Love is a Four-Legged Word: The romantic comedy about canines, conception and fresh starts

by Michele Gorman

  They’d talked about it, though, as they planned their wedding together. ‘They’ll be our trial kids,’ Rufus had joked. ‘If we manage not to screw them up, then we’ll be okay parents.’

  ‘You don’t have a lot of faith in your girlfriend’s training abilities,’ Scarlett had said. Her business was expanding enough, at last, to let her believe it was a going concern. Going so well, in fact, that it was hard to keep up on her own.

  ‘Fiancée,’ Rufus had corrected.

  ‘Fiancée, I mean.’ She’d giggled, like she did every time she thought about marrying Rufus. They were doing all the planning together and so far they’d agreed on everything.

  So Scarlett was amazed that Rufus managed to keep his surprise from her till their wedding day.

  They had a strict no-peeking policy that morning, with Scarlett sequestered in one part of the church and Rufus in the other. ‘Do you think Rufus has champagne, too?’ Gemma asked, knocking back the last sip in her glass.

  ‘Don’t drink too much,’ Felicia scolded, ‘or you’ll only fall asleep at the reception.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m too excited. My big sister’s wedding. Who’d have thought, after all the losers she dated?’

  ‘They weren’t all losers,’ objected Scarlett as she stared at herself in the mirror. She’d done that for most of the morning. Soft curls framed her face, floating out from beneath her grandmother’s cathedral-length veil (something old). Despite the modern cut of her figure-hugging dress (something new) it suited perfectly. ‘Stuart was okay.’

  ‘He was no Rufus,’ Julia said, hugging her daughter. ‘You’ve got a good one.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, I know.’

  They all jumped at the knock on the door. ‘Scarlett?’ her dad called. ‘Are you decent?’

  She could see his face beaming over the huge red bow on the box in his arms. ‘I’m Rufus’s emissary. He’s asked me to give you your wedding day present.’

  ‘Wow, that doesn’t look like jewellery,’ Gemma noted.

  It definitely didn’t sound like jewellery either.

  Her face broke into a smile as she heard the scuffling and snuffling inside.

  ‘You’d better take the lid off,’ said her dad.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Felicia and Julia crowded around the box.

  But Scarlett knew. As she opened the lid, two pairs of button eyes looked up. Set against their snow-white fur, they looked like toys. Their little black noses and pink tongues went straight for their new owner’s hands.

  ‘Those are the cutest things I’ve ever seen!’ Gemma squealed, sticking her hand into the box to stroke their soft fur.

  ‘This is for you.’ Her dad handed over an envelope.

  Dear Scarlett, it read.

  Today is the first day of the rest of our lives together and I can hardly believe it’s really happening. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone and can’t wait to be your husband and build our life together.

  I hope you love our dogs as much as I do. They haven’t got names so we can choose them together. I thought you might like something blue on your wedding day.

  I love you,

  Rufus

  Sure enough, tied round each tiny collar was a pale blue bow. ‘Dad, tell him that yes, I do love our dogs already.’ She buried her nose in their fur. Sod the make-up, these were their dogs!

  She toyed with their pale blue leashes. ‘Do you think I could take them down the aisle with me?’

  Her dad nodded. ‘I think that’s the idea. You can try. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘Will that be okay?’ sensible Felicia asked. ‘With the vicar, I mean?’

  ‘It’s their wedding day, honey. They get to do what they want. Rufus says there’s a puppy minder in the back pew. He’s thought of everything.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it!’ Scarlett said. ‘If they get tired or don’t want to walk, I can hand them over to the puppy minder.’

  What an entrance she was going to make!

  Nerves fluttered in her tummy as she stood with her dad in the vestibule listening for the organ to begin her entrance music. The puppies stepped all over her satin shoes in what would become their signature move. She was too happy to care about a few paw prints.

  ‘Ready?’ her dad asked, crooking his arm for her to take.

  The puppies led the way, eliciting a wave of aahhs that threatened to upstage the bride. Their little behinds wriggled with excitement as they zigzagged up the aisle. Scarlett watched Rufus burst into laughter as he waited for them at the front. His eyes shone with tears.

  The vicar’s eyes looked less friendly, though. Bride or no bride, she knew she was in for a ticking off when she got to the front. But until then she was enjoying every single second.

  The faces of everyone she loved in the world beamed back at her, smiling and laughing. She walked past Shannon just as her smile turned to surprise. Her mouth made a little ‘O’.

  She followed Shannon’s eyes to the floor in front of them. One of the puppies was squatting on its tiny haunches, leaving a puddle on the floor of god’s house.

  When she heard Rufus exclaim ‘Oh, Jesus’, her eyes flicked from their peeing puppy to the front of the church. The vicar’s expression darkened even more.

  Lifting the hem of her dress, Scarlett stepped around the puddle. What else was she supposed to do – blot it up with her train? Besides, nothing was going to stop her progress towards Rufus.

  Her dad pulled his soon-to-be son-in-law into a hug. Then he kissed Scarlett’s cheek and went to sit between Felicia and Julia in the front row.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ Rufus told her, chastely taking her hand. Kisses would have to wait till they had official permission. ‘Nice entrance. Sorry, vicar, we’ll get that cleaned up.’ He signalled to the woman at the back who already had paper towels in hand. She deftly mopped up the puppy’s mess before taking their leads from Scarlett and leading them back out front.

  It wasn’t a wedding anyone would easily forget. They still put a little cheque in with their Christmas card to that church every year, but Scarlett wasn’t sure they’d bought the vicar’s forgiveness quite yet.

  * * * * *

  She didn’t want to turn up at Margaret’s party on her own, but she couldn’t very well ask to bring Gemma when she knew how hard it had been to find the money to have it in the first place. Besides, she told herself (in her mother’s voice), it would be character-building. At the very worst she’d be bored for a few hours. At least she wouldn’t be sitting alone in her house in Reading.

  She scanned through her meagre wardrobe choices, her heart sinking as her hand swept over the dress she’d worn the night Rufus took her out for that pricey meal in London. It was her best dress. She didn’t want to go to the party looking like Biscuit’s dog trainer. But she worried that night would swamp her when she zipped herself into the frock. She needed less to think about, not more.

  Could clothes hold memories like that? She stared at the dress. There was only one way to find out.

  Shimmying out of her jeans and tee shirt she pulled the dress over her hips. It was soft, not silk but silky. Its deep green fabric hugged her waist without being clingy and its flare at the hem made it swing with each step. She could wear her flat boots so her feet wouldn’t hurt from standing.

  Maybe the dress needed a good cosmic airing out anyway. She could exorcise the memory of dinner with Rufus by having fun at the party. And if she didn’t have fun, she could be home and in her jimjams by ten.

  She could hear the revelry before she even got to Margaret’s house. Loads of people milled about in front, smoking and chatting with drinks in their hands. That was a good sign.

  All the shrubs and the cherry tree were festooned in white fairy lights and every window in the house glowed. It looked like the kind of party she’d always wanted to be invited to. She fixed her face into her I’m-already-having-fun expression and made her way through the open front door.<
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  She knew immediately why so many people were outside. There was no room in the house. She squeezed between the guests who lined the entrance, self-consciously trying not to rub up against anything too intimate in the process.

  It looked like a sales conference with more atmosphere. Nearly all the men wore suits, and it was nearly all men. Every so often she glimpsed a flash of something that wasn’t worsted wool, but she didn’t see Margaret.

  She took her phone out. That should buy her five minutes or so before she looked as Sally No Mates as she felt.

  She’d never been so happy to see a missed call from Max. She rang him back.

  ‘Hiya Scarlett! I was just wondering if there’s an antidote to Viagra?’

  ‘Erm, Max, that’s not really something I’ve got a lot of experience in. If it’s a problem, you may need to go to A&E.’

  Max barked out a laugh. ‘No, no, sorry! It’s not for me. I just wondered if there’s something that does the opposite of Viagra, you know, to dampen a sex drive instead of encourage it?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I’d have to say wearing a onesie to bed. Or wedge heels. They’re both guaranteed to dampen a man’s desire.’

  ‘Ha ha, definitely. But I mean a pill or something. For dogs?’

  ‘Max, you’re not actually thinking about giving a drug to Murphy for the rest of his life? Doesn’t neutering seem kinder than that?’

  He sighed. ‘I guess so. Sorry to bother you.’

  ‘That’s all right. I want you to feel free to ring any time. It’s important that you’re comfortable with the procedure. Okay?’

  He’d already rung several times with ideas for saving Murphy from the snip. What would he think of next?

  Suddenly people started flowing away through the kitchen as if someone had unblocked the plughole in a house-sized sink. As she allowed herself to be swept along on the tide she gasped at the decorations. Pastel tissue-paper flowers of all sizes cascaded across the walls in great sprays and swirls. They tumbled from the mantelpiece and across the tables. They hung upside down in frothy pastel pops of colour from the high ceilings, with their sunny faces beaming down upon the heads of the crowd. The effect was womb-like and magical. It reminded Scarlett of being in one of those old-fashioned sweet shops.

  As she reached the kitchen she saw two things: the reason for the flow of people, and Julian with his catering crew. The back doors had been flung open to the evening and guests were making for the garden. Fairy lights twinkled along both fences and bamboo garden torches lined the walkway.

  ‘Finally, some room!’ Julian shouted, kissing Scarlett’s cheek. ‘We had to use the Christmas lights to make the back habitable. I just hope it doesn’t rain or everyone out there’s going to get electrocuted. Well? What do you think? Is it fabulous, or what?’

  ‘It’s amazing, Julian, really. How did you pull this off?’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ He curtsied in his lilac tutu. The others – boys and girls – wore colourful tutus as well, with contrasting stripy or polka-dotted knee socks and white vests. There was no mistaking any of Julian’s crew for the guests. ‘It was simple, really. Margaret got a job lot of tissue paper off eBay and we made all the flowers together. Team Margaret are very creative, you know.’

  ‘Team Margaret?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, we’re definitely not Team Arthur. He’s a pillock, if you ask me.’

  Scarlett couldn’t disagree. ‘And the outfits? From your dressing-up box?’ She wished she’d worn something more flamboyant. Looking around, she’d rather be part of Julian’s tribe.

  His long silky plats shimmied when he shook his head. ‘Loads of us have tutus, as it turns out. I thought I was more original, but alas, no.’

  They both noticed Margaret coming towards them. ‘I’m so pleased for her,’ he said fondly. ‘This is her triumph.’

  Arthur and her children couldn’t help but be impressed with what she’d managed to pull off in just a few weeks, Scarlett thought.

  ‘Mrs Fothergill, hello!’ They hugged. ‘Your Julian has been such a dream. Blimey, will you look at this place?’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘It puts Octavia to shame, and she’s supposed to be a professional.’

  Scarlett followed Margaret’s gaze. ‘She’s here?’ Sure enough, Octavia stood unsmiling beside a lanky man in a blue tartan suit and yellow cravat. He looked like he was just dying for someone to point out his eccentricity.

  ‘Can you bloomin’ believe the cheek of that woman? Butter wouldn’t melt.’

  When one of Julian’s team swooped by with a tray full of canapes, Scarlett popped a tiny puff into her mouth.

  ‘These are delicious, Margaret,’ she said between chews of pastry and crab.

  ‘Only the finest for Arthur and his friends.’ She winked.

  As Julian rushed off to help with the drinks and Margaret went to greet new arrivals, Scarlett found herself gravitating towards the Aga in the kitchen. Biscuit lay curled in her basket beside it, stubbornly oblivious to the human invasion. ‘Don’t worry,’ Scarlett told the dog as she carefully squatted down in her dress, ‘You’ll have the house to yourself again in a few hours.’

  Biscuit gently wagged her feathery tail as she looked up.

  As much as she wanted to stay there in the corner with the dog, she knew she had to be at least a little bit sociable, if only so she could tell Margaret later how nice her friends were. She searched for a group of women who looked friendly, sure they’d be Margaret’s friends instead of Arthur’s business contacts.

  She approached two middle-aged women standing in the opposite corner of the kitchen. They’d smiled invitingly when she caught their eyes, making them fair game as far as she was concerned. Both women wore the same kind of trendy jeans and soft-looking jumpers that Margaret favoured.

  ‘You’re friends of Margaret’s?’ she asked. ‘I’m Scarlett. I’ve been training her dog, Biscuit.’

  ‘Oh, we know Biscuit!’ The Indian woman rolled her eyes. ‘Margaret has to bring her whenever we meet. You’ve done wonders for that dog, I must say!’

  ‘For them both,’ said the fit-looking blonde beside her. ‘Margaret is definitely more confident these days.’

  ‘That’s nice to hear,’ Scarlett said. ‘And Biscuit’s behaviour is all down to her. She’s been working really hard with her.’

  Both women nodded. ‘She works hard at everything. Look at this party – isn’t it marvellous? She’s always the perfect hostess.’

  Scarlett swallowed her smirk, wondering how well they really knew Margaret. She felt privileged to have seen the inner workings of her household over the past few months, and to know she wasn’t the only one who used Febreze or invoked the five-second rule for food dropped on the floor.

  They chatted easily about Margaret and the Hampstead Heath WI as the tulle-swathed wait staff kept their wine glasses topped up.

  ‘That’s Arthur?’ she asked her new friends as they noticed a tall middle-aged man with a shock of thick ginger hair loudly tapping his glass with his wedding ring.

  ‘That’s him.’

  People drifted in from the hallway and the garden as he started to speak, until everyone stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight to celebrate Margaret’s ahem, mumble, mumble birthday.’

  ‘Fifty!’ shouted a man to their left.

  ‘A lady never tells,’ joked Arthur. ‘And clearly you’re no lady! Where is she? Where’s my wife?’

  Heads swivelled to find Margaret, who was lurking at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Come here, darling.’ Arthur beckoned her to the middle of the room. Scarlett knew she’d hate that. ‘Everyone wants to wish you happy birthday.’

  Margaret blushed deeply as Arthur hauled her into the limelight. ‘This is a fantastic party,’ he said. ‘And it’s all down to one woman.’

  Margaret smiled and started to say something just as Arthur cut her off. ‘Octavia! Where’s Octavia?
She pulled together this whole party for Margaret. Isn’t she wonderful?’

  Scarlett heard Julian exclaim ‘What the fuck?’ just as Octavia rushed forward.

  ‘I didn’t do this!’ she said. ‘Please, Arthur, paper flowers? Really? It looks like a school class has been let loose with their scissors and paste.’

  The room went silent. A few people craned their necks to get a better view of the decorations.

  As Scarlett’s eyes darted to Julian, she shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to defend his handicrafts.

  ‘It looks contrived,’ Octavia continued. ‘Not natural at all. But I suppose that’s Margaret’s style.’ Her pale, horsey face was contorted with malice.

  Margaret found her voice. ‘Our decorations look contrived? Please, Octavia, you’re one to talk about looking unnatural. You’ve been tucked so many times you look like a hospital corner.’

  The room gasped, but Octavia kept her cool. ‘I haven’t been involved in this party, Arthur,’ she said again. ‘I bowed out weeks ago. Over creative differences.’ Her look challenged Margaret to disagree.

  ‘But… then who did it?’ Arthur asked. ‘All the drinks? The flowers? Who catered?’

  ‘Nobody,’ said Margaret. ‘No, I mean I did. Not nobody. I had to find a way to have the party after… Octavia resigned. Julian and his friends – they’re the waiters – they did all the decorations and I got the wine from OddBins and do you know that Waitrose loans glasses for free?’

  Arthur shook his head, clearly in shock. ‘The food, too? Did they make the little pigs in blankets? I loved those.’ The room murmured its agreement. Scarlett could have eaten a whole plate of the things.

  ‘The food’s from M&S.’ Her look challenged her husband to make a big deal of that.

  He blanched and took the bait. ‘Margaret, pre-packaged food? Standards!’

  Someone next to Scarlett whispered, ‘But I love their chocolate fondants.’