Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

by Lucy Dillon

  If Spencer had decided to play up for attention, Leo had gone completely the other way, and was happy to be put to bed as soon as he’d had his bath.

  ‘Am I a good boy?’ he murmured as Zoe tucked him into his duvet, his eyes closing in the baby-powdery darkness.

  ‘Yes, you’re my good boy,’ she replied, her heart aching. He was asleep by the time she pressed a quiet kiss on his forehead – or else he was pretending really well.

  Zoe let Spencer stay up an extra ten minutes, ‘because he was a big boy’, but really so she could have a quiet moment to herself with him.

  They sat cuddled up together on the sofa, listening to one of his story tapes while Toffee slept between them, curled on Zoe’s lap, but with his paws on Leo’s leg. Their breathing seemed to mingle in a soft puppy/child smell that Zoe loved. She tried to imprint Spencer’s sleepy face on her mind, the way his still baby-soft hair curled around his ear, the nectarine sheen of his perfect skin. He wouldn’t be curling up on her knee for much longer, but for now he was still her baby. It was impossible to imagine him lashing out in frustration, this docile angel in her arms.

  She stroked his head, still warm from the bath. ‘Spence, you’d tell me if you were unhappy, wouldn’t you?’

  He said nothing, and she wondered if he was asleep.

  ‘You can tell me everything, because I love you,’ she went on. ‘I’ll always love you. So will Daddy. It doesn’t matter what happens, because you’ll always be our most precious thing in the whole world.’

  He didn’t reply and she felt relieved she’d been let off explaining something she didn’t totally understand herself, how she and David had loved each other so passionately once, and then almost immediately the babies had come along like a sign that it was perfect and meant to be. And then they’d found more and more to dislike about each other until he’d preferred to be at work – with Jennifer. She didn’t understand, and she was the grown-up.

  Her gaze fell on the photograph of her and David, and Spencer and Leo, on a model railway, up in the Lakes. The last family holiday they’d had. It seemed like it had happened to someone else now. A different life. Or rather, she had the same life, what was left of it – it was David who’d struck out and started again. It had taken all her strength to leave that photograph up there, instead of cutting David out of it, like a gangrenous foot.

  Maybe I was wrong to leave it, she thought. Maybe that’s why Spencer thinks Daddy will come back, so long as he’s naughty enough.

  Spencer was falling asleep, going by his heavy breathing. Zoe leaned forward to rest her lips on his head, drawing his drowsy smell into her lungs. It was the sweetest perfume she’d ever known. ‘I love you, Spencer,’ she whispered and squeezed her eyelids tight shut, to stop the fierce, loving tears falling on his hair.

  21

  It took Rachel several days to make the appointment at the surgery, but only five minutes for Dr Carthy to confirm that she was definitely five weeks pregnant.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he’d said, with a quick smile, and passed her a selection of leaflet-y reading matter, none of which Rachel could believe was even vaguely relevant to her.

  And that was it, she thought, as she made her way back into the sunny waiting room, still recovering. It was official. She checked her diary obediently as Lauren made her appointments for a ‘proper check-up appointment’ the following week, and then drove back to Four Oaks in a daze.

  I suppose I should tell George now, she thought.

  Rachel and George had fallen into an unspoken but easy routine over the past few weeks – Saturday nights they ate at his house, where the food was excellent; Wednesdays, Rachel left Gem with Megan and took George out for dinner and a film in the out-of-town complex near Hartley, where the food was average but allowed George to make jokes about how she was missing the big city. Most days he called into the kennels, ‘in passing’, but it didn’t bother Rachel too much on the days he didn’t; George understood about leaving some space. It suited them both.

  ‘You know I heard on the grapevine that George has bribed his locum to do his Wednesday night call-out so he can see you,’ said Megan slyly, as Rachel arrived in the kitchen on Saturday, ready to leave. ‘Ooh, you look nice. I thought you were staying in?’

  ‘We are.’ Rachel pulled her hands through her hair. ‘Just because George has formal and informal wellies doesn’t mean I can’t make an effort.’

  She was wearing some expensive jeans she’d bought off the internet in a moment of reconnection weakness and one of Dot’s swing jackets over a t-shirt. The jacket was handmade, with a gorgeous lavender satin lining – it didn’t seem to have been worn at all, apart from a faint smell of Coco.

  ‘I should get a move on.’ Rachel whistled for Gem. Her stomach had been fluttering all day at the thought of how she was going to break the news. No amount of meetings had prepared her for this. There was no good angle.

  Megan wasn’t going to let her gossip go that easily. ‘Freda reckons you’re the first girlfriend he’s brought to the pub, and you know how long she and Ted have been here. She reckons George has got that look about him when he’s with you. She’s talking about buying a hat!’ Megan caught herself, seeing Rachel’s expression, and added, ‘’Course I told her it’s very early days yet.’

  Rachel managed a bleak smile. ‘Yup.’

  ‘You going to be back late?’ Megan enquired.

  ‘I don’t know. Gem! Come here now!’

  Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be, and his ears flattened nervously against his head as he sidled towards her.

  ‘Don’t scare him,’ said Megan. ‘I know he’s a farm dog by birth but he’s not used to being shouted at.’

  Gem slunk to her side, his eyes lowered, and Rachel suddenly felt utterly inadequate. She longed to be back on her own, in her own flat, in her old world. I’m better at being on my own, she thought, and immediately realised that that option would never be available to her again.

  ‘I won’t be late, Megan.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed the bottle of wine off the dresser. That was for George. He’d need it.

  ‘You be as late as you want,’ said Megan happily.

  George pretended that he hadn’t gone to much effort – he claimed to be just back from a lambing – but the kitchen of his house smelled delicious and there were yellow tulips in the jug on the table that Rachel knew hadn’t come from his ramshackle garden.

  He chatted away so easily that for the first twenty minutes Rachel was lulled into forgetting what she’d come to tell him, and it was only when he uncorked a bottle of wine that the new reality slapped her in the face again.

  ‘Can I tempt you?’ George showed her the bottle. ‘I’m doing some venison so I’ve gone for a Shiraz, but if you prefer something different, just say.’ He put it on the table next to her glass, and gestured towards a well-stocked wine rack. ‘My cellar’s at your disposal. I know you’re something of an expert,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll just have water, thanks,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Water? Are you all right?’ George pretended to feel her forehead and her skin tingled at the touch of his hand. She knew he was conscious of the casual contact too; they were still at the shivery ‘can I touch you?’ stage where it wasn’t a given.

  Bit late for that, she thought.

  ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t drink,’ he went on, cheerfully. ‘Don’t forget we’ve already got the embarrassing drunk face out of the way.’

  ‘No, I’m not drinking. I can’t . . . I’m . . .’ Rachel held onto the back of the chair. This was as good an opening as any.

  She looked down at Gem, who had curled himself in a ball in the basket by the Aga. He looked utterly relaxed, and she realised that he probably had been here before, with Dot. He was more at home than she was. He’d probably prefer to live with George.

  Rachel felt the running away urge again, more strongly. How could this be happening to her?

  ‘What? O
n antibiotics?’ He stirred a pan of gravy on the hotplate. ‘Something I should know?’

  ‘George, I’m pregnant,’ she blurted out. ‘I know, it’s irresponsible and stupid. But you don’t have to do anything or say anything. I wanted to tell you, and if you don’t want it to get out, then I’m fine. Everyone will think it’s Oliver’s, anyway. If that’s what you’d prefer.’

  Some dim part of Rachel’s brain registered that none of that had come out the way she’d meant it to but it was too late.

  George’s hand froze but he calmly removed the pan from the heat, placing it on an iron trivet, and turned to face her. ‘What do you mean by that? I don’t have to do anything?’

  ‘I mean, you don’t have to offer to marry me or anything. I’ve decided that I’m going to have the baby though. It’s not a great time, and I know this isn’t what you’d have planned either, because it’s certainly not how I’d have chosen to do things, but please don’t try to talk me out of it. I can’t explain and it’s not rational, but I want to have it.’ Rachel wasn’t quite sure where these words were coming from; they certainly weren’t the ones she’d rehearsed. ‘Please,’ she added.

  George wiped his hand over his face and left it there, while he thought. When he removed it, his expression was incredulous. ‘Let me just get this straight. You think I’m the sort of man who’d try to talk a woman into an abortion? Is that honestly what you think I’d do? I know we don’t know each other very well, but I hope you’d think more of me than that.’

  ‘I didn’t . . .’ Rachel began, and then realised she’d based her whole approach on what Oliver would have said. Not George. She’d basically accused him of wanting to wriggle away from her and the baby.

  He carried on staring at her. ‘Anyway, aren’t we meant to start off with, “Darling I have some wonderful news”? For someone who wants to have a baby so much you don’t sound very happy about it yourself.’

  ‘I am! And it is wonderful news. It’s just that . . .’ Rachel’s insides prickled. This was so wrong. He wasn’t ranting like Oliver, but he seemed distant, and her defences rose instinctively.

  ‘Well, you’re right. I don’t really know much about you at all,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to assume. I didn’t want you to think I’d planned it. Hijacked your sperm like some mad woman.’

  ‘Planned it? How?’ Now he looked baffled as well as offended. ‘I mean, is that what some women do? You’ll have to forgive me here, Rachel, I’m just a hick from the sticks.’

  Gem whimpered at the sound of raised voices and curled his head tighter.

  Rachel sank onto the chair and put her head in her hands. Of course he wouldn’t think that. He didn’t read Grazia, or know many IVF-crazed women, or listen to the agonisings of career-driven mistresses. George was a decent, old-fashioned bachelor. Not that that made him easier to deal with than the slippery married man she was used to.

  Just because he’d said he wasn’t really interested in a family didn’t mean that he wouldn’t insist on his paternal rights being respected. Maybe he would insist on marrying her. She hadn’t thought about that. She hadn’t thought about what he might want for his child. Or the mother of his child.

  A chill swept over her stomach as the door clicked shut on her independence. A child she could take with her; but she couldn’t take the child from a father who wanted to be involved.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t coming out right.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ He raised the bottle to pour her a glass of wine.

  ‘No, George,’ Rachel reminded him. ‘I’m not allowed to drink from now on.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked at her, then filled up his own glass, nearly to the brim. After taking a long swig he sat down opposite her at the head of the table and looked more like his old self. ‘Well, congratulations,’ he said. There was a moment when she thought he was going to get up to hug her, but her body language must have put him off, because he didn’t.

  Rachel stared longingly at the wine bottle. Just when you really needed a drink, she thought. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bit sick. Bit fat.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’ve never been pregnant before. Maybe you should tell me what I should expect.’

  George laughed, rather tensely. ‘That you should be ready to drop in nine weeks, and I’ll be on hand with my rubber gloves?’

  ‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’ asked Rachel.

  He poured her a glass of water from the big jug on the table and she drank it gratefully. The jug had ice in it, and chopped up lemons. Suddenly the effort he’d gone to without wanting to show it – the good plates, silver cutlery, the tulips he’d obviously bought – made her feel like crying. From promising date to this, with just one sentence.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Rachel listened to the pots bubbling on the stove and the whoosh of the Aga re-firing itself. Noises that would have made her feel warm inside last week; warm and excited about a new relationship with a man who could cook and liked wine.

  ‘Look, it is my fault,’ said George, rubbing his face again. ‘I wasn’t as, um, timely with the condom as I could have been. I did tell you I was out of practice.’ He looked up at Rachel and she could see he was anxious.

  Her heart melted.

  ‘It’s as much my fault,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have been so pissed I didn’t notice. I shouldn’t have been so pissed we ended up in bed at all, but we did. What’s done is done. I don’t think my dad’s going to come round and horsewhip you.’

  ‘Have you told your parents?’

  She shook her head wryly. ‘No, I haven’t told anyone, except you. My mum’ll be driven mad by the chance of another grandchild on one hand, but by an irresponsible one-night-stand on the other. She had me down for the cat sanctuary, to go with Auntie Dot’s dogs’ home.’ Rachel swallowed, trying to keep her voice light. ‘Not the single parent with the baby daddy she barely knows.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, this is serious,’ said George. ‘You can tell her you won’t be on your own. I’ll support the baby financially and . . . Well, with as much emotional support as you want me to offer.’

  ‘It’s a baby, George, not a tax inspection,’ said Rachel. She couldn’t work out whether she was niggled by his failure to sweep her into his arms and tell her everything would be OK – or whether, had he done that, she’d have been furious at the condescension.

  ‘I know.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I know. Sorry, I’m just trying to get my head around it. I’m going to be a father. And I don’t even know when your birthday is.’

  ‘Maybe we should just get our passports out?’ suggested Rachel. ‘You’ve got nine months for me to guess your amusing middle names, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘I know.’ Rachel shut her eyes. Joking was her way of dealing with it, but she didn’t want George to get the wrong idea. That was the danger of only half-knowing someone.

  ‘I’m only going to ask you this once,’ said George, his voice low but gentle. ‘But I am going to ask – you’re really sure about having this baby?’

  Rachel’s eyes snapped open. ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ George seemed to be struggling to find the right words. ‘This isn’t going to come out right.’

  ‘It’s just that what? Go on, say it.’ Rachel stared at him. She could feel the force of a personality as stubborn as her own, and tumbled recklessly on, determined to push the worst out. ‘We’re not kids. We don’t have a marriage to break up.’

  ‘It’s just that not so long ago you were putting up a pretty good argument for not wanting children, now or ever. Your white carpets, your holidays. Remember?’ He looked at her, with his clear-eyed gaze. ‘Don’t tell me that’s just vanished overnight. The independent woman with her own life – I totally understand where you were coming from. What I’m saying is that I’m not going to get on your case if you decide not to go ahead with it. It’s your life.�
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  ‘What?’ she countered, though she wasn’t quite sure what she was countering. ‘From the man who doesn’t miss the stress of pleasing other people? The man who enjoys keeping his own hours and ignores the phone?’

  He held up his hands. ‘I’m just trying to work out what’s going on. It’s a big decision, and you’re probably very hormonal right now.’

  Rachel recoiled. Hormonal? Like being pregnant stopped your brain working? This man clearly hadn’t had a woman in his life.

  ‘I know it’s a big decision,’ she snapped. ‘But I’m not the first woman to have a baby she wasn’t planning! Or to change her mind about her bloody carpets once it’s actually happening. Everything’s changed, just in the last few weeks.’

  She gestured towards Gem, snoring in the basket. ‘I mean, look – white carpets are a thing of the past anyway. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to go back to the life I had.’ She paused, recognising she meant it. ‘And I don’t want to. What I have now is real. It’s mine.’

  George said nothing, and she realised he didn’t even know her well enough to understand what she meant.

  ‘You do not have to be part of this,’ Rachel hurried on. ‘I didn’t come here to insist that you, I don’t know, “stood by me”. I’m telling you because you have a right to know. And because . . .’ Her voice caught in her throat.

  George seemed like Mr Rural Reliability now, but there had been a time when she’d thought Oliver was reliable too. Reliable and loving – and look how that had turned out. Wasn’t it better to start off on her own, and not be disappointed?

  ‘You make it sound like you don’t want me to be a part of this,’ observed George.

  ‘Well, what’s changed in your life? Nothing. You’ve still got the long hours, the anti-social job. You can’t even say you’ve met the right woman because you barely know me.’

  ‘What’s changed is that I might now be a father,’ he said, simply. ‘That changes everything.’