Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

by Lucy Dillon

  Was that it now? If it wasn’t a green day, it wasn’t worth it? He felt hurt. Even if she was joking, which he hoped she was, it still showed there was a timetable in her head, even when she was pretending to be spontaneous.

  He sank back into the pillows. Frantic sex on demand for half the month, nothing for the rest of it, and the dog putting up this dying routine until he was allowed on the bed – and then no sex at all?

  Johnny jumped as Natalie leaned over him and kissed his nose. ‘Don’t sulk,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a second. And just think – it’s all good practice for sleepless nights with the baby.’

  ‘If we ever have a baby,’ he muttered, but only once Natalie was out of the room.

  Natalie padded downstairs in her slippers, knowing she was breaking all the rules in the book by giving in to Bertie’s howling, but at the same time, telling herself – as the same book said – she was powerless to resist a ‘where are yooooouuu?’ pack-locating howl developed over hundreds of years.

  It was nature. And anyway, he was still settling in. Bertie had been through a lot in his short life. Plenty of time to get tough once he knew they weren’t going to abandon him too.

  She opened the kitchen door, and immediately the howling ceased, and the Basset hound rocketed into her arms, wagging his tail so hard he seemed to be jointed in the middle.

  How can you resist so much love, Natalie wondered, bending down so she could hug his warm, wrinkly body to her.

  ‘Hello, Bertie!’ she murmured into his neck, revelling in the adoring snuffles he was lavishing on any exposed skin. His coat had a biscuity smell that she was just getting used to. Megan had warned her that ‘hounds stink’ and had washed him before he left, but even with air fresheners in every room, you could still tell exactly where he was.

  Natalie didn’t mind. She could forgive Bertie anything when he gazed up at her like he was now, brimming over with love and gratitude for his new home, new attention, new start.

  He made her heart brim over too. At least now she felt as if all her maternal longing was going somewhere, touching another life and making it better.

  ‘Oh, you daft dog! You’ve got your bed all rucked up!’ In his distress at being left to sleep alone in a top-of-the-range leather basket, Bertie had dragged the cushion out, and left it near the door. Natalie bent down to tuck it all back in, and when she turned back, Bertie had vanished.

  She looked round for a second or two, confused, then heard the tell-tale clatter of claws on hardwood flooring. Natalie darted out of the kitchen, just in time to see the white tip of Bertie’s tail vanishing up the stairs.

  She set off after him. He wasn’t supposed to go upstairs – it was bad for his back. Not to mention their superiority as pack leaders.

  ‘Nat, is that . . .? Ooouf! Bloody hell!’

  That would be Bertie landing on the bed, she guessed, with a wry smile. It turned out that having legs like a piano stool’s wasn’t any obstacle to reaching up to grab titbits off the kitchen counter, or springing onto the sofa.

  Natalie entered the bedroom to see Bertie lounging regally on top of the white duvet, regarding her with adoring, if still tragic, eyes. She still couldn’t get used to his doleful face. Even when, as now, he’d got exactly what he wanted.

  ‘You let him upstairs!’ Johnny’s muffled voice was coming from somewhere beneath the dog. ‘I thought you said they weren’t meant to go upstairs? In your big book of rules?’

  ‘I know.’ She glared at Bertie who gazed back sadly. ‘It’s bad for your back, Bertie. And you might fall off and hurt yourself.’

  Bertie said nothing.

  She slipped into the bed, and the dog filled the gap between them before she could cuddle Johnny to her. Bertie stretched out his long neck onto the pillow so he lay between them like a bolster, his long brown ears splayed on each side.

  Not very hygienic, thought Natalie, but so lovable she couldn’t bear to move him. He obviously hadn’t had many pillows in his life up until now.

  ‘Just this once,’ she told him. ‘Tomorrow night, you sleep in the kitchen.’

  ‘And tonight he snores in our faces.’

  ‘He won’t snore,’ said Natalie, just as Bertie stretched out his legs and punched her in the face. She pushed them away. ‘Or rather, he won’t snore much worse than you do.’

  ‘All right for you to say that. You don’t have work to go to. You’re a lady of leisure.’ Johnny wriggled so his head was visible over Bertie’s. His hair was tousled and his face had a sleepy crossness that was almost as cute, in its own way, as Bertie’s.

  ‘Well, in that case do you want to waste more precious hours listening to him crying downstairs?’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny and rolled back onto his back, grabbing what duvet there was left underneath Bertie. ‘But I can’t cope with two duvet hogs.’

  Next to him, Bertie exhaled with supreme satisfaction.

  Zoe was listening to the sound of puppy breathing too, but she wasn’t asleep.

  She couldn’t sleep, which was why she was sitting on her sofa in her fleecy dressing gown at two-thirty in the morning, her hands cupped around a mug of cold coffee while she watched Toffee’s soft stomach rise and fall in his basket by the fireplace. It would have been nice to have him on her knee, but Zoe was trying really hard to follow the rules Megan had given her.

  Boundaries, she kept saying. Puppies and kids need boundaries. Zoe wished she had Megan’s easy authority with either or, ideally, both.

  At least he was asleep. It was typical that on the rare occasion she could drop off, safe in the knowledge that Toffee wasn’t trashing, chewing or peeing on something he shouldn’t, her head was buzzing with dilemmas that made it impossible for her to shut her eyes for more than a minute. Zoe had a lot to think about, all tangled up in her head like a knotted necklace and impossible to unravel.

  Bill. She couldn’t stop thinking about Bill, for a start. It was ludicrous to have a crush on someone you’d just met but once he’d installed her on Rachel’s sofa, they’d basically spent the rest of the afternoon chatting – to prove she wasn’t concussed, of course. He’d talked as much as she had, with plenty of non-concussion-related eye contact, and dropped some tentative hints about meeting up again with the dogs, maybe for lunch. Zoe wished she could just enjoy the first shivery daydreams of what could be something new, but a cloud was hanging over her.

  When she and Toffee had left, she’d realised that she hadn’t mentioned Spencer and Leo once. Should she make a clean breast of it about being divorced, with two boys? Or would telling him about the kids make it look like she was jumping the gun?

  The longer she left it, the more of a glaring omission it was going to look when she did get round to telling him. And the insidious night-time voice couldn’t help reminding her how luxurious it felt to have that brief hour when she was just Zoe. Not Mum or anyone’s ex. Just her again, for the first time in years.

  She pushed that to one side and took out the phone from under the cushion where she’d hidden it from herself.

  It was Spencer’s mobile, the bribe David had given him just before he left, even though Zoe had protested he was far too young. Her fingers moved on the keys before she could stop herself and there they were again: the Alton Towers snaps of David having as much fun as money could buy with the boys. They were bad enough on their own, but several of them featured Jennifer too, grinning away in the background, clearly trying really hard to be their best mate.

  She had very bad highlights. Zoe could tell they were expensive but cack-handed.

  Stop looking, she told herself, but it was useless. It was like picking a scab. Now Zoe knew the images were there, she couldn’t stop herself. Leo seemed happy enough, but Spencer’s face was shadowed with a gloom she knew very well, when he was trying his best to go along with things like a big boy, but was still too young to hide his discomfort.

  She forced herself to turn it off. David had taken those photos knowing she’d see t
hem. The conniving sod had framed his new girlfriend with his old sons, knowing Spencer would show her, to remind her that she wasn’t part of this family unit any more.

  Zoe put her hand to her mouth to stifle the painful sob that came out.

  She didn’t love David any more. She didn’t want to be with him; Jennifer and her bad highlights were welcome to him. But she didn’t want to lose her boys, just because she was too nice to fight dirty, like David did.

  She couldn’t bribe them. She couldn’t afford to. All she could do was love them, and how long was that going to hold up against weekends away, and puppies on demand?

  Toffee stirred, hearing the noise, and raised his soft head above the plastic rim of his bed. He looked sleepy and adorable, with his nose and eyes wrinkled up against the faint light.

  Zoe got up quietly, scooped the puppy out of his basket and brought him back onto the sofa, where she lay back with him in her arms. Instinctively, he snuggled into the crook of her neck and breathed his hot puppy breath into her ear.

  ‘Sometimes I think you’re the only simple thing in my life,’ she whispered. ‘You’re the only one who understands “no”. Even if you don’t always take any notice of me.’

  Toffee licked Zoe’s ear. She felt better.

  15

  The next morning, Megan’s tea knock on the door came, as usual, at half past seven, only for once Rachel didn’t spring upright. Something invisible was anchoring her to the pillow and it wasn’t Gem.

  It wasn’t the worst hangover she’d ever had, though the inside of her mouth felt parched and she wasn’t sure she should move her head without due consideration. It didn’t take much to lay her low these days. But despite the rough edges, Rachel felt a lingering sense of happiness, a flutter, almost, a bit like a birthday morning. What on earth had she got to be happy about?

  She rechecked, keeping her eyes shut.

  Oliver, dumped. Job, none. Probate, now done, but with a massive bill to come any moment. Kennels, nightmare of sick dog. George . . .

  Her eyes snapped open, and the good mood fluttered out of her grasp like a butterfly.

  George. Last night. It had been perfect, a real, promising date, right up until she’d got drunk and hauled him off to bed like a teenager home alone for the first time.

  Rachel sat up, ignoring the warning swells in her chest, and checked out the room. There was no sign of George, and her jeans and shirt from last night were piled onto the chair by the door. She looked down, and saw she was wearing an old yoga t-shirt that she’d thrown over the chair a few nights ago.

  Fragments of the previous evening drifted back across her cringing mind. The free-flowing conversation. Feeling like she’d known George for ever. That amazing, knee-melting moment where she’d kissed him, and felt his strong arm wrap around her waist when he kissed her back.

  And then it went blurry. She hadn’t been drunk, just that it had happened quite fast . . .

  Rachel dredged her memory ruthlessly for details. Now was not the time to go blurry.

  He’d carried her up the stairs, she still shivered at the thought of that. And when she’d pulled off the checked shirt, she’d been delighted that her guess about the cow-wrangling muscles had been spot on. And for a man who allegedly hadn’t had a girlfriend in years, he’d touched her with a confidence that had reduced her to a series of inarticulate gasps. But there were gaps. She didn’t remember falling asleep, for one thing.

  Oh God. Rachel covered her face. She hadn’t had a reckless one-night stand since she was at university. What kind of rebound cliché was she?

  There was another knock at the door.

  ‘Rachel? Tea?’ Megan sounded chirpy. ‘I’ve put two sugars in it this morning. Case you need it!’

  Rachel stared in horror as the sultry Dot on the wall seemed to wink at her. What time had George left? Had Megan seen him on her way in?

  ‘Or would you prefer a Berocca?’ Megan went on, in her helpful tone.

  I’ve got to get up before she thinks I’m a drunken slapper, thought Rachel, and with a superhuman effort, she hauled herself out of bed, grabbing her cashmere dressing gown and slinging it on in one movement.

  As she moved, she nearly fell over Gem, who was lying in his usual place by the door.

  Rachel’s stomach rolled. ‘Oh, great,’ she said, aloud. ‘Don’t tell me you were here the whole time? That would be . . . just weird.’

  She yanked open the door, and Megan handed her the mug of tea. She looked fresh as a daisy in a clean version of the sort of t-shirt Rachel was wearing, and cut-off denim shorts and Uggs. Sleeping over at her mate’s hadn’t affected Megan’s tea deliveries.

  ‘Morning!’ she chirped. ‘Looks like you had a good night!’

  Rachel ran a nervous hand through her hair, which she could see from the big oak-framed landing mirror was sticking up at all angles. How much did Megan know about last night? ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The pans! In the sink! Kitchen looks like a bomb’s hit it. I never had you down as a cook.’

  ‘I didn’t cook. George stayed for dinner and refused to eat what I was making,’ said Rachel, before any hinting could be done. ‘He stayed for a drink afterwards.’

  ‘Great!’ Megan lifted her eyebrows in what looked worryingly like an ‘And?’ gesture to Rachel.

  Pause.

  ‘And?’ prompted Megan.

  Rachel’s head throbbed, but underneath her embarrassment at what George must have made of her, she could still feel the delicious Christmas morning glow. The tiny smile at the corner of her lips gave her away, even if she hoped she sounded cool.

  ‘And nothing. We had a nice chat. He’s . . .’ He’s absolutely gorgeous. ‘He’s very good company.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t spend the night winding you up?’ said Megan. ‘Blimey. Listen, I’ll stick a bacon sarnie on for you.’ She turned to go. ‘Freda’s downstairs, wants your advice about seeing a show in London for Ted’s birthday, seeing as you’re our expert. Nothing with nudity or sudden flashes, please. Sets off his angina.’

  Rachel clutched her tea and leaned against the doorway as Megan trotted down the stairs with Gem. When she caught a second glimpse of her own reflection, she saw a dishevelled but happy woman she hadn’t seen in a while.

  By the time Rachel came downstairs, freshly showered and feeling more like herself, Freda had done all the washing up and had moved onto polishing the glassware. Rachel boggled at the array of pans now on the draining board, but knew the price of this domestic favour would be a rundown on the previous night.

  Megan was mixing up some rice and chicken for Chester, who was sniffing around the kitchen, significantly perkier than the previous evening, and she gave Rachel an apologetic smile in advance for the cross-questioning to come.

  ‘Did you have a nice night in?’ asked Freda, hanging the damp towel over the Aga rail.

  ‘Very, thanks,’ said Rachel. ‘Ooh, is that fresh tea?’

  ‘I hear George Fenwick popped over?’ Freda persisted with her casual expression.

  ‘Mm. He did. Chester wasn’t too well. How is he this morning, Megan?’

  ‘Oh, much better, actually! He was—’

  ‘I hear that’s not the only one George was looking after last night,’ Freda burst out, unable to resist any longer. ‘Good for you, love!’

  ‘I didn’t tell her,’ protested Megan as Rachel squawked. ‘She guessed. From the pans. She didn’t think you’d use that many to heat a Pot Noodle, no offence.’

  ‘So?’ Freda raised her plucked eyebrows.

  Rachel lifted her mug to her lips and had to smile at the expectant faces: Freda, Megan, Chester, and now Gem. ‘So, nothing. George cooked me dinner and stayed over because it was late.’

  Freda clapped her hands together. ‘Lovely! Oh, you deserve a decent man, love, if you don’t mind me saying, after what you’ve been through!’

  Rachel started to demur that Dot’s death really wasn’t that much of an ordeal, but saw Megan t
ry to shush Freda and knew she’d confided in her about her ‘abusive’ relationship. Her heart, which had lifted at the friendly delight they’d taken in her night in, sank. So much for her fresh start.

  ‘Don’t be cross with Megan for letting on, you’re among friends here, Rachel. Good for you for leaving,’ Freda went on, to both Rachel and Megan’s chagrin. ‘You can’t find Mr Right while you’re with Mr Wrong, as I said to our Lynne. In the days when I still saw her to advise, that is.’

  Rachel looked at Freda’s homely lined face, brimming with sympathy, and felt shabby. From now on, she told herself with determination, it’s honesty all the way. Apart from this.

  ‘We had a nice evening and I enjoyed getting to know him,’ she confessed, ‘but I don’t think George and I are at that stage yet. We just had dinner, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re a good match, you two,’ said Freda. ‘You’re the first one I’ve met will be able to give him what for. The only one he’ll let, too.’ She winked. ‘You might have to tell us the details, love, because we’re not going to get any out of George.’

  Megan suppressed a gurgle of horror, and Rachel aimed a friendly ‘tsk’ in her direction, surprised at how nice it was to be able to talk about her evening, instead of pretending it never happened, as she’d always had to in the past.

  It wasn’t her kitchen, not really, but she was starting to feel strangely at home.

  Throughout the morning, fragments of the previous evening floated back as Rachel’s thick head wore off, making her stop mid-kennel check, or mid-phone call, with a bittersweet tingle of pleasure mixed with mortification. It made her feel like a teenager, but even so she kept checking her mobile to see if he’d rung.

  He didn’t. He was, she told herself, running a busy veterinary surgery. And even if he wasn’t busy, George didn’t seem the type to follow up dinner with a bunch of flowers. Although, she argued, he didn’t seem the type for a one-night stand either – she didn’t know him well, but she felt quite sure of that much.