‘Mum!’ Oh my God, had she any idea what he did to me? Oh, no, she hadn’t. I haven’t told anybody that bit yet. Just the ‘we split up’ line. Which is acceptable, and way less embarrassing than in effect sticking an ‘I’m a complete failure’ banner across my forehead.
‘I just don’t want you to waste your life, Becky. Isn’t it time you got another boyfriend then? I mean, it’s been ages! How long is it now? Three months, four months? You shouldn’t let a silly man like Teddy undermine your confidence.’
Easier said than done.
‘I’m quite happy on my own, thanks. I think I’ll get a dog.’ I said it tongue in cheek. I’d actually love a dog, but there’s a strict ‘no pets’ clause in my letting contract and the landlord is such a stickler I’m pretty sure he’d throw me out if I had a goldfish, let alone a dog. And right now, I can’t exactly afford the deposit on a better flat, let alone buy a place.
‘You should, much less trouble. Until they die of course, that bit is horrible. And they do, do you remember when we lost Dash?’ We took a moment. I had to take a day off school when our Labrador died of old age. I’d insisted we had a full burial service in the garden. Dad did his back in digging the hole (you have no idea how big a hole was needed – though it could have been worse, it could have been a Great Dane), spent three days in bed, and never let us forget it. ‘I always wonder how different life would have been if I’d had a dog at the start instead of your dad!’
There was no short answer to that.
It stumped us both conversation wise, so we settled for ‘talk soon, love you, bye’.
I put my mobile down and stared at it. Then it flashed, with a text.
Write a list, that might help. You always liked your lists! Mum xx
Mum was right. She usually is. Not about the Dad bit, though thinking about it, my life would have been quite a bit different if I’d gone for a puppy instead of Teddy, wouldn’t it?
She was right about the other things though: needing a break and needing a list. And maybe about the dog thing as well. Dogs don’t answer back, ask awkward questions or judge.
The whole thing was doing my head in. It was all wearing me down and sapping my creativity. This having-people-worry and having to put on my bright and sunny ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me’ smile.
So I wrote a list.
I need to escape from everybody. Including Teddy because seeing Teddy makes me feel that everything I’m doing is a bit shit, which isn’t much of a motivator.
I need a distraction and inspiration, because otherwise all I can think about is Teddy saying my stuff is shit.
I do still have lots of (non-Teddy) work lined up, but I don’t have to be here, in this flat, to do it. I can work from anywhere with a good internet connection. And if I’m not here it might be easier to concentrate.
I have some work that is urgent, but it’s bloody hard when you are so angry you keep accidentally drawing fangs on the cute bunnies, and shading things in black. Very black.
I want a dog, not a man.
I currently hate being here in my lovely flat because it reminds me of the work I did for Teddy. I just can’t concentrate.
I need to not be here (see all points above).
So, basically what I really needed was some space, some peace and quiet, some distance, no Teddy, and possibly a dog.
Simples.
I sat back and stared at my list. Actually, it was simple. I had been a moron. It was bloody obvious, wasn’t it? I needed to do what I used to do before I met Teddy – house-sit. I mean, wasn’t that part of the reason I’d gone freelance? So I had the freedom to work when I wanted, where I wanted?
Until I’d hooked up with Teddy, an editor with a major publisher, who’d become my main client. And all of a sudden, I’d been drawn into doing what he had decided was best for me and I’d forgotten all about flexibility. It was almost like being an employee. But without the benefits of sick leave and paid holiday.
When I’d been in a bit of a rut in the past (pre-Teddy), I’d got off my bum and gone out looking for inspiration. Not wallowed in self-pity.
I needed to live in somebody else’s house. I always used to absolutely love living in other people’s houses for a couple of weeks, living their life, getting a sneaky peek at their hopes, their dreams, their family – and it was even better if they had a pet.
If I went somewhere to house-sit I could totally chill.
With a dog. Well, providing they wanted a dog-sitter, not just a house-sitter.
Talking to Mum about Dash had made me suddenly realise just how much I’d missed the non-judgemental company of animals (as long as we’re not talking cats here – they can really give you the look if they don’t approve) that I grew up around. They’re soothing, you can talk to them, they’re models for my pictures. (Dad was right when he told Teddy I always loved painting animals. Win, win.) I might not be able to have my own dog right now, but I could look after somebody else’s.
A change of scene was just what I needed. It could be inspirational, and let’s face it, even my doodles had been a bit lacklustre lately. I’d kind of felt Teddy looking over my shoulder, tutting. Now I come to think of it, he tutted a lot, even before he dumped me.
I grabbed my laptop and brought up my favourite site.
Where? Within commuting distance of London? Nope, this time that wasn’t important. I’d not got Teddy demanding I attend meetings where face-to-face is non-negotiable. Bonus! The world is my oyster, well anywhere within a day’s driving distance is.
Cumbria? Why not? I could feel the start of a smile. We used to have family holidays in our caravan in the Lake District quite a lot when I was a kid. It was fun.
I’m not sure if nostalgia for more innocent times was to blame, or if it was because:
It’s a long, long way away from London.
It’s exceptionally peaceful and quiet and beautiful.
It makes you feel like you’ve escaped from the real world and are in some kind of ‘Five Go Glamping’ alternative reality.
Either way, I was sure that was where I needed to go.
Must tick the ‘pets’ box.
How long for? Okay, I was thinking a couple of weeks, but I’m flexible, aren’t I? Sure, fewer filters, more choice. Go!
There was something like a three-second delay, then…
Oh. My. God.
There it was. Top of the list. This was THE PLACE. Lake View Cottage.
There was a gurgle of anticipation in my tummy that was a cross between butterflies and hope as I hit ‘more details’. It was gorgeous, amazing, out of this world. Totally different to all the places I’d stayed before – which, let’s face it, had all been pretty ordinary.
I realised I was holding my breath, expecting something hugely disappointing to pop up, like ‘no single people’ or ‘hidden motorway in the back garden’ or ‘eco warriors only’.
It didn’t. Instead it said ‘remote’ – perfect, somewhere quiet to work where I could concentrate – and ‘cute dog’ – even more perfect.
I hit the submit button before I could change my mind. I wondered if I should check out more properties, but then before I could decide, the owner, Georgina, had forwarded a link to her Instagram account so that I could see what it was really like.
Was I serious about this? Ten seconds later when I clicked on her link, I was even more seriously serious.
Wow, just wow.
Everything was so photogenic. Most of the pics were actually of the dog – she was even cheek-to-cheek with her in the profile pic. Bella the dog seemed to be some kind of influencer in the canine world. She was incredibly popular, even if she did just look like a cute, fluffy dog to me. I had never seen so many ‘likes’ for a dog posing in a fleece.
There was Bella balanced on a fallen tree trunk with her new harness (gorgeous leafy backdrop), Bella mid-dive into the amazing sun-sparkled lake after her new floating toys, Bella wolfing down Woofa-Woof food, Bella perched on a roc
k up a mountain sporting a bandana with the wind blowing her ears back, Bella curled up in front of the Aga on her new designer doggie bed. Get my drift?
She was the queen of canine brands, a marketeer’s dream.
The stunning background helped as well.
I have to admit, she was cute though. It was the big eyes and the happy face, and the little splodge of white on her shiny black chest. And so was Georgina – cute, I mean, not shiny – who sneaked into quite a few pictures. And oh, he-llo!
Woah there! I had been scrolling down on autopilot, admiring the scenery and fluffy ears and went straight past… I scrolled back up.
My God, forget wet noses and waggy tails. This was a different kind of branding altogether.
There was this seriously hot guy posing in a white, sleeveless T-shirt, big boots, and camouflage trousers that would make most men look like jerks – but on him made your throat go dry. You know, army-style, like he was up for some serious action. He was in profile, gazing out over the lake, legs astride, hands on hips, all moody and sexy as hell.
Think modern-day Poldark and you’d get my drift.
There can only be one thing that can beat a buff man in uniform, and that’s one who’s taken half of it off.
Oh my giddy aunt, as Mum would say. Or just cor! Okay, call me shallow, sexist and guilty of stereotyping. I don’t care. I’m allowed. He looked like he was in the SAS, but with a better haircut. Not that I’m dissing the SAS, they don’t have time to shave, wash or do anything but crawl semi-naked through mud, dangle from helicopters and save the world.
Oops, I’d nearly missed it, the bloody dog had even got in on this pic as well. She was sat at his side, gazing up adoringly, her tongue hanging out. Like I’d probably be doing if I was in Bella’s place.
Not that I was studying that particular photo in detail or anything. But bloody hell, look at the muscles on those arms! My God, who was this guy? If this was her boyfriend, then I was seriously jealous. The house, the setting, the whole perfect life in all these photos was one thing. This Georgina was everything I’m not: sophisticated, well-off, totally successful – and she’d got a guy like that? The full package.
Unless (I could be fantasising here) he was just there to chop the wood for her log-burning stove? Or maybe he was the gardener and he would be there when I was! An added extra. Now that would be some kind of bonus. That is my type of inspiration, and the perfect distraction. I reckoned if he sauntered into view once a day, I wouldn’t even be able to remember who Teddy was, let alone what he did.
Or he could be her bodyguard. She had got zillions of Insta-followers after all. And so he’d be going wherever she did.
But he was probably her boyfriend, and he’d be off abroad with her for a month.
Which would be sad. But, whatever, I still needed to go to this place.
I emailed her back, and because I was trying very, very hard to not sound like I was begging, ended up saying things like ‘it’s splendid’ and sounding a bit of a divvy.
At least I managed to resist the urge to ask if the gardener-cum-woodchopper-cum-army-guy was part of the package, or an optional extra.
Then I put my flat up as ‘available’ on the house-sitting site, and within two hours I had three enquiries.
It seemed like this was meant to be.
Anyway, after saying ‘great’ to Georgina I did some running around in circles hugging myself and grinning like a loon. Then I came to my senses and started to run around the flat like a headless chicken, wondering where to start, what to pack, and generally throwing random stuff into suitcases and holdalls.
I packed lots of socks and knickers, and the sexy undies went in and out of the case several times – I’m sure neither the dog nor the sheep (there’s bound to be sheep, every shop in Cumbria sells sheepskin rugs) will be interested. But there again, you just never know what can happen in a month. And there is the woodchopper. I’d be totally devastated if he was actually there and I wasn’t prepared.
Then I rang Mum to explain I’d be away for a while. (More trouble than it was worth – ‘No, I don’t want to move back home, I’ve just decided I need to be somewhere that isn’t round the corner from Teddy right now. Must rush. Bye. Of course I’ll stay in touch. I’m not going to Outer Mongolia!’) And stayed up until after midnight to finish some work I’d promised I’d sub for agreement.
Then I got up at the crack of dawn and tried to jam everything else I might possibly need into the boot of my car.
And I cleared the fridge and cupboards. And cleaned the bathroom. And rushed to the shops to buy a ‘welcome tray’ for my house-sitter. Finally, I showered, defuzzed and applied emergency nail varnish.
All this took time. It was bloody exhausting and not at all cathartic and left me hot and sweaty and wondering if I’d completely lost my marbles.
But I ran around like a blue-arsed fly and got it all done, and it is now 2.24 p.m. and I am nearly there. Plenty of time. Ish.
Chapter Two
I’d quite like to stop and regroup a bit – just five minutes to calm down, clean up and make sure I look presentable. But these roads are incredibly narrow and I’ve already been jammed so tight against a stone wall (by a bus driver who doesn’t seem to have noticed the width of the roads) that my paintwork squeaked and the wing-mirrors folded themselves in. There’s a reason the Lake District makes for the perfect escape – it’s a bloody long way and the roads suddenly shrink when you are oh so nearly there.
Oh, thank heavens, a layby! I pull in and practise breathing. Then look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. It is worse than I thought. I definitely have a greenish-brown stain on my eyebrow and nose. And, yuk, there is definitely something stuck in my hair.
‘What the hell?’ I’m hit by a mini-typhoon and it is like a giant ashtray has been emptied through the window. My knees are covered in… straw! There’s a roar, and a whiff of fumes, and I realise that a tractor towing a trailer full of bales has just shot past and showered me with yellow shards. At least it smells sweeter than the green stuff.
I splutter as the dust hits my lungs.
‘Becky?’ Oh Christ, I’d forgotten Georgina was still on speakerphone.
‘I’ll call you back. I won’t be long. Honest. I won’t let you down.’ I am all gritty between my thighs. There is a prickle between my boobs.
I pull the straw out from my cleavage and wriggle about a bit on the seat.
The bonnet of my car looks disgusting, as does the windscreen. Like something you’d see in the Tate Modern entitled ‘Country Life, straw on shit’. I’ll have to scrape it off.
Oh my God, I’m sweating like a pig. I must not sweat, if I let out any more moisture it might mix with the poo and set like concrete. They make houses out of straw and muck, don’t they? I’m sure I saw one on Grand Designs. It might never come off.
I have to get it off my face. Except I can’t. I can’t find any wet wipes! How did I not pack wet wipes? I’ve packed everything else!
And I do mean everything. Every spare inch of my tiny car is packed full of stuff. This is because a month is a long time and I don’t reckon the clothes shopping will be that good. Unless I want to buy wellingtons, Barbour jackets or baggy walking shorts for middle-aged hikers that come down to mid-calf. And it’s not just the month, it’s the not knowing what you wear for wandering lonely as a cloud. I’m more used to city life.
It’s also not knowing how entertaining it will all be, so as well as all my work stuff (which there is a lot of) I had to pack lots of books and crisps, and wine, and a frozen pizza or two. I mean, it’s remote, which I guess means no dial-a-pizza or corner shop.
It doesn’t look like there was a space left big enough for wet wipes, though.
The dry tissue (even with spit) just makes it worse. And I can’t even put my window up now to stop any more crap getting in, because it will smell. I will smell. Especially in this heat. I am a mobile muck heap.
I have learned a valuable le
sson – don’t drive too close to livestock lorries.
Or stop at the side of the road with your window open.
‘You have arrived at your destination,’ announces my satnav proudly. Smug woman. I’m not talking to her, not only did she not foresee the livestock lorry, she did not foresee the sheep on the road. A word of warning: never try to herd sheep, unless you are a sheepdog. There’s a knack to it, which I think involves an ability to skulk along and stare hard.
Anyway, phew, I am here – slightly smeared in excrement – but otherwise safe. Never have I been so pleased to get out of a car. And check me out, I’ve made it with five minutes to spare!
I also didn’t need the snotty satnav woman to tell me I had arrived at the right place, because the gates swung open before I’d even stopped, then clunked shut behind me as soon as I was clear. Well, I hope I’ve arrived in the right place, because if I’ve not then I’m locked into a stranger’s home and don’t fancy trying to climb over that bloody big gate.
It seemed a bit OTT when Georgina asked for my car registration so that she could ‘programme the main gate’; let’s face it, we’re in a cottage in the depths of Cumbria, not some high-security site. She muttered about keeping the dog safe (people leave gates open, you know, yah), and not liking unexpected visitors. Especially now she’s so high-profile, her followers on Insta think they ‘own me, you know?’
I am a bit dubious. I mean, who wants to ‘own’ a woman who posts nice pics of her dog wearing the latest bling? Though I wouldn’t mind gaining access to her gardener-cum-woodchopper. Now he would be worth climbing over the fence for.
It is more than a little annoying that the front door doesn’t open in the same way the gates did. There is a note pinned to the door, with the opening line: ‘Had to leave – you are very late, can’t wait any longer’.
I am not very late. I am just in time. Even if I had planned on being very early and failed miserably.
The Dog Sitter: The new feel-good romantic comedy of 2021 from the bestselling author of The Wedding Date! Page 2