Harper
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First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015
Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2015
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008135218
Version: 2015-05-18
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Keep Reading_ Primrose Terrace
About the Author
Also by Cressida McLaughlin
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Cat Palmer had never seen Fairview Park looking so beautiful. It was late May, and the breeze that drifted in off the ocean made her think of days spent building sandcastles as a child. The sky was a brilliant blue with gauze-like clouds drifting slowly past. The wide expanse of green grass was humming and buzzing with families and couples and friends, all of whom had one thing in common: they were with their dogs.
There was almost every breed imaginable, from Great Danes to chihuahuas, dachshunds to Dalmatians. Cat was determined to see if the age-old belief stood firm, that there was a resemblance between every dog and its owner. She thought of all the doggy friends she’d made since moving to Primrose Terrace at the beginning of the year, and since she’d started her dog-walking business, Pooch Promenade.
There was her next-door neighbour Elsie with her two miniature schnauzers. All three had grey hair, but beyond that Cat couldn’t see any likeness. Then there was glamorous Jessica Heybourne, celebrity food author and Fairview socialite. Cat thought of her expensively highlighted blonde hair, and the three silky Westies that she owned – a diva with her diva dogs. Yes, there were more similarities there. Cat wondered what she should get if she was choosing a pet to match her own looks. She had boy-cut chestnut hair, brown eyes, long limbs. A red setter maybe, or a pointer? Though neither would be the breed of dog she’d choose, and she’d spent a lot of time thinking about the day she could have her own.
Her newest clients were Will and Juliette Barker, a professional couple who lived at number six Primrose Terrace and had asked her to walk their two golden retrievers, Alfie and Effie, while they were at work. Cat didn’t know them that well, but she didn’t think either of them looked remotely like their pets.
And then there was Chips, sitting perfectly at her feet, her sleek head brushing against Cat’s knee, just beneath the hem of her spring-green sundress. Cat had always thought of the Border collie as humble, elegant and well behaved. Her owner, Mark, could be seen as elegant in a dashing, roguish kind of way, but humble and well behaved he was not. Still, Cat found herself grinning at the thought of him. He had trusted her to look after Chips overnight, while he spent a couple of days in London, and promised her dinner on his return.
She approached a couple with two Labradoodles. Cat always thought of them as the hippies of the dog world; laid-back and loping, their eyes hidden behind elaborate fringes. ‘Welcome to the Pooches’ and Puppies’ Picnic,’ she said. ‘I’m Cat. I run Pooch Promenade with my friend Polly, so please feel free to ask any questions. There’s tea, coffee and cold drinks inside the café, along with water and treats for the dogs.’
‘Thanks,’ the man said. He was quite short and wide, with a bright blue T-shirt and a friendly face. The woman he was with smiled at Cat, her amber eyes wide. ‘We’re not sure we need a walker for these two, but couldn’t resist popping down when we heard about it.’
‘We love dogs,’ the woman added. ‘It’s so lovely to see so many here all at once.’
‘I know!’ Cat said, unable to hide her enthusiasm. ‘It’s such a good turnout – I had no idea it would be so popular.’
And not just for family pets and companions, but for people whose dogs were furkids – as important as children to their owners. She’d seen a young woman with spiky pink hair and porcelain skin leading two shih-tzus dressed in little tartan jackets and sunglasses, and an older woman pushing her Pekinese in a bright blue pet pushchair. Cat remembered seeing them on a dog-accessory website, but she hadn’t imagined people actually bought them. Didn’t dogs want to walk? She hoped so, otherwise her new business would be short-lived.
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ she said to the couple, ‘where did you hear about it?’
‘On Twitter,’ the man said. ‘I work for the local paper – though “paper” seems a bit anomalous these days so I’m always on social media, trying to keep up with the times. I think your event was mentioned by Magic Mouse –have you heard of them?’
Cat smiled and did a quick visual search of the park. She couldn’t see Joe, her housemate and brother of her best friend Polly, but she knew he was here somewhere, despite his aversion to dogs. He’d come up with the idea for the Pooches’ and Puppies’ Picnic and, now it seemed, had tweeted it to his followers too. ‘I have,’ Cat said. ‘Amazing illustrations. Have you checked them out?’
The man nodded. ‘Yup. I’ve been following him for a while now, looking at his work. He – Joe, is it? – seems very talented.’
Cat glanced behind her, but she still couldn’t see him. ‘He is. He’s got a real skill for cartoons as well as graphic design – his work’s really versatile.’
‘We’re thinking of having a regular cartoon strip in the paper. It’s still just an idea at the moment, but…you know him well, then?’
‘He’s a friend,’ Cat said. Was that true? She hoped they were more than just housemates. ‘And – sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Phil.’
‘Do you think, Phil, if you get a chance, that you could mention today, maybe say a little bit about—’
‘Pooch Promenade?’ He gave her an easy, open smile. Was he really a journalist? ‘I think that can be arranged. Good-news stories are always great for the paper. Give me your number and I’ll look at it on Monday, ring for a quote.’
Cat’s heart leapt. ‘That’s fantastic!’ She handed him a Pooch Promenade card with her number on. ‘Thank you.’
‘And thanks for the info about Magic Mouse. I’ll be in touch.’
Cat directed them towards the Pavilion, the park’s dog-friendly café, run by George, that was hosting her event. She waved at a family with an Alsatian puppy straining on its leash, a young boy laughing as he was dragged along behind, his father with a protective hand on his shoulder.
‘Twenty names,’ a familiar voice said close to Cat
’s ear. She spun round to see Polly waggling a clipboard. ‘Twenty people have registered to receive the Pooch Promenade newsletter, and it’s only eleven o’clock.’ Polly was wearing a pink T-shirt and white shorts, her long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, her freckles just starting to emerge in the sunshine. Her pale blue eyes were alive with excitement.
‘That’s incredible,’ Cat said. ‘And the local paper said they’d put something in about today. At this rate I’ll need to hire more people.’
‘I’m going to try and spend a bit of time walking the dogs,’ Polly said. ‘I don’t have much spare, but I’m being swallowed by revision and I need to make sure I get some fresh air or I’ll be a gibbering wreck when the exams start. Can I help out?’
‘You’re serious?’ Cat flung her arms round her friend. ‘Oh, Polly, that would be amazing. I feel like I’ve barely seen you since I moved in!’
‘I know, it’s been rubbish. But my exams are three months away and then I’m free!’
‘Except you have to start doing the thing you’ve been training to do for so long.’
‘Daniel at Fairview vet’s says he’s really pleased with what I’ve done, that there’s money and demand for another nurse.’
‘So you can keep working there?’
Polly nodded, her lips pressed together, trying to hide what Cat could only assume was a huge grin.
‘Oh God, Polly, that’s brilliant! Why haven’t you told me already? We need to celebrate! You’ll be a fully qualified veterinary nurse.’
‘And maybe I’ll actually have a life!’
They hugged again, Cat feeling a swell of pride that her friend had worked hard and got to exactly where she wanted. It was impressive, and something Cat couldn’t imagine doing. She’d felt settled at her last children’s nursery in Brighton, had fitted into their spontaneous ways, but her job as nursery assistant in Fairview had lasted less than three months, and Cat had turned her back on that career path.
But Pooch Promenade felt right. She had always loved dogs, and couldn’t remember a time when she was so happy, walking people’s pets round Fairview Park and the sandy beach, getting to know the locals at the same time. Now that Polly was nearly qualified, all they had to do was drag her brother out of the post-break-up dumps, and their household would be the happiest on Primrose Terrace.
‘Where’s Joe?’ Cat asked. She stroked Chips’s ears, checking that the collie hadn’t turned to a statue at her side. The dog nuzzled her nose into Cat’s hand.
‘He’s on the veranda, giving out the cards with your rates and contact details on. I think I saw Jessica prowling around there too.’
‘Ah.’ The friends exchanged a knowing smile. A few weeks ago, Jessica had held a party at which Joe, work-at-home hoody enthusiast, had put on a sharp suit and ended up kissing the hostess. He’d assured them it was a one-off, but Cat had spoken to Jessica and wasn’t sure the author was quite so ready to forget it. ‘Do you think he needs rescuing?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to see how he’s getting on. I’ll take Chips for a bit.’ Polly approached a tall, burly man with a boxer, what looked like a piece of bread sticking out of the dog’s mouth. Maybe it was a Street Sweeper, picking up any snack she could find on her route around the park. ‘Hello,’ Polly said, ‘welcome to the Pooches’ and Puppies’ Picnic. If you’ve got any questions I’d be happy to answer them.’
Cat gave her Chips’s lead and snaked through people and dogs towards the café. It was cooler under the awning, but only just, and Cat spotted Joe at a table with a glass of iced water. There was no sign of Jessica. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and dark cargo shorts and, despite being blonde and blue-eyed like his sister, he had tanned arms. Cat had imagined that, with all the time he spent hidden up in his office creating illustrations, he’d be as pale as a ghost. He didn’t look like a ghost.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked. ‘Not regretting giving up your Saturday to spend it with your least favourite animals?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘There are worse ways I could be spending my weekend.’ He grinned, and Cat was surprised how relaxed he seemed.
‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’ Ever since she’d moved into number nine Primrose Terrace, they’d had a battle of wits about her new business and ultimately – although she wasn’t sure Joe knew this yet – about when Cat could have a dog of her own. Joe had made his feelings about dogs perfectly clear, and had put an obstacle firmly in the way. That obstacle was grumpy and ginger, liked Whiskas and went by the name of Shed. ‘Is all this contact starting to turn you, Joe? I mean, look how cute this one is!’
Joe sat up and peered over the table at where Cat was pointing.
‘Hello, what’s your name?’ She crouched down and the tiny dog trotted up to her. It was white and tan, with eyes too big for its pointy face, and huge ears that had their own furry tassels. ‘You look like a princess, don’t you? Your ears look like those hats.’ The dog looked up at her, as if expecting her to clarify. ‘Oh, you know. Joe?’
Joe frowned, thinking. ‘A hennin. That cone-shaped princess hat, that’s what it’s called.’
‘Exactly. See? You’re a princess. Who do you belong to?’ The dog sat in front of her and put her paw over her nose, just as a man with white hair and half-moon glasses bustled through the crowd. ‘Is this little dog yours?’
The old man nodded and sat down opposite Joe. ‘Hot, isn’t it? Phew. Shouldn’t have layered up like I have. Hard to break a habit and go without a vest, though.’
‘It is quite warm,’ Cat said, suppressing a smile. ‘What’s your dog called?’
Joe disappeared inside the café, and Cat turned her attention to her new visitor.
‘Paris,’ he said. ‘She’s a papillon. Marie Antoinette’s favourite breed. There’s a Papillon House in Paris, still. Seemed appropriate.’
‘She’s very well behaved.’
’She’s a perfect little butterfly. But sadly, a miserable one.’
‘A miserable butterfly?’
‘Papillon. It means butterfly in French. Don’t you young people go to school any more?’
‘That one must have passed me by.’
‘But you’ve been to Paris?’
‘Once. A long time ago.’ Cat had been with her parents when she was small. She didn’t remember much beyond the endless rain and straining her neck to look up at the Eiffel Tower, bearing down on her like a giant steel monster.
He smiled, a hazy look on his face. ‘Most romantic city in the world. You should take your chap with you, visit all the sites – Papillon House included.’
‘My chap?’
‘Your young gentlemen there,’ the man said.
Joe returned and put a glass of water in front of him.
‘Thank you, son, very kind. Seems very well behaved too,’ he said to Cat with a wink. ‘A trip to Paris would be just the thing.’
‘Oh, no, no, I—’ She glanced at Joe, saw him silently ask a question and turned back to the gentleman. ‘I’m Cat,’ she said. ‘I run Pooch Promenade.’ She held out her hand, and he took it.
‘Oh, yes, I know all about you. I’m Arthur, but people call me Captain.’
‘OK,’ Cat said quietly. ‘Can I ask—’
‘Why I’m called Captain?’
‘How you know about me?’
‘Elsie told me. We’re back-garden buddies, we chat over the wall. She said anyone and everyone with a dog would be here today, that I’d better hotfoot it down with my Paris. Don’t know why though, she doesn’t need more walks, doesn’t seem to want to do anything at the moment except hide under the sofa. Butterflies don’t do that, generally.’
‘I wonder why?’ Cat crouched and stroked the little dog, who was still trying to hide her nose under an inadequate paw. She started shaking. ‘She’s not unwell?’ Paris had a thin red collar, a tiny Eiffel Tower charm hanging off it in place of a name tag. Cat smiled at the old man’s romanticism.
‘Doesn’t seem so. I took
her to the vet’s a couple of weeks ago, and they weren’t sure. She’s eating OK, she’s affectionate with me, but it seems she’s got that – arachnophobia thing.’
‘She’s scared of spiders?’ Joe peered down at Paris. ‘I guess she is quite sma—’
‘No no, not that. Going outside. When you don’t like going outside.’
‘Oh,’ Cat laughed, ‘agoraphobia.’
Joe shrugged and crossed his arms. ‘Arachnophobia is spiders.’
‘I am seventy-eight, boy,’ Captain scolded. ‘I can be forgiven for getting a word wrong here and there.’
‘Of course, I didn’t mean to—’
‘You young studs don’t like to be embarrassed, do you?’ He wagged a finger at Joe and Cat turned her attention back to the sad dog, hiding her smile.
‘Maybe I could ask my friend Polly to take a look at her? She’s a vet’s nurse, so—’ Cat was cut off by a loud squeal from somewhere beyond the periphery of the veranda. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, getting up.
Joe was already ahead of her, and Cat followed him back to where she’d left Polly and Chips. She stopped in her tracks when she saw that her friend was completely drenched, her mouth open aghast, water running off her and onto the hot grass. Chips was trotting backwards and forwards, her fur glistening. Cat thought she’d probably enjoyed the soaking more than Polly.
‘What the hell?’ Joe whispered. ‘Pol, are you OK? What happened?’
Cat took a step forward and then stopped. Mr Jasper was standing at the edge of the crowd that was beginning to form, holding an empty bucket. Mr Jasper, ex-headmaster and local dog hater, had a tendency to let his views be known in sneaky, underhand ways. This was the most public thing he’d ever done.
‘Oh my God,’ Cat said quietly, and then, much louder, ‘Mr Jasper, can I ask what that was in aid of? Because the last time I checked it was cats that didn’t like water and not dogs.’
Mr Jasper fidgeted, dancing backwards and forwards like one of Jessica’s Westies. She could see he was wavering, desperate to run away but knowing he couldn’t. ‘We don’t want this many dogs here!’ he shouted.
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