Barkley saw something hit the floor. He looked up. He looked up again. Was that food falling from the ceiling? His relaxed demeanour disappeared as he found the concentration of a bomb disposal expert. But no matter how hard he strained at his lead, he couldn’t reach the snack. When he sat down, looking in confusion at Charlie, Scarlett said, ‘Now give him a treat.’
Barkley was ecstatic. Treats? Just for sitting?
‘Now toss another treat out of reach, and repeat the process till Barkley sits straightaway and looks at you for at least two seconds.’
Barkley’s cycle was stuck on strangle/sit/repeat for quite a while, but eventually he figured out the routine.
‘You’re teaching him that he has to ask your permission to eat anything off the ground.’
‘That is awesome!’ Charlie said. ‘Good boy, Barkley.’
‘Well, don’t get too confident yet. This isn’t a real-life situation.’ She guessed there were probably still a lot of half-digested fag packets in Barkley’s future.
‘So you’re saying don’t get cocky?’
‘Exactly.’ Although cocky was just about the last word anyone would use to describe Charlie, she realised as they chatted through their session.
That woman who’d hung about at the introductory day, Naomi, was his girlfriend after all. From the way he kept bringing the conversation back round to her, it sounded like he was mad for her. And clearly he wanted to talk about it.
Sometimes Scarlett wondered how much of her class was for the dogs and how much for their owners.
‘Honestly, Hiccup is really a problem,’ he said as Scarlett scattered a few squeaky toys around the floor.
‘Now lead Barkley toward one of the toys, but don’t let him reach it. Wait for him to sit and then reward him. We’re showing him that the rule applies to anything on the ground. Hiccup is Naomi’s dog, right?’
She could picture the way the little Jack Russell had behaved. She knew before Charlie said anything what the trouble was, but she let him tell her anyway.
‘I can’t get near my own girlfriend with that dog around,’ he complained. He looked absolutely miserable. This was no little grumble for him. ‘And she doesn’t just growl either. She bites.’
‘That’s not good!’ Scarlett said. Biting was a last resort for dogs. ‘Is Naomi getting help for her?’
He shook his head as he threw another treat out of Barkley’s reach. Barkley was starting to suspect that Charlie’s aim might not be accidental. ‘No, but we’ve got to do something. When I sell Mum’s house I really want us to move in together. But I can’t even go to her flat now with Hiccup there. We spend all our time at Mum’s, but that’s not really relaxing since Naomi’s always got to go home to let the dog out. Part of her mustn’t mind that Hiccup is so protective, right? Otherwise she’d get her to stop?’
Well-observed, Scarlett thought.
‘I really hoped she’d sign up with you when she agreed to come to the park. But she thinks she can do everything on her own. Is there anything you could suggest that might help? Maybe I could give her some tips. I’m desperate to try something.’
Scarlett’s heart went out to him, but it didn’t work like that. Dogs needed consistency to change and he’d said himself he didn’t spend much time with Hiccup. ‘Let’s focus on Barkley’s habits for now. I’m always happy to talk to Naomi if that’s something she wants.’
He nodded. ‘I think Barkley’s really getting the hang of it now. What’s next?’
‘Next you practise a lot more.’ She laughed. ‘It takes a while for dogs to get used to new habits.’
‘Even geniuses like Barkley?’
They both looked at the dog, who’d started licking the linoleum like it was the finest gelato.
‘Better keep practising,’ Scarlett said.
‘I have to.’ Charlie’s face went serious as he pulled his dog away from the puddle of saliva he was tending. ‘I can’t keep him the way he is, and I can’t get rid of him. He was my mum’s. I’ve got to keep him. He’s all I’ve got left of her.’
Chapter 8
‘You’re sous-chefing, right?’ Rufus asked Scarlett on Friday night, measuring the potato flour into a bowl.
She tied a navy blue and white striped apron round her middle and joined him. He was wearing the frilly red polka dot one Gemma got him for Christmas. It was meant to be a joke, but he really liked it.
She did most of the cooking during the week, not out of any sense of wifely duty – her mum wouldn’t have that – but because it was easier. Despite sometimes not getting home till eight, she could whip up a meal in twenty minutes without dirtying every pot, pan and utensil in the kitchen. Rufus didn’t have that skill.
‘Sous-chefing? That’s just title inflation,’ she said. ‘You just mean doing all the chopping and cleaning up.’
He kissed her temple. ‘And pouring wine for the kitchen staff. Remember when we used to do this every weekend?’
Scarlett smiled. Friday nights were party nights in the olden days, but Saturdays and Sundays were theirs alone, and sacrosanct. They always stayed at hers, got up without the alarm – early or late, depending on what they’d done the night before – and made their way on the Northern Line to Borough Market to get the ingredients for a feast. They slipped in tiny delicacies where they could afford them, and always a decent bottle of wine. Once they got back to her flat they turned the double lock, and the other double lock, and didn’t leave until it was time for work on Monday. They might watch films or the latest box set, or read on the sofa or crawl back into bed together, until it was time to start cooking. ‘I remember.’
‘We should start that up again,’ he said.
‘Mmm hmm.’ Those weekends were Scarlett’s idea of heaven. Flushed with the memories, she suddenly wished Shannon wasn’t due any minute.
Rufus deftly flicked an eggshell into the bin. ‘Good, why don’t we start again tomorrow? We could get everything at Lidl and save loads of money on takeaways.’
The thing about reality wasn’t that it was a let-down, exactly, but that when it crashed into your fantasy it made such an awful mess. If Rufus remembered those weekends as the chance to economise on the weekly shop, they really did need a romantic kick up the arse.
‘That’s just charming, Rufus, really romantic. How could I not be swept off my feet with a comment like that?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was supposed to be sweeping you off your feet,’ he snapped. ‘I thought I was cooking dinner while we chatted. Maybe you should write me a script so I know what I’m supposed to be doing, or a schedule or something. Oh, wait, you’ve already done that.’
Well then, maybe you could try following it once in a while, she thought just as the doorbell sent the dogs into a meltdown. ‘Oh, relax, hounds of hell, it’s only Shannon.’ They were convinced that burglars only got into a house after politely ringing the bell.
She stalked to the door to let their friend in, composing herself as she went. It wasn’t Shannon’s fault her husband mistook one of Scarlett’s dearest memories as the chance for a two-for-one offer on oven chips.
‘You could have used your key,’ she told Shannon.
‘Oh, no, I feel like I shouldn’t when you’re home. I’m not working now.’
Scarlett wondered if she’d offended Shannon, treating her like an employee instead of their best friend. ‘No, you’re right. You’re our dinner guest. Rufus has started on the gnocchi. We’ve both started on the wine.’
Shannon unwound her giant purple scarf and shrugged out of her leather jacket. Without the layers she looked nearly skeletal. Scarlett had worried about an eating disorder when they first met, but Shannon ate like a pig. She just looked like she’d been drawn with crayons by a three-year-old.
Shannon took off her boots without bothering to ask and kicked them under the pew in the hall. She knew the house as well as Scarlett did.
‘Did you see Mr Darcy today?’ Scarlett asked. Goodness, her questio
n sounded so normal, like she and Rufus hadn’t just blown up at each other.
Shannon blushed all the way to her ginger roots. ‘We passed each other.’
They’d never argued in front of anyone before. Tonight didn’t seem like the time to start. ‘Did you hide behind your lace fan and make eyes at him?’
‘Of course not. I practically ran away when he looked at me.’
‘Well, at least he looked at you. So despite what you say, he does know you exist.’
Shannon nodded. ‘Yes, probably as that weird woman who won’t stop staring at him in the park.’
‘That’s still progress,’ Scarlett said as they got to the kitchen.
‘What’s progress?’ Rufus wanted to know, catching Scarlett’s eye. ‘H’lo, Shannon!’ He embraced her warmly, leaving a flour-covered handprint on her loose red cardigan.
‘Mr Darcy noticed Shannon in the park today,’ said Scarlett, reaching over to wipe Shannon’s back. They’d been talking about him for months, ever since he turned up in the park and rocked Shannon’s world.
‘How could he not notice you?! Look at you, you’re…’
Shannon looked horrified at whatever Rufus was about to say.
‘Rufus,’ warned Scarlett. ‘Don’t make Shannon self-conscious!’ He knew how sensitive she was. She might actually melt with shame.
Now Rufus blushed. ‘Well, you’re not exactly run-of-the-mill normal, are you? That’s all I’m saying. I mean… I don’t mean that you look like a freak!’
Scarlett crossed her arms. He was on a roll tonight. Let’s see him dig his way out of this one. Shannon didn’t look like a freak at all. She just had an unusual dress sense. And very ginger hair.
‘You’re very striking,’ he carried on. ‘That’s all I mean.’ He gestured to the chopping board where his dough was resting. ‘I’m just going to go back to cooking and shut up.’
‘Excellent idea,’ Shannon said. ‘Besides, I’m really here to see Scarlett.’ She picked up the wine Scarlett poured for her. ‘Living room? We’ll leave you to your cooking,’ she told Rufus. ‘It won’t be too long, right? I can’t stay late. I’m setting up for my show in the morning.’
‘Yes, miss, I’ll be as quick as I can, miss,’ he said. ‘I feel like the hired help.’
‘Oh, but you’re not,’ replied Shannon, ‘since we’re not going to pay you.’ She swooped in to kiss his cheek, then followed Scarlett to the living room.
‘Happy anniversary.’ Shannon raised her glass after she’d thrown herself on to the squishy sofa and pulled her teal printed dress back down over mustard-yellow tights.
Scarlett never dared ask her if she was actually colour-blind. The last thing she’d ever do was risk knocking her confidence. But she did suspect her eyes worked differently to everyone else’s.
‘Thanks, but that’s not till May.’ Scarlett sipped her wine anyway.
‘Not you and Rufus. You and me. We met four years ago today. Rufus cooked us dinner.’
Love swelled up for her sentimental friend. That’s right, he had cooked. It was Italian, too. Puttanesca that time. He’d been so nervous about them meeting that he was pretty drunk by the time she arrived. That’s when she realised how serious he was about her. And that made her nervous. What if she failed the best mate test and Shannon hated her? Would it sour Rufus’s feelings?
She didn’t get the chance to find out. Their friendship took off that night, despite being opposites in lots of ways. If they hadn’t had Rufus to introduce them, they’d never have chosen each other as friends. Which just went to show how easy it was to miss out on something great by sticking with what’s familiar.
Shannon was as artsy-fartsy as Scarlett was practical, and as shy as Scarlett was confident. At first she mistook Shannon’s bashfulness for unsociability, but they weren’t the same thing. Shannon loved being around people, yet talking to strangers gave her the sweats.
‘You remember the actual date we met?’ Scarlett asked.
Shannon blushed. ‘The day I met my best friend? Of course I remember. I always remember. What kind of friend would I be otherwise?’
Oh, I don’t know, thought Scarlett, you might be a shite friend like me who definitely hadn’t remembered.
‘Though today’s also my dad’s birthday, so it’s hard to forget.’ She grinned, obviously pleased about the wind-up.
‘Oh, you bitch. I actually felt guilty, you know. I was trying to remember if I had a card I could write and pretend I’d had it all along. You nearly got a Christmas card with happy anniversary scribbled over the front.’
‘I’d give it back to you next year,’ she said.
They both laughed at the inside joke. There was a birthday card – tattered and stained now, with a puppy holding a giant red heart – that had been passed back and forth between Shannon and Rufus since they were teens. At each birthday the previous year’s custodian crossed off his or her name and re-signed the card to the other. The messages through the years, in biro, permanent marker and, once, crayon, were always a new excuse for being too cheap to buy a fresh card. No matter what else Rufus got for his birthday, that card from Shannon was the thing he most looked forward to.
Inside jokes. Sometimes she envied that about Rufus and Shannon’s childhood friendship. She’d come late to the party, and she suspected that some of the best songs might have been played already.
Maybe if she’d been there from the beginning it’d be easier to talk to Rufus now. He and Shannon never seemed to have any tension between them. Perhaps that was the privilege of such a long friendship.
She’d never even had a lifelong friend. She couldn’t count Gemma. She was contractually obliged to be in Scarlett’s life. Besides, for long periods growing up they definitely weren’t friends. Given such a lack of experience, she wasn’t exactly great at sharing her feelings now. She could hardly stop herself making snarky ditto marks in the air around the phrase. Sharing her feelings. No thanks, Oprah.
Rufus didn’t stay in the kitchen for long. ‘Are you two really going to sit here while I do all the cooking?’
‘Yes,’ they both said, not moving.
‘Then you’ll need more wine.’ He took the bottle from behind his back and refilled their glasses. As he poured for Scarlett, he caught her eye again.
I’m sorry, he mouthed.
Me, too.
‘What are we talking about?’ he asked.
‘It’s our anniversary,’ said Shannon. ‘Scarlett’s and mine.’
‘I knew that, obviously. That’s why I’m making homemade gnocchi.’
‘Bullshit,’ Shannon said. ‘You had no idea.’
‘None whatsoever.’ He sat between them, once again the third side in their unbreakable triangle.
Chapter 9
The last thing Scarlett expected when she turned up at Margaret’s house was a full-blown domestic. Her client seemed the type who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, yet there she was shouting back into the house as she heaved open the door to greet Scarlett. Though in fairness, she was probably just trying to get a word in over the teenager sniping at her.
‘I told you not to go into my room!’ snapped the skinny, hairy young man that Scarlett could see glaring behind Margaret. ‘I can wash my own damn clothes.’
‘Yes, but darling, you never do,’ Margaret pointed out. ‘And then I end up rushing around getting you clean pants. I was just trying to save myself a step.’ She waved Scarlett into the hallway. The teen watched her enter, then pretended she wasn’t there. ‘I’m awfully sorry about this, Mrs Fothergill. Please make yourself comfortable in the sitting room. This will only take a minute.’
Scarlett perched on the cream silk brocade sofa and eavesdropped on the showdown as it moved into the kitchen.
‘Now what am I supposed to do about the shirt?’ the teenager demanded as cutlery clattered in the sink.
‘Can’t you wear another one?’ Margaret’s voice was appeasing. There was no trace of the fury Scarlett would have fe
lt being in her shoes.
‘You know nothing about anything! That’s the one I want to wear. Unfortunately, I can’t. Thanks to you, it’s soaking wet.’
Scarlett imagined him with his hands on his hips, giving Margaret dirty looks from under his boy band fringe. Actually, that wasn’t so much her imagination as the exact posture he’d had when she first came in.
‘Let me iron it dry,’ Margaret said. ‘It’ll only take a minute. Will that be okay, darling?’
He must have mimed his response – probably rudely – because next Scarlett heard the metallic clack of an ironing board being set up, and a few minutes later the teen stormed out the front door without so much as a thank you.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Margaret said, returning to collect Scarlett from the living room. ‘And the caterer rang earlier saying she needs to stop by, too. It’s all happening round here today, but hopefully we won’t be interrupted too much! Please come through.’
Biscuit’s eyebrows twitched as she watched Scarlett from her dog bed by the Aga, but she didn’t lift her chin from her paws. She perked up her spaniel ears, though, when Margaret got the treats down from the kitchen cabinet that sat above a gleaming Italian espresso machine. Everything in Margaret’s house looked new and perfect. Scarlett thought about her own splattered and stained coffee maker. One day they’d get round to replacing the carafe with one that didn’t need duct tape on the handle. ‘Was that your son?’ Scarlett asked. ‘How old is he?’
‘Yes, that’s Archie. Now where is the new pack? I know I bought them, just like you asked.’ She flung open the other cabinets till she found what she was looking for. ‘He’s just home on term break from Loughborough. He’s in his first year there.’
In other words, thought Scarlett, he’s old enough to iron his own flippin’ shirts.
Margaret put her coat on so they could take Biscuit outside. ‘I’ll just keep the doors open so I can listen for the caterer,’ she explained as a cool wind blew a pile of papers off the kitchen table. ‘I’m sorry she’s coming, but she didn’t have another time to check in this week. Hopefully she won’t disturb us too much.’
Love is a Four-Legged Word: The romantic comedy about canines, conception and fresh starts Page 6
