearsed all the brilliant and devastating things she would say to Oliver if he ever dared show his face round here.
Rachel had made herself cry several times. Gem had
said nothing but had lain with his head on her lap for the first time when they’d got in.
Downstairs, she could hear distant barking and the bang of the front door, which heralded the arrival of the volunteer walkers. In the brief flashes when she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself, Rachel did feel bad about letting Megan do everything. But then seeing the volunteers in their bright parkas and boots appear and disappear from the kitchen, chatting away as the eager dogs hauled them towards Longhampton Common, made her want to hide away even more. They were all so nice, so sympathetic – and so sad that she was apparently so devastated about her aunt’s death that she was laid up in bed with grief.
That was the worst part of her broken heart: she couldn’t confess it to anyone. It was too messy. Worst of all, it was entirely her own fault and she’d made zero plans for the inevitable devastation to come.
Where am I meant to go? Rachel wondered, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. What am I supposed to do now? What’s the point?
There was a faint knock on the door.
‘Rachel?’
It was Megan and the cup of tea she brought every morning to lure Rachel out of bed.
‘Rachel, are you awake?’
Gem got up on his soundless paws and slunk to the door, cocking his head as if telling her to get the hell up.
‘Um, yes.’ Her voice cracked and she coughed. ‘Yes, just . . . checking my emails.’
She hoped Megan wouldn’t point out that Dot didn’t have any sort of internet connection.
‘Great! I’ve brought you a cup of tea. Thing is, I need a hand with the walking,’ Megan went on. ‘One of the usual girls is sick, and I can’t take all the guys out at once. Do you mind?’
Rachel flopped back into the pillows. ‘I’m not feeling great this morning . . .’
‘Really?’
‘I’ve got a . . .’ Rachel’s eyes skated around the room. ‘I’ve got a stack of urgent emails. Um, it’s the tax year coming up.’
‘Ah, fair enough.’ There was a pause. ‘But fresh air’s just what you need to clear your head! And I know the guys would appreciate it. And it’ll be good for Gem to get an extra walk, you know? He needs his mind taking off . . . well, you know.’
Rachel could virtually see Megan’s indefatigable Aussie smile through the door. She also spotted the way Gem’s ears had twitched at the mention of the word ‘walk’.
I’ve got to go to the bank, she thought. And I need some more wine. Might as well.
‘OK,’ she said, throwing back the covers so she had no choice. Give me ten minutes.’
Megan was down in the kitchen, checking rotas on a clipboard, when Rachel emerged in the least smart clothes she could find in her overnight bag.
On the big table was the biggest bacon sandwich she’d seen in years, and next to that was Freda Shackley, looking perky in a fleece-lined gilet and matching carnation slacks. When Rachel walked in she gave her a toothy smile.
‘Hello, love!’ she said. ‘Ready to join the second shift of the day?’
‘Second shift?’ said Rachel. She glanced at the wall clock; it was only just past ten.
‘Oh, yes, Ted’s been round the park with me, and he’s back in the café now. He likes to get a good lap in, first thing,’ said Freda. ‘Opens up his system, he says. Sends me back for round two, to get me out from under his feet!’
‘What happened to those retirement plans?’ asked Megan, highlighting something on her clipboard.
‘He’ll retire when he’s dead, he says.’ Freda sighed. ‘Says Sunday’s the best time to be open for fried breakfasts. Religion, DIY and a full English. Biggest Sunday sellers.’
‘Ted and Freda have the Italian café in the high street,’ explained Megan. ‘With the black and white sunshade? Have done since when, Freda?’
‘Since 1912. Shackley’s served fry-ups through two World Wars.’ Freda’s plump mouth drooped sadly. ‘Though some days I wonder how much longer, what with our Lynne in New Zealand and that new deli place opening up and me and Ted not getting any younger.’
‘You’ll see us all out,’ said Megan. ‘You just need a new doggie to keep you young.’
Rachel sensed another long-running conversation.
‘There’ll be no replacing our Pippin,’ said Freda, decisively. ‘It’s not fair, with us being so old . . .’
‘Get away with you. Rachel, that’s for you?’
Rachel looked at the sandwich and felt her mouth water. ‘For me?’
‘Yeah! We make bacon sarnies for all the volunteer weekend walkers, it’s part of the deal. Can’t have you going out on an empty stomach.’ Megan ticked her list, and dispensed some Bonios to the dogs. ‘While you’re eating that, let me give you a quick rundown of how it all works.’
Rachel hesitated. Normally she didn’t eat bread – rather, she didn’t let herself keep it in the house – but this smelled delicious. And after all, it wasn’t like she’d be squeezing herself into any of Oliver’s La Perla lingerie any time soon. Before she could stop herself, she’d picked it up and had taken a delicious, ketchup-oozing bite. Her tastebuds reeled in delight.
‘You’re OK with a couple of dogs, aren’t you?’ Megan went on. ‘Gem’s no bother, he doesn’t need a lead, but he’s training Tinker and Flash to walk to heel. They’re just getting used to it, never been on a lead before. Came in from some woman in Rosehill, bit of a BYB, George reckons.’
‘BYB?’
‘Oh, sorry. Backyard breeder.’
Freda made a clucking noise, and looked up at Rachel, her kindly face wreathed in disapproval. ‘Some of these poor mites that come in – never been for a walk in their lives. Barely even been out of the shed where they’re kept, tied up like puppy machines. It makes me want to . . .’
‘Freda, don’t put Rachel off!’ said Megan. She shot a glance at Rachel. ‘We don’t often get serious cases like that. These two aren’t so bad, honestly. They’re both Westies, George brought them over a few days ago. He sometimes gets a tip-off, about breeders wanting to offload dogs – not everyone who has dogs is a dog lover, sadly.’
‘And he brings them here?’ He’s got a nerve, lecturing me about keeping an eye on the business side of things and not being a soft touch, she thought.
‘Yeah, Dot always took them in. We love them, poor scared darlings. They just need a bit more TLC than your usual hand-in. Are you ready to go?’
Rachel realised she’d demolished the sandwich in about three bites. Until then, she’d had no idea just how hungry she was but now she thought about it, she hadn’t had a full meal since . . . ten days ago. Since the quick supper she’d thrown together just before Oliver came round and set off the hideous train of events.
‘There’ll be more when you get back,’ said Freda, arranging her Dog World, her mobile and the pot of tea next to her. ‘Any emergencies, I’ll call you. Have I got your number?’
She looked at Rachel, who started to say that her phone wasn’t charged but Megan unplugged something from the wall and passed it over.
‘I charged it up for you,’ she said helpfully. ‘Same one as mine. Coincidence, eh?’
Rachel turned it on, and immediately it bleeped with messages. Fifteen missed calls, ten texts. That was why she’d let it go flat. ‘Um, thanks.’
‘Off you go!’ said Freda. ‘Don’t miss this lovely sunshine!’
Megan pressed some bits and pieces into Rachel’s hands. ‘Poobags, treats, whistle, lead, sweets for yourself.’ She smiled. ‘Welcome to the world of dog walking!’
Outside in the apple orchard, the air was crisp, and on the bare branches of the trees there were pale green buds, against a bright blue sky flooded with sunlight.
As Megan had predicted, Rachel did feel better for the fresh air filling her lungs, and though her legs initially protested, waddling along in Dot’s spare wellington boots, she found keeping up with Megan’s brisk pace pumped more than just blood round her body. It seemed to make her brain tick over, and for the first
time in days one thought led to another instead of round and round in a constricting loop.
They were mainly thoughts about where she was putting her feet so as not to tread on the two nervous little white terriers, but it was a start.
Four Oaks sat at the top of the hill like a child’s drawing of a house – a perfectly symmetrical box, with four big six-pane windows in white frames, two upstairs, two down, with a circular porthole above the red front door, and scribbles of climbing ivy all across the front. It had a panoramic view down towards Longhampton’s modest spread of streets, and Rachel could see the Victorian town hall spire rising above the distant roofs as she and Megan headed out of the orchard onto the footpath.
Though the market town was quite busy, from what she remembered, the landscape quickly turned rural beyond the kennels: the lane running past the back gate went towards the town one way, and out into the thick woodlands the other, after which were fields of cows and the beginnings of some unassuming hills.
‘We usually do this loop that goes through the wood, down to the town, around the park and back,’ said Megan, setting off on a bridle-path hedged with rowan and gorse. She was steering four dogs on two double leads like a charioteer. ‘If you want, I’ll throw some balls while you have a quick run round, and do any shopping you need? Quite a few shops are open today.’
‘Thanks.’ Rachel looked down at her black Joseph trousers, now tucked into the boots for protection. ‘I could do with getting some spare clothes. I didn’t bring much that’s up to dog walking.’
‘I’ve got to warn you, the shops won’t be what you’re used to in London.’ Megan smiled. ‘Maybe you should ask George what sort you should get, since he’s the one who seems so concerned about them?’
‘I don’t take fashion advice from a man who wears red trousers,’ said Rachel, spurred into a better mood by the spring air. ‘They’ve been illegal since 1938 in most parts of Britain.’
Megan giggled. ‘I’ll tell him that, shall I? It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine. Oi, Tinker! Out of there. Just pull him gently, Rachel.’
