‘Lots of people,’ Julia had said, pouring them each a cup of strong tea. ‘Darling, you’re certified now. Why did you get your degree if you’re not going to use it? You can’t work at Next forever, you know. You’ve got everything you need now to start your own business.’
Julia’s direct gaze challenged her daughter to disagree. She had a way of making things seem easy, even when they weren’t. When she gave a little shrug to emphasise her point, the pashmina she wore around her shoulders slipped off. The flowing flowery dresses she liked to wear suited her wide blue eyes and friendly face. She might look like a Laura-Ashley-covered marshmallow, but Scarlett’s mother had an iron core.
‘I don’t have any experience yet, Mum. Once I’ve had some practice, then maybe…’
‘Maybe will never come, Scarlett. I’m not saying you should quit your job yet, but at least try this. You could put up a notice in that café you like, and see if anyone rings. Besides, do you really think an assistant pet behaviourist makes enough to support herself in London?’
‘Probably about enough for a Friday night takeaway,’ she said. As it was, her manager’s job at the flagship Next on Oxford Street didn’t quite cover her bills.
‘So you couldn’t afford to work for someone else anyway,’ Julia said. ‘And you shouldn’t. Don’t wait for someone else to give you permission. Do it yourself. I could help you. I could design some leaflets or we could go through a business plan together, whatever you need.’
‘That’s okay, Mum, I can do it.’
‘My independent young woman. You’ve always wanted to do things yourself. You will ask if you need help, though, right?’
‘Sure.’ But she wouldn’t need it. ‘I’ll put up the notice and see what happens.’
What happened was that she built up her entire business from that first index card posted in her local café. It turned out that there were a lot of messed up dogs in London.
Scarlett gazed at the TV, where the alien talking cat seemed to be arguing with a crowd of children. Rufus was right. It was a terrible film. She dozed off on his chest with his arms draped around her.
The next day, anticipation bubbled in her tummy and her classes passed in a blur. They were mostly puppy training courses, but she managed to avoid their slobbery kisses so she wouldn’t turn up to the restaurant smelling too much of dog.
By the time she left the salon she’d admired herself in the mirror more than most teenage girls. Her usually flyaway pale blonde hair fell to her shoulders in soft waves and she’d even gone for the blackest mascara she could find, which made her blue eyes stand out.
Two hours at the salon and results pretty good, she texted Shannon.
Photo please! xo S
She scanned the narrow Soho street. Everyone around her seemed to stare when she caught their eyes. Flicking the selfie button on her phone, she pretended to snap something interesting in the brickwork of the building beside her. The lens caught her blush nicely.
The things I do for you, she texted with the photo.
GORgeous! In contrast, this is my day, responded Shannon.
It was a photo of Sampson’s behind.
You glamourpuss. xo Scarlett
She was a few minutes early to the restaurant. ‘Yes, madam,’ the slender young waiter said when she gave him her name. ‘The gentleman is already here.’
When Rufus saw her his face split into the kind of smile that made her go weak at the knees. Even blonder than she, his hair was thicker and wavier and he wore it long, way past his ears. He wasn’t as pale as she was, though. On a woman his complexion would be called peaches and cream, but his strong jaw and cheekbones were anything but feminine.
A few women near them turned to look when he kissed her. He generally had that effect. ‘This is amazing!’ she said, sinking into the apple green brocade reading chair pulled up to the table.
Wide pillars stood sentinel around the room. Some were ringed with rich wooden bookshelves stuffed with books, others were hung with dozens of framed photos. Together with the mismatched chairs – with ornately carved backs or upholstered like hers – it had the look of an eccentric aunt’s Victorian living room, as imagined by Philippe Starck.
‘It’s so trendy!’ she said. They used to go to new restaurants and bars all the time when she’d lived in London. ‘Why have we never been here before?’
‘Probably because we’re not trendy?’ said Rufus.
‘No, I suppose not.’ These days they got excited when the Häagen-Dazs went on sale in Morrisons.
‘Who wants to be trendy anyway?’ He shrugged. ‘People just go off you then when the next thing comes along. Maybe we’re classical, timeless, like the Mona Lisa.’
‘Only happier,’ Scarlett said, hoping that was true as she opened her menu. ‘My god, have you seen these prices?’
He reached for her hand across the table. ‘Don’t worry about the prices. We can afford it every once in a while.’
‘I know, but wow. Sixteen pounds for a mango salad? It’s a fiver at Chiang Mai and we get free prawn crackers.’ Her finger slid down the menu. ‘Eighty-five quid for pork?! What are they serving, Miss Piggy?’ She tried not to see the entrees as a percentage of their mortgage. ‘Now I know why we’ve never done this before.’ She was fine with their local takeaway. ‘And I guess this is why we don’t live in London.’
‘Yeah, it’s the price of pork, not the million-pound price tag on houses,’ Rufus joked.
They’d both had rented flats when they first got together, though Rufus was based in Reading and Scarlett had a one bedroom in North London that even estate agents were embarrassed to spin as ‘cosy’. She could flick on her kettle in the kitchen from the end of her sofa.
With their savings and the cash their parents gave them for their wedding, they just managed to scrape together a down payment for their DIY project in Reading.
They hardly ever went out in London any more, even though they both commuted there for work. Their routine had definitely become routine.
‘Want to splurge and get champagne?’ she asked. Maybe they needed some shaking up.
‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’
She laughed like it hadn’t occurred to her. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about getting him pissed to have sex, but how else was she supposed to get pregnant? Last time she checked she wasn’t a woman named Mary with the Holy Spirit on speed dial, and Rufus didn’t even seem to remember that they were supposed to be trying.
‘Waiter? A bottle of Moët, please.’
Some of the champagne had worn off by the time they’d waited in chilly Paddington for a late train home, but Scarlett was as resolved as ever not to let a perfectly tipsy night go to waste.
‘H’lo, dogs!’ Rufus shouted as he opened their front door near midnight.
Silence.
‘We have to apologise,’ said Scarlett. ‘Otherwise they’ll sulk all night. Or take it out on the loo roll.’
‘We live ridiculous lives,’ Rufus said. But he went into the lounge anyway. ‘H’lo, Ginger! H’lo, Fred!’
Fred, at least, lifted his head from the sofa cushion. Ginger kept hers stubbornly between her paws, staring balefully at Rufus. They weren’t even bothering to hide the fact that they’d been rolling around on the furniture all evening. Oh, you’re finally back? their looks said. Good for you.
‘I’ll take them out.’ They managed to put their resentment aside when they saw Rufus grab their leads from the hook.
As soon as he closed the front door Scarlett flew upstairs to the bedroom. She wouldn’t have much time. Rummaging in the bedside table drawer she found some matches to light the candles that had gathered dust on the dressing table. That way Rufus wouldn’t be tempted to turn on the overhead light, which she hated but never got round to changing. It was like doing foreplay on an operating table in that light.
She rushed into the bathroom to brush her teeth, then stripped off for the world’s fastest shower. It wasn’t easy ke
eping her hair and make-up from washing out in the process.
But she wasn’t fast enough. Just as she turned off the water she heard Rufus pass the bathroom door on his way to the bedroom.
Dammit.
Her sexy underwear was still in the drawer, and her shoes were under the bed where she’d kicked them off.
Would it be sexier to strut naked into the room, or throw herself on Rufus with her dress on and let him peel it off?
She scrutinised herself in the mirror. Even under the harsh bathroom bulb she looked all right. Gravity hadn’t yet taken hold and working with the dogs every day meant her legs and arms were toned.
Still, it was a bit obvious, maybe, to swan into the room starkers when she usually wore at least a tee shirt to bed. But then the whole point was to be obvious, wasn’t it? She wanted to have sex with the man, not do his taxes.
Fred and Ginger launched themselves at her ankles as soon as she opened the bathroom door. ‘Not now,’ she hissed. ‘Go downstairs!’
Nothing doing. Now that they had their parents back, they weren’t about to let them out of their sight. What if they snuck off again to London? The dogs were convinced they went to the city to eat steak and play with squeaky toys that were miles better than the ones they had at home. They might even be paying attention to other dogs.
They stayed inches from Scarlett’s feet as she made her way to the bedroom door. ‘Dogs, no, you’re not coming in.’
Ginger cocked her head. Fred pretended he didn’t hear her.
She had to use her hands to fend them off, otherwise they’d scoot under the bed as soon as the door was opened. That meant bending over to hold them at bay and reaching behind her to open the door.
‘That’s quite an entrance,’ Rufus said as Scarlett backed through the door naked arse-first.
She whipped around. The dogs shot under the bed. ‘No, Fred, Ginger!’
By the time Rufus lured them out with the second round of dog treats, Scarlett had to admit that the passion had gone as flat as the champagne in her tummy.
They climbed into bed, Scarlett now in her tee shirt and Rufus in his boxers, and went to sleep.
Chapter 4
Scarlett’s new clients, Margaret and Biscuit, lived in a terraced cottage in leafy Hampstead Village, on a steep road just off the high street. Thick wisteria vines twisted over the front door and up the yellow brick to the windows on the first floor. The cherry trees against the garden wall were heavy with pink blooms and an enormous lavender bush at the edge of the well-tended lawn would be glorious come summer.
She’d been there less than thirty seconds and already she was building up a picture of Margaret’s life. Everything about it so far screamed Good Housekeeping family of the year.
She used to be intimidated by the kind of wealth that Margaret seemed to have. She’d look at the big house with the fancy car in the drive and practically pull her forelock and curtsy when she met them.
It must have been age or inexperience that had made her feel like that because she hardly ever did now. Besides, there were always cracks once she got to know a client. It might be the new bottles of whisky that she’d notice every week on the sideboard in the living room or the red-top bills stuck to the fridge. Nobody’s life was perfect.
‘Oh, it’s you! Hello, Dr Fothergill,’ Margaret said as she answered Scarlett’s knock while trying to pull Biscuit back by the collar.
The cocker spaniel’s mad barking nearly drowned out Margaret’s greeting.
‘Oh, Biscuit, will you please stop?’ she said.
But Biscuit wasn’t about to be told what to do. Her jowls were firmly downturned, in that way spaniels can get when they’re agitated, like she was about to tell everyone off.
‘Come in, come in, please.’ Holding Biscuit’s collar she backed into the wide white hallway. ‘I’m sorry I’m not quite ready for you. I was just– You were due at two, right?’
‘One-thirty,’ Scarlett said.
‘Cor, I’m so sorry!’
‘And please call me Scarlett. Scarlett Fothergill. I’m not a doctor.’
‘Oh, no… I’m afraid I can’t do that!’ When Margaret laughed, the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled merrily. She was as stylish as she’d been in the park, in jeans again and a soft-looking lilac jumper. ‘Mrs Fothergill, then. I suppose I’m a little formal that way. I hope you don’t mind!’ She scooted backwards with the dog, snatching some shopping bags from the floor as she went. ‘I was just going to put these away, but I can do it after. I’ll just put them in the kitchen. Come through, please.’
Scarlett followed Margaret and Biscuit through the hall and into the roomy kitchen extension at the back. She could see a big garden through the bi-fold doors.
The kitchen, like the rest of what she’d seen so far, was pristine. A black Aga hulked against one wall and rustic cream cabinets lined the others. Bunches of fat pink, white and yellow ranunculus sat in enamel pitchers on the enormous waxed oak farm table. Scarlett didn’t see so much as a fork or a piece of post on any of the worktops.
Nobody actually lived in photo-ready houses like this, did they? Scarlett and Rufus’s kitchen was dotted with piles of paperwork, clothes that they meant to fold and put away and the usual tannin-stained teacups in the sink. There were definitely little puffs of dog hair under their sofa. Normal, in other words.
Scarlett tugged at her jumper, aware that it was a little short from a too-hot wash.
Margaret absently wiped the oak worktop with her hand, maybe checking for crumbs that weren’t there. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
They both jumped when her phone rang. ‘Oh, excuse me, it’s my husband. Hello? Hello, darling. Slow-roasted lamb shanks with red wine. It took me forever to get the rosemary stuffed inside. They’re in the AGA now. I’ll do them with mash, baby carrots and parsnips. It’s that wonderful recipe from that chef who– No, not any special time. All right. See you later, darling!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Scarlett, who’d been sniffing the air for the aroma of lamb shanks. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Scarlett said. ‘Since we only have an hour we should probably get started.’
‘Yes, yes… of course, how silly of me,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a social visit.’
Biscuit watched Scarlett from her tartan basket next to the Aga. As Margaret explained the trouble she was having, Scarlett found herself warming to Margaret and cooling towards the dog. As much as she wanted to love all her clients, some were definitely less appealing than others.
‘You must get a lot of interesting cases,’ Margaret said. ‘Is most of your work in homes like this? Or mostly in classes?’
Homes like Margaret’s? Not hardly, but she knew what Margaret meant. She had back-to-back group classes Monday to Friday, she said, and a handful of individual clients like her, too. Plus occasional sessions on Saturdays. ‘I can only take on a few individual clients at a time.’
‘Well, I’m ever so grateful that you chose us!’
‘There’s no need to be grateful, Margaret.’ She was paying for the course, after all, and they weren’t cheap. ‘I’m pleased to take Biscuit on and I’m always happy to have new clients.’
Margaret’s eyes glistened. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
Scarlett finished explaining about the business, but she was anxious to get to work, starting with getting to know Margaret. Unfortunately, every time she tried to get her to talk about herself, she talked about her family instead. It seemed that nobody else had a problem getting Biscuit to mind.
‘For one thing it sounds like we’ll need to work on her view of the pecking order in the family,’ Scarlett said. ‘We’ve got to make you top dog.’
‘Good luck doing that!’ said Margaret. ‘I’ve never really been top anything.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Scarlett got Margaret to put the lead on Biscuit and walk her round the kitchen. The dog practically strangled herself.
�
��See? That’s what she’s always like. It drives my husband crazy.’
Scarlett frowned. ‘Your husband? Why would it drive him crazy? It’s happening to you, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I only mean he wants the bloomin’ dog to behave and she won’t with me.’
Scarlett let it go. ‘What’s happening with Biscuit is really common. When she gets her way by pulling on her lead, it tells her that pulling works. But it doesn’t always work so she has to try it all the time to improve her odds of getting what she wants. Does that make sense? We can try an exercise to start changing that association between pulling all the time and getting her way. Got your treats handy? It’s all about the treats.’
As Margaret practised rewarding Biscuit every time she walked nicely for even a step, Scarlett murmured encouragement. To Margaret, not Biscuit.
Most of her job was about training owners and showing them how their pet’s behaviour reflected their own actions. It wasn’t about pointing any fingers of blame, though. It was encouraging, really, because once the owners changed their behaviour, the dogs did, too. Her clients just didn’t realise how the two things were related.
Why should they? If it came naturally, she’d be out of business.
‘Keep practising whenever you can and we’ll add more exercises next time,’ she said when the hour was up. ‘I’d better leave you to your cooking. Same time on Thursday?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes, thanks ever so much. Excuse me,’ Margaret said, moving beside Scarlett to slide the shopping bags to the other end of the worktop.
Scarlett caught a glimpse of the boxes inside. She could have sworn they were frozen slow-roasted lamb shanks.
She craved lamb all afternoon, but there was no chance of that for dinner. Tuesday nights at Dad and Felicia’s were engraved into her family’s DNA and her stepmum never cooked lamb.
Considering that dinner was on the same day at the same time every single week, she wasn’t sure why they never managed to turn up on time. She was sure that it was Rufus’s fault, but she tried not to snipe at him. Her snipe cup overfloweth lately.
Love is a Four-Legged Word: The romantic comedy about canines, conception and fresh starts Page 3
