Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

by Lucy Dillon

  ‘Of course,’ he heard himself say. ‘Make the appointment.’

  Her face flushed with gratitude, and he felt mean that it was obviously such a big deal for her to ask. She grabbed his hands, and entwined her slim fingers round his. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But on one condition.’ Johnny tightened his grip and felt her wedding ring nip his skin. ‘Whatever these tests say, we still have each other, right? And we can be happy, just us. We’re not going to turn into those couples who go to dinner parties and talk about their . . .’ He cringed just thinking about it. ‘. . . their sperm samples or whatever.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Natalie’s eyes were shining, either with tears or something else. Determination. ‘Don’t be daft. But this time off . . . It’ll give us a good chance to try.’

  In that moment, Johnny had a rare flash of intuition: that while they were both saying the same thing, Natalie was already thinking something two or three steps ahead of where he was, and it worried him that he had no idea what that was.

  The front doorbell rang and she sprang to her feet. ‘That’ll be Rachel from the rescue now. Do you think I should be in my suit?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Does that make it look like I’m too fussy to have a dog? Hang on, I’m going to get changed. You let her in, and show her round. Make her a cup of tea or something.’

  Natalie darted out of the room and Johnny heard her stockinged feet thumping up the stairs.

  Johnny stared after her, bewildered. How on earth did women manage to go from emotional meltdown to worrying about the right clothes for a rescue shelter, in the space of ten seconds? How could she be more worried about whether the house was clean enough for a dog than she was about being made redundant? Shaking his head, he went back out to the hall and opened the front door.

  On the front step stood Rachel Fielding, clutching a clipboard. Johnny thought she looked a lot younger in her off-duty clothes than she had when they’d met earlier that week; her dark hair was ruffled out of its neat crop and she was wearing jeans, boots and some kind of shiny sixties jacket, and very little make-up apart from a slash of matte red lipstick.

  Johnny immediately felt nervous. Rachel wasn’t the sort of woman he was really used to; she had a London sort of gleam to her, something to do with the haircut (which Natalie loved and he thought looked weird), and the confident manner. She had a huge handbag, big enough to stow a small child in, and so weirdly studded he suspected it was fashionable. Nat would know.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, raising a hand – with dark blue nails. They looked freshly done. ‘I’m here to check out your house to see if it’s Bertie-proof?’

  ‘Come on in.’ Johnny stood back to let her pass and wondered when the assessment was going to start. Had it started already? ‘Should we have a catch on the door?’ he asked.

  ‘No! I mean, I don’t think so. Please don’t look so worried,’ she added. ‘It’s really not a big deal, just a quick look round.’

  ‘Try telling my wife that,’ said Johnny. ‘She’s Hoovered everywhere.’

  Rachel gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Seriously? Her Hoovering days are just beginning. I could restuff a sofa with the amount of hair Dot’s collie sheds in three days. Look.’ She showed him the checklist; question three was, ‘Does the new home have white carpets?’

  Johnny raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

  Rachel’s wide red mouth twitched humorously. ‘Megan says that anyone with white carpets and visible evidence of a Lakeland shopping habit should be gently steered towards getting some goldfish.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Johnny let out a deep breath. ‘Because between you and me, we’re not exactly . . .’

  ‘Not exactly what?’ Natalie came bounding down the stairs in a pair of jeans and a soft red shirt she’d had since college. ‘Hello, Rachel! Thanks for coming out so quickly!’

  ‘Well, thank you for ringing up about Bertie – we’re quite keen to get the dogs rehomed, as you know.’ Rachel smiled, glanced round the room, and made some swift ticks on her clipboard. ‘This really isn’t going to take up too much time. I don’t want to ruin your Friday night.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem, we were staying in anyway,’ said Natalie, surreptitiously moving a breakable glass ornament off the telephone table.

  Johnny peered over Rachel’s shoulder to see what she was ticking but Natalie shot him a ‘don’t!’ glare.

  ‘Do you want a cup of coffee while you’re looking round, Rachel?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Or a glass of wine?’

  ‘Thanks!’ Rachel followed Natalie into the kitchen, peering around as she went. ‘You’ll have to bear with me – this is the first check I’ve done. Normally you’d get Freda assessing your living conditions. I’m sure Bertie would be very happy to move in to this house. I know I would. Is that your garden? Sorry, but I’ve got to check for fences. Ooh, what a gorgeous kitchen!’

  Natalie beamed with pride. ‘Course, go ahead. Johnny, show Rachel outside while I make some coffee.’

  Johnny pretended to salute his wife, and extended his arm towards the back door, flicking on the outdoor lights. ‘After you.’

  Rachel walked round the perimeter of their flowerbeds, scribbling on her board as she went. Johnny followed her with a torch, and wondered how she was managing to walk on the grass in her boots, but kept his questions to polite enquiries about exercise and routines.

  Natalie was waiting with three perfect cappuccinos on the table when they got back in, the velvety foam neatly dusted with chocolate. She was proud of her coffee.

  ‘Wow!’ Rachel pulled an appreciative face as she took a sip. ‘That is the best coffee I’ve had since I got here.’

  ‘You should try the deli in town,’ said Natalie, always eager to help with information. ‘It looks a bit rough from the outside, but inside it’s much nicer. They’ve gone organic.’

  ‘I.e., they’ve put their prices up by fifteen per cent and they tell you the name of the cow who made the milk for your tea,’ explained Johnny. ‘Everything comes in a paper bag and is made by people called Rollo in Crediton.’

  Rachel smiled and somehow looked more like the girls Natalie saw at the book club. ‘Yes, but the problem is they don’t let dogs in. And I always seem to be dragging at least four around with me.’ She winked at Natalie in a long-suffering way. ‘Megan should say on this form of hers, what a great credit-crunch asset dogs are – you can’t go into shops any more! You’re going to be spending a lot of time at home or at the end of a lead!’

  ‘Fine with me!’ said Natalie. ‘I’m on sabbatical, as of Monday.’

  Rachel looked between them and tapped her pen against her lips. ‘I don’t mean to sound negative, but you don’t know how long that’s likely to be for, do you? It could be six months, or six weeks, or . . .’

  ‘It’s not going to be less than six months,’ said Natalie decisively. ‘I’ve got a couple of projects I want to work on.’

  Rachel turned her form sideways, so they could see what was written on it in Megan’s large handwriting. ‘Don’t take this as a personal slight, but Megan’s suggested you foster Bertie, since you’re not going to be at home for him full time. It’s just as helpful,’ she added quickly. ‘He hates being in kennels, and getting some house training will mean he’ll be much more adoptable. Is that OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ Natalie’s face was bright at the prospect of the challenge. ‘If it gets him out of the kennels, we’ll have made a difference to him.’

  Johnny glanced at her, concerned. ‘Nat, that’s not going to be so easy, you know. Having to give him up, if someone else . . .’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  Rachel looked pleased. ‘We’ll miss him, but he needs one-on-one attention. And rules. Like, strictly no counter-surfing, and definitely no sofas,’ she added, pointing at the notes. ‘Megan says you’ve got to be firm because his bones are still growing. No stairs or sofas until he’s two.’

  ‘Course. A
nd will there be the option to keep him permanently? If things change?’

  Rachel nodded, then stopped as Johnny turned the clipboard to read something.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing at Megan’s asterisked note. ‘ “Ask about kids” ’?

  ‘Oh, nuts. Sorry.’ Rachel grabbed the board back and her cheekbones turned red under her porcelain make-up. ‘I have to ask, but it feels a bit rude and I’d go mad if someone asked me. But Megan said I have to.’ She sighed. ‘Are you planning on having children in the next year or so?’

  Johnny and Natalie looked at each other.

  ‘I mean,’ Rachel went on, not quite seeing the unspoken exchange, ‘you’re a bit younger than me, but sometimes it feels as if the one thing people feel utterly at liberty to ask a woman is whether she’s having a child, whether she’s leaving it a bit late, whether she feels her career or her ability to have kids is more important. They wouldn’t ask about your religion, would they? Or your weight?’ She directed her eye-roll towards Natalie, who rolled her eyes back, sympathetically.

  Natalie hesitated, unable to tell a direct lie. ‘The thing is . . .’ she began.

  ‘Shall I make some more coffee?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Natalie. ‘Make mine a decaff. No, actually, go mad – I’ll have a full-caff one.’ She passed him her cup and went on talking to Rachel. ‘You don’t have any then?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t. But anyway, I still think it’s intrusive, and I’m only asking because Megan says dogs can get very upset at being pushed down the pecking order, and we’d hate to be making a complicated situation worse.’

  ‘Mmm, quite,’ said Natalie. ‘But it hasn’t bothered you, the kids thing?’

  Oh, Nat, shut up, thought Johnny but Rachel’s face didn’t change too much. There was just a brief pause, before she answered.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted. ‘But not for long. I work in PR, and there’s lots of travelling, short-notice stuff. I like my independence, doing my own thing.’ She grimaced, semi-seriously. ‘I’ve got to tell you, having a dog’s made me realise just what a pain in the arse it would be to have a baby. At least I can leave Gem with Megan. And I only need to pick up his poo twice a day.’

  Natalie laughed, her full throaty laugh. Johnny realised, as he gripped the espresso handle, that he hadn’t heard her laugh like that for months.

  ‘But you are thinking of kids?’ Rachel went on.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ said Johnny, before Natalie could leap in. He wanted Nat to know he’d meant it, about the tests. Even if it wasn’t what eager-to-please Nat thought Rachel wanted to hear for her notes. ‘But obviously it wouldn’t be for nine months,’ he added. ‘So that wouldn’t affect the fostering idea, would it?’

  ‘Not at all. Lovely,’ said Rachel. ‘Well, good luck!’

  She bowed her head to make a quick note, and Johnny wasn’t sure what he saw in her face.

  He knew what he saw in Natalie’s, though. Real happiness.

  And when he saw that, the faint cloud in Johnny’s heart lifted, and he smiled his guileless, loving smile across the kitchen.

  On the other side of town, in the terraced houses near the canal, Zoe glared at David’s new car and wondered where in Milton Keynes he was living, that he now needed a four-wheel-drive, all-utility sports vehicle that looked as if it was about to crush her battered Polo beneath its mighty wheels.

  David had arrived at eight on the dot to collect Leo and Spencer, and their new yappy best friend, along with all their stuff and the surprising amount Toffee needed too. It filled the boot of his flashy midlife-crisis-mobile, not that David seemed to mind, as the boys clamoured around his legs with news about school and their mates but mainly their puppy.

  Toffee was sitting in the boot, silently yelping his head off, and – Zoe hoped –having a clandestine wee on the upholstery. Toffee liked weeing in new places. According to Megan at the rescue, he’d weed in a few corners of their office, but was responding well to the strict on-the-half-hour programme she’d put him on. Since he’d been attending daycare, he’d already learned not to wee on people. He’d also learned the word ‘No’.

  Megan had taught her that, with Rachel. The three of them had practised saying, ‘No!’ and making policeman hand gestures, until even Zoe had managed to quell Toffee’s worst noises. Her ‘No!’ was now rating a 4/10 on Megan’s scale.

  ‘You’ve got to be firm,’ she’d said when Zoe reeled at the unfamiliar voice of authority coming out of her mouth. ‘Make boundaries. Stick to them! It’s what he needs.’

  Boundaries weren’t Zoe’s strong point, though. Now she drew a deep breath and forced herself to raise one with David.

  ‘I need some daycare money for the dog,’ she muttered, still trying to maintain the cheery expression the boys could see.

  ‘Daycare? For a dog? Speak to my solicitor.’ That was David’s new catchphrase, along with, ‘We need to go through the proper channels.’

  Zoe’s determination flagged. She’d been deflating slowly since last night, with Leo and Spencer’s eager discussion about the amazing rides they’d be going on with Dad. But she saw Spencer looking at her anxiously through the tinted glass, and reminded herself that she had every right to expect David to follow through on his stupid gestures.

  Zoe remembered Megan’s ‘firm voice’ pep talk, and made herself press on. ‘He’s a baby, he can’t be left alone all day, and you know I’ve got to work full time. Well, clearly you know I’ve got to work full time since you’ve just halved our maintenance.’

  David turned to her, with his placating smile spreading across his face, and put a hand on her shoulder: a gesture that used to make her feel safe and protected. The ‘everything’ll be fine’ gesture that now, she realised, meant absolutely nothing.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Zoe, it’s a dog! Can’t you just get a neighbour to look after it? I mean, come on,’ he said. ‘It’s hard times for everyone. I bought the thing – you have no idea how much one of those things costs!’

  ‘Toffee’s not a thing,’ snapped Zoe. ‘He’s a dog.’

  David half-smiled. ‘OK, whatever. He’s a dog.’

  Zoe forced herself to sound brisk and reasonable, like Rachel had when she’d told her what to say. ‘David, I’ve done a deal with the local kennels, for half the cost, but I need you to contribute. I can’t take it out of the maintenance, unless you’d rather I fed the dog, rather than the boys?’

  He reached into his pocket, and before she knew what he was doing, he’d pulled out his wallet and slapped a hundred quid into her hand. ‘There. Is that what you want?’

  ‘It’s not about that—’ she’d started, but he was opening the driver’s door of his brand-new car and, getting in, was ready to drive the boys away for their weekend of delights.

  ‘So,’ he called into the back, ‘who’s ready for a weekend at Alton Towers?’

  An awful thought struck Zoe as he slammed the door and started the engine.

  ‘Stop!’ She hammered on the window, and David buzzed it down, crossly. She could hear Radio 1 on the stereo, too loud. Too young and too loud.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Who’s going to be looking after Toffee while you’re living it up at Alton Towers?’ she demanded breathlessly.

  David widened his eyes so the boys wouldn’t be able to tell he was giving her his ‘shut up’ face. ‘What do you mean, who’ll be looking after him? We’ll take him with us, and leave him in the car in his cage thing. He’ll be fine. We’re only going to be there until, I don’t know, three-ish . . .’

  ‘He won’t be fine! He needs to go outside every hour at least.’ She had a horrible vision of a frantic Toffee, overheated, scared and lonely, sitting in his own mess in the back of David’s stupid new car, or worse, being dragged round on a lead, terrified by the crowds.

  David’s jaw dropped. ‘It’s a dog, Zoe, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Exactly! He’s not
a toy! I’m sorry, but Toffee will have to stay here,’ she said in a properly firm voice now. ‘I should have realised. Open the boot.’

  I can’t believe you’re doing this, Zoe told herself. You were about to have a dogless, childless weekend of almost complete sleep.

  ‘What? Don’t be so—’

  ‘Open the bloody boot!’ she roared.

  David’s expression hardened, and then he turned round in the car. ‘Sorry, boys, Mum says Toffee has to stay here with her. He can’t come too.’

  There was a howl of protest from the back seat. ‘Muuuuuuum!’

  Zoe steeled herself. ‘I’m sorry, Spencer, but it’s too noisy for Toffee. He’ll be here when you come home.’ She struggled to open the heavy tailgate, and lifted Toffee’s travelling box from the back of the car.

  Two adoring brown eyes gleamed at her through the wire mesh of the crate and she felt a stab of relief that Toffee wouldn’t be trapped in there for the rest of the weekend. He’d have cried, she knew. And had to sit in his own vomit and poo, and done all sorts of things that would probably have ruined Jennifer’s house in hundreds of satisfying ways, but which her soft heart couldn’t let him go through just to teach David a lesson.

  Spencer gave the back of David’s seat an almighty kick. ‘It’s not fair!’

  ‘Spencer! Don’t kick the seat! It’ll mark!’ snapped David, then, in a change of tone, he added, ‘Please, mate.’

  That’s not half of what one hyperactive puppy would have done to it, Zoe thought.

  She walked round to the driver’s window, feeling a strange new determination. ‘And if they come back here with so much as a plastic duck, I will be on to my solicitor,’ she hissed, then raised her voice so the boys could hear her.

  ‘See you on Sunday, lovely boys!’ she called. ‘Be good for Daddy!’