The Pets at Primrose Cottage

by Sheila Norton

  ‘I … I don’t know what to say,’ I stuttered. I took a deep breath. ‘So has he actually moved out now, then?’

  ‘I’ve thrown him out, yes. Not before time. So you won’t let this put you off from coming back to look after Sugar again, will you? I couldn’t bear to lose you now. Sugar adores you.’

  It was bizarre. She seemed completely unmoved about splitting from her husband – her only concern was making sure her cat would be looked after while she was jetting off to her high-powered business meetings.

  I finished my coffee, trying to calm my fears. It didn’t appear that Rob had told Vanya anything else about me. So presumably, apart from his horrible friend in the pub (who I hoped had been too drunk to remember any of it), he hadn’t told anyone else either. He may not have had time, of course. Apparently she’d given him his marching orders as soon as she guessed what had happened, and was so keen to see the back of him that she was paying the rent on a room in a B&B down in Paignton for him, as a temporary measure. He’d left the parish council and left Crickleford, hopefully for good. He surely had enough to worry about now – with a bit of luck, he wouldn’t have time to think any more about me and my background.

  ‘I’ll have to sell the house, of course,’ Vanya was saying sadly, looking around her. ‘He’ll expect a share. But I’ve got my furry baby. That’s all that matters.’

  I admired Vanya, even if I was still a little nervous of her. She was a strong, dignified woman, as well as being beautiful and successful. I understood why she wouldn’t want someone like Rob in her life any more. But although I loved Sugar too, I knew her obsession with the little cat was somewhat over the top. Which had come first – his despicable behaviour, or her rejection of him in favour of her furry baby? Well, as long as I never had to see Rob again, I didn’t care.

  I’d still heard nothing from Matt, though. For the first few days, I’d gone to hang around outside the Chronicle office – despite my fear that even as I stood there, he’d be inside, writing his killer story about my past. I’d even stood for ages outside the door to his flat a couple of times, too scared to ring the bell. And of course I’d walked up and down Moor View Lane staring at Bilberry Cottage. I was desperate to see him, to try to sort things out between us, but conversely worried about what I might find out. If he was writing that story, it would mean the end – for me in Crickleford, and for us. That’s if we hadn’t already reached the end.

  Eventually I stopped looking for him. Apart from the fact that I was beginning to feel like a stalker, as time passed and I looked fearfully every week at the Crickleford Chronicle as well as all the national papers, half expecting to see my name splashed across the front page, I began to believe that he wasn’t going to betray me. Perhaps he might still care about me – might have forgiven me? But even if he had, I sensed that I’d have to give him time. How much time did he need? I spent hours lying on my bed, staring at my photo of Albert, cuddling Romeo and Juliet, or listening to little Holly’s chatter and keeping her amused by playing games with her, waiting for my fear of exposure to recede, waiting for my heart to mend.

  There’d been a big change at Primrose Cottage. Holly had started school at the beginning of the month, and told anyone who’d listened that she was now a big, grown-up girl. It seemed that there was now nothing her parents or I could tell her that she didn’t already know.

  ‘Mrs Jones told us that,’ she’d say about anything we discussed. ‘Mrs Jones knows about everything.’ Her heroine was apparently pretty, funny and kind, as well as being the fount of all knowledge.

  ‘I feel a bit redundant,’ Lauren admitted one day while we were preparing dinner together. ‘I’m going to talk to the school about working afternoons as well as mornings. I’m lucky that my job fits in perfectly with Holly, of course, and I do love being a teaching assistant. But sometimes I wish I could do something more challenging – perhaps train to be a proper teacher. But …’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I only got a handful of GCSEs at school.’

  ‘You’re cleverer than me, then,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get any.’

  ‘But you are clever, Emma,’ she said, looking at me in surprise. ‘Look at you! Running your own business! Being clever isn’t just about passing exams.’

  Wasn’t it? I pondered this when I lay in my bed that night, as usual trying to get to sleep while the rain pattered against the window of my little room. Nobody had ever said that to me before. I’d always just assumed I was as stupid as the other children at my school said I was.

  One afternoon, I was upstairs in my bedroom, with some time to spare before going back to the house where I’d been looking after a rather annoying budgie, when I heard Mary arriving with her latest supply of books for Lauren. Lauren put on the kettle and started to chat with Mary about her career ambitions. I lay back against my pillow and, as I often did, pulled out the photo of Albert and the letter that had come with it. It was now completely creased up, and I smoothed it out and stared at it, making my eyes go funny in the vain hope that some of the words might suddenly jump out at me, when there was a tap at the door and Mary appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Emma,’ she said. ‘Lauren’s just making a cup of tea and she asked me to call you to see if you wanted one. You obviously didn’t hear me.’

  ‘I must have been miles away,’ I said, quickly folding up the letter.

  ‘You looked as if you were struggling with that,’ she commented, giving me a smile.

  ‘Oh … um, yes. I don’t seem to be able to see properly.’ I screwed up my eyes and blinked a couple of times. ‘It must be my eyesight.’

  ‘Do you need glasses?’ She looked concerned now. ‘You should make an appointment at the optician’s.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s just … I’ve probably got something in one of my eyes.’ I rubbed them and started to put the letter back under my pillow. ‘I’ll come downstairs – thanks, Mary. I’d love a cuppa before I go out.’

  She stayed in the doorway, looking at me with her head on one side.

  ‘Would you like me to read that for you?’ she asked, slightly cautiously. ‘I mean – not if it’s anything personal, obviously. Or would you prefer to wait until your eye’s better?’

  I hesitated for a minute. ‘It’s very spidery writing,’ I said. ‘Really small and cramped. I doubt you’d be able to—’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a try, anyway, if you’d like me to. I’ve got very strong glasses,’ she said with another smile.

  Again I hesitated, the letter in my hand. It would be so good to know who had Albert, wouldn’t it? But what else might be in the letter? What might it give away to Mary about me, about my identity and my past life?

  As if she could read my mind, she said quietly as she sat down next to me on the bed: ‘Whatever is in the letter, Emma, it’ll be between you and me, I promise. And anyway, I’ll forget it as soon as I’ve read it. My memory is shocking.’

  I laughed. ‘I’m sure it’s not. But – well, OK, then. It might take a while for my eye to get better, I suppose. Thank you.’

  As soon as she started to read, I realised how odd it must seem.

  ‘The letter’s dated July,’ she said, looking up at me. Of course it was. I’d had it under my pillow for two months, unable to read a word of it.

  ‘Oh, it must have got lost in the post,’ I said.

  ‘Mm, must have done. Well, anyway – it starts: Dear Candice …’ She paused, glancing at me again.

  I shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s a nickname some of my old friends used to call me.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So: Dear Candice, You don’t know me, but …’

  By now my face was burning. I felt like grabbing the letter back from Mary but she was already ploughing on, peering through her glasses at the scratchy writing.

  ‘ … my name is Dorothy Mason and I’m Shane’s grandmother. Not that I’m proud of that fact, and by now I’m sure you’ll agree with me. He’s never behaved like a grandson to me, nor has he ever
been a good son to his mom or his dad. In fact the rest of the world may worship him but as far as I’m concerned, he’s a disgrace to the family. I’m only sorry you ever got involved with him, dear, as I’m sure you’re a good girl at heart and it’s just dreadful the way he treated you. I’m not so old that I don’t see what’s going on in the papers, all the scandals with the other women. It made my blood boil, I just wanted to disown him. I’m glad you’ve finally got away.

  ‘Anyway I wanted to let you know I have your dear Albert here with me in my little home. I’d like to say my grandson redeemed himself a little by giving him to me, but in fact it wasn’t him. It was a girl with a strange name – Emerald or Esme? – you’ll have to forgive my bad memory. Very thin. Very shrill voice. Too much make-up. She brought Albert round to me in a basket and said you’d run off and left him, and although she didn’t want him herself, she didn’t want to leave him with Shane. It seemed that despite appearances, she had a little bit of common sense at least, because she realised Shane would have neglected him. She told me he’d said he didn’t care what happened to Albert, but had suggested giving him to me because “old women always like cats”. Wouldn’t have hurt him to bring the cat to me himself, would it, as I haven’t seen him for years on end, but that’s Shane for you.

  ‘I told the thin girl to get me your address so that I could let you know Albert is being well looked after. He’s a beautiful cat. I realise you couldn’t have taken him with you, and I’m sure you’re missing him. Please be assured I will love him on your behalf. I enclose a picture, so that you can see for yourself how well he has settled down with me. I hope your life will be happier from now on. With kindest regards, Dorothy.’

  Mary stopped reading but continued to look down at the letter for a moment. She folded it, handed it back to me and finally looked up at me. The tears were trickling down my face – I’d stopped caring about what on earth Mary might be thinking about the contents of the letter, almost as soon as she’d started reading, I was so overcome with emotion by everything Shane’s grandmother had said.

  ‘She seems like a lovely lady,’ Mary said quietly. She didn’t ask any questions. She just looked into my eyes and went on, very gently, ‘I’m sure she’ll love your cat and care for him.’

  ‘Are you two coming down for your tea?’ Lauren yelled up the stairs. ‘It’s getting cold!’

  ‘Coming!’ Mary called back.

  ‘Thank you, Mary,’ I said, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said – and she folded me into her arms and gave me a hug. I wondered how much she’d understood, how much she might have guessed. But before I could say any more, she added softly: ‘And of course, I’ve already forgotten every word.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Of course, I knew exactly who the ‘thin girl’ in Dorothy’s letter was. Ezmerelda. Otherwise known as The Bitch. Ezmerelda Jewell, my so-called best friend in New York, the top model who took me under her wing when we first arrived on the scene, fresh from our simpler, happier life at the beach house in California. Ezmerelda, who shaped me, dressed me, taught me which hairdresser, which manicurist, which orthodontist to see, which personal trainer and which stylist to use, to change myself into a celebrity, to make myself more like her. To be slim, beautiful and perfect, like all the other girls we hung around with. To lose my real identity and become a clone of herself, so that she’d hang on my arm and tell people we were sisters.

  Why had I gone along with it? What the hell had I seen in her? Perhaps it was the sister thing. I missed Kate, of course, and maybe I was trying to replace her, but if so, it was an insult to my sweet, clever, funny twin. Ezmerelda was nothing special: she was just as stupid as me, but she had poise and self-belief; she believed in her own hype. She thought she was wonderful, and sadly all the hangers-on, the press, the fashionistas and society photographers, as well as the world’s impressionable teenagers and even plenty of older women who should have known better, agreed with her. She pretended to love me like a sister, but it was all fake. Under the veneer, behind all the make-up and the plastic surgery and the fixed smile, she was just a nasty, deceitful, cheating bitch.

  So what was I to make of Dorothy’s letter? It seemed Ezmerelda had, at least, had the decency to take Albert to someone who’d care for him – which was more than I could imagine Shane doing. And although she hadn’t responded to my email asking if she knew where Albert was, at least she’d given Dorothy my home address. Was she actually too ashamed to contact me herself? Was it even possible for her to feel shame? Or was it just that she couldn’t be bothered?

  I shook my head, trying to stop the flow of my thoughts. I didn’t want to be grateful to Ezmerelda, even though I was relieved beyond measure to know that Albert was being loved and looked after by someone who seemed so kind. I didn’t want to feel indebted to that bitch or even waste another minute of my life thinking about her. She was in my past, like Shane, and that was bad enough. I wasn’t that person any more.

  I tried instead to work hard at my new little business. I reasoned that if I filled my diary with as much pet sitting as possible and concentrated on building my reputation, I could block out the ache in my heart that overcame me whenever I thought about Matt. With each passing day, I felt more confident that there hadn’t been any spread of gossip about me from Rob Montgomery or his horrible friend, and even if my personal life had taken a nose dive, Primrose Pets was going from strength to strength. The budgie I’d been looking after had been a first for me, and as with the Koi carp, I’d made the mistake of thinking it was going to be a doddle.

  ‘I only have to top up his seed and water containers every day, clean his cage and let him have a fly around in the room,’ I’d told Lauren on my first morning. ‘It’s a bit like looking after the hamster – I really can’t see what I’m being paid for.’

  ‘Well, you will have to be careful while he’s flying free,’ she’d warned me, ‘or it will be like the hamster, you’ll lose him somewhere! For goodness’ sake close all the doors and windows! They haven’t got an open fireplace, I hope?’

  ‘They said not. But surely he’ll just flutter onto a windowsill or something and sit there till I’ve cleaned the cage?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had a budgie.’

  ‘Can we have one, Mummy? Please?’ Holly squealed immediately, and Lauren and I both laughed when she added, with a puzzled expression, ‘What is a budgie?’

  ‘It’s a bird, Holly,’ I explained. ‘And you really can’t have pet birds when you’ve got cats.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Romeo and Juliet. They might have liked it.’

  ‘I’m sure they would,’ Lauren whispered to me, and we’d exchanged a grin. I then had to pacify Holly by drawing a picture of a budgie for her to colour in.

  But like the fish and the hamster, in fact, looking after the budgie had turned out to be different from what I’d expected. On my first day with him, I let myself into the house (a neat, modern little town house in a cul de sac just off Fore Street) and immediately stood stock still with fright in the hallway. Somebody was shouting at me from the living room.

  ‘Close the bloody door, can’t you? Born in a field, were you? Close the bloody door!’

  As I’d already closed the front door, I walked cautiously towards the door of the room where the voice was coming from, wondering if a cantankerous aged relative had been left at home without anyone telling me. But there was nobody in there, apart from the green and yellow budgie sitting in his cage staring back at me.

  ‘Close the bloody door,’ he squawked again. ‘Are you stupid or something?’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ I retorted, which was a bit ridiculous really. ‘I’ve closed the bloody door, thank you. And I presume you’re Sid.’

  I hadn’t met my new charge before starting the job, and although I obviously knew budgies talked, I was completely unprepared for this little chap’s vocabulary. From shouting about the bloody door, he
went on, during the course of the two weeks I was in charge of him, to insult me at every turn, with the worst language possible. I was shocked to realise that his very pleasant, very pregnant owner, or perhaps her partner, must talk like this at home on a regular basis for the bird to have learnt these words. They must have a very volatile relationship!

  Not only that, but far from sitting quietly on a windowsill while I cleaned his cage, Sid used his free-flying exercise breaks to dive-bomb me from the top of the curtain rail, before finally settling on my head and castigating me for being lazy, stupid and up to no good again. When, on the last day, he accused me of wanting sex, sex, sex, morning, noon and night, I didn’t know how on earth I was going to face his owners on their return. But to my amazement he fell silent as soon as they arrived back at the house, turning his face to the wall as if he were sulking.

  ‘How has he been?’ the young woman, Karen, asked eagerly, peering into his cage.

  ‘Er … Fine. But very vocal,’ I said, without looking at her.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Has he been swearing?’

  ‘Yes. Quite a lot, actually.’

  ‘I should have warned you. I’m so sorry. I thought we’d cured him of it. We just tell him to be quiet and behave himself, and he stops.’

  ‘That’s right,’ her partner Mike agreed, looking chastened. ‘In fact he hasn’t done it now for ages, so it didn’t occur to us that he’d start again, with someone new looking after him. I’m so sorry. How embarrassing.’ He glanced at me and added: ‘Oh! I hope you didn’t think he learnt all that stuff from us!’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Karen exclaimed. ‘We got him from our next-door neighbour. The old boy had passed away and his wife didn’t want to keep Sid, so we said we’d have him. He’s only been with us for a few months. We’ve been trying to teach him nicer things. Nursery rhymes,’ she added with a happy smile, ‘so he can recite them when our baby’s born.’